‘Their weapons are bonded to their shadows. This guy’s weapon of choice is something called an Avro Vulcan XH588 bomber, which itself goes to show we’re well into the Faction’s Vegas residency years with this bunch.’

If there’s one thing worse than the point at which a culture disappears up its own arsehole, it’s the point at which a culture disappears up its own arsehole in search of dinner; and it probably shouldn’t be such a huge surprise that those who eventually took it to the level above the next level in this respect should trace the horribly distended thread of their ancestry back to the Great Houses.

Thankfully we were several million zeroes beyond the known limits of history and what an ingrowing culture elects to do in the privacy of its own self-sustaining belief system is mostly its own business, at least until someone else comes snooping around, because there will always be someone; although for once this isn’t even their story.