It is said that The Firmament controls the power of the celestial bodies. That the formation of stars grants their covenant strength beyond compare. That the destruction of suns and the birth of galaxies are omens dictated by their will. They are spoken of as the arbiters of all fate, wielding destructive powers that can crumble nations. They are thus revered as gods. This is an infallible lie. The Firmament’s dominion is but an illusion, a tale spun by The Keepers of Knowledge to shroud the true nature of power in mystery. The celestial bodies are not mere ornaments of the heavens but living forces, their spirits bound within the great, eternal cycle. And those who would dare to wield their power are not gods, nor kings, but mortals who have learned to carve away the veil of divinity and shape its remains into weapons. In the current age of the Redeemers, those called the Slánaitheoir, knights clad in silver and steel roam the land. They are the hunters of the unspeakable, warriors blessed not by the Firmament but by a more ancient, primal force—the dance of the masks. The Slánaitheoir strike down the great horrors that stalk the world. Creatures nicknamed dødde—the already dead—spawned by the planet's core itself. It is said to be a form of retaliation, planet Habrik itself, stands against the transgression of mortals enslaving the unnatural power of the stars. The art of the mask is one older than recorded time itself. Crafted from the remains of the vanquished, these relics bear the souls of creatures both wretched and divine. They grant their wearers abilities beyond mortal reach, binding them to the spirits of the fallen while erasing all traces of their prior existence. To wear a mask is to wield its power, to become the echo of what once was and yet is no longer. Among the Slánaitheoir, the greatest are the Maskbearers—warriors whose masks already hold the essence of the lost, allowing them to sever dødde from existence itself. While many dødde can be sealed away within masks or vessels, there are those whose presence is so vast, so woven into the fabric of reality, that they must be broken piece by piece. Only through repeated bindings by the dance—through the absorption of their essence—can they be brought low. And only when their final fragment is carved from the world by a Slánaitheoir’s blade can their soul be truly slain. These knights, draped in celestial silver, do not merely battle beasts. They do not simply sever evil. They unmake. They erase. The world they protect is one of grandeur, where castle spires rise to touch the heavens and where village folk till the earth beneath the watchful eyes of the stars. It is a land of alchemy and steel, of steaming cauldrons and bubbling tinctures, where the knowledge of old is transmuted into new. A world of war and feasting, where venison roasts upon great iron spits, and tankards overflow with golden mead. It is a realm where armor gleams in the firelight, where swords clash with the ringing song of fate, and where the dance of death is not a mere metaphor but a sacred rite. Yet the land is not at peace. The Firmament watches. It whispers through unseen mouths, pulling at the strings of fate like a patient weaver. Their power is not their own, yet they wield it without hesitation. The world shudders under their gaze, and in the hearts of kings and common folk alike, a question lingers: Are we ruled by gods, or by those who claim divinity? To take up the mask is to cast aside the self. To wield its power is to become something beyond mortal flesh. To dance is to transcend. And yet, power always demands a price. The Firmament may tell you otherwise, whispering lies of divine right and celestial order. But the truth is this: the stars do not govern fate. The Redeemers do. And they shall carve their truth upon the world, one mask at a time.

In a foreign market square, a seemingly babbling lunatic is amassing quite the crowd. You come closer to observe, as the sheep look upon their shepherd. A disheveled man appears before you, somehow you have passed through the massive crowd, and are close enough to the man to see him in all of his detail. His robes are shaggy, old, ancient. His demeanor is that of fire, like a being refusing to die. His voice is like the hammer wrought to the anvil. But it is the tome he carries that stands out from the rest. It is pristine, otherworldly, and adorned with things that your eyes see but cannot recognize. The man raises the tome with both hands towards the heavens, and with a howling cry, echoes a serene voice splitting the heavens in half, guiding his sheep. Pøzæ—the legendary white wingless dragon enslaved by Foh—emerges from the split. The stars succumb to the sheen of scales. The sermon begins. On the first dawn WE granted dusk so that you could rest. On the second day WE shattered the firmament to bring about another dawn. On the third day WE granted dew, fog, cold and warmth, mud and stone, pestle and pen. On the fourth day WE misguided the lost and weaved destiny for those that lacked conviction. On the fifth day WE created the thread to loop OUR actions, creating eternity; harmonious and never-ending. On the sixth day WE prepared departure, leaving destruction or rebirth. On the seventh day we left only, YOU. The speech ends, the world is bleak, unwelcoming of you, the sky is shattering and the stars are falling. The world falls to silence and all happiness is gone. You realize this is a dream, you know that, yet you cannot escape this dream. The people are chanting, rejoicing in The Firmament’s name. The crowd chants, hailing the five members of The Firmament: “Foh, Enslaver of Pøzæ; Murderer of Dragonkin. Consecrator of The Five Towers. Hail!” “Gravnot, The Undying, Proprietor of Celestial Asteroid Magicka. Tyrant of Nazrock. Hail!” “Kulihn, Self-Proclaimed King of Decay and Obliterator of Stars. Sexton of Maahaal. Hail!” “Reperia, Mastermind of Invention and Alchemy. Queen of Hul and Bloomgård. Hail!” “Zq, Elect of Destiny. God-King of The Cosmos and Owner of The Heavens. Hail!” You know exactly what you have to do to leave this dream, yet you are unable to do it. Fear, fear is what quenches your thirst for salvation. Yet you must leave, you are unwelcome. Gathering your resolve you find the nearest solution, your twin daggers latched behind your waist. With one trained motion you sever your ties from this dream. Returning to the waking world, headless. It is officially two moons since the stars were wiped out by The Firmament. Based upon the trajectory of the sun from the open window, there are four hours until the coronation ceremony begins at dawn. The townsfolk of Marcy, located in the Kingdom of Hul—commonly known as the Town of Joy— waited long, two full moons for The Firmament to come. The Firmament has toured around the known world celebrating, whoring, and feasting, and the Town of Joy is their final destination. The Marcinnians waited long, but Gaia waited with them, preparing to welcome The Firmament, to their final resting place. The streets are decorated in vibrant banners of all realms Hul, Maahaal, Nazrock, The Five Towers and Bloomgård. Their colors are muted under the weight of expectation, but a banner is missing. The banner of The Cosmos, a black hole, is written in the sky by Zq. A reminder to all inhabitants of Habrik that he is their mighty God-King, a gesture unneeded for all living creatures. Merchants set out their finest wares—silks from the east, gems mined from ancient veins, weapons gleaming in the morning light. But beneath the revelry, there is an unspoken truth. Eyes dart toward the sky, searching for stars that will never return. Old men murmur in taverns, speaking of omens written in starless cosmos. And in the alleys, where the city’s heart beats strongest, whispers spread like wildfire: "The Redeemers are watching." No king, no god, no hero is beyond judgment. And when the time comes, masks will be donned, swords will gleam, and history will be rewritten in the ink of forgotten stars and shadow, or so Gaia thought. BATTLE: Hand on heart, hand on sky, invocation. Gaia opens up a rift using her mask, summoning hundreds of thousands of redeemers, death and destruction ensue. All Celestial names invoked, All powers invoked, the masked vs the dead and then our hero emerges, in a Town of Ruin. Battle ensues, when suddenly. The firmament splits. A wound in the heavens, vast and blinding, spilling forth radiance not of this world. The void recoils, their light swallowed by something greater—absolution is here. And from the rupture, he descends. Zq, God-King of the Cosmos. (Battle Wound: Transform from man to woman, half of his soul is gone) His presence alone bends the air, crushing it into silence, with each descending step unfurling his robes. The very concept of sound seems to wither before him. Planets halt in their orbits. Time itself hesitates. The weight of his arrival smothers the feeble order of existence, replacing it with finality. "Tremble, for I am here." His voice is neither loud nor soft, neither cruel nor kind—it is law. Reality does not question him. It obeys. "I stand alone. Without equal. Without limit. The heavens are mine to command, the cosmos mine to sculpt. Your fate? A mere afterthought. Stand, kneel, or perish—it matters not. Witness elect, for I am absolute."

11 Moons after The Destruction of Marcy, Town of Ruin