We, the cowering remnants of a novaic age, huddled inside the Shining Armor fields, staring out on a world buried in the wages of sin. The blizzard scalded away our follies. We bowed to the purity of the God-prince Solstice and his Holy Writ. Adherents and outcasts alike clung to their third-hand grace at the base of his Four Stars; Manhattan, Baltimore, Las Vegas, Istanbul.
The world's great memory hung by a gunpowder string.
The winter, however, did not rule in absolute. The horrors of Unica's endless tundra, our orphaned past, waited; fed by the divine Hoarfrost and the machination of things we could no longer comprehend or control.
Until one carried on the legacy of those who tried to kill consequence. She defied the Church; prodding things awake that had been long left in frozen slumber.
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