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Doomsday finally occured. It has been a long wait for the prophecy to turn out real.

Only
humanity's aristocracy managed to survive in the southernmost regions. Once highly
skeptical and undettered by all the horrid visions of the future foreseen and foretold by
others, but highly prepared, nevertheless - now deeply troubled by such fragility of their
environment. Their existential terrors unfurl, but all may not be lost. They must find the
necromant by the name of Bluebell in the north, whose, once widely known, but dubious
praxis medendi turned out to be the only hope for further survival of the specie.
Apparently, this mysterious persona of both lunacy and wisdom has the proper
medication for their condition of the-end-of-the-world, but the price might be
dehumanizing. Namely, survival is no longer possible in human form. Bluebell has
always had a number of pets who still seem to do just fine in a world debased and
inhumane. His beloved owl used to be a human king.