The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

For the past 20 years, The Statue of Liberty we’ve all seen has been an illusion. A powerful Italian immigrant Mechanomancer, his name now lost to even the members of his cult, has performed a ritual to cloak the statue in secrecy until it is ready to awaken. To those few who have been blessed with the sight to see it by (members of the cult, those with particularly potent souls, and those with aura sight and other forms of occult sensory perception) can see the stolen rocket engines welded to its ankles, the network of stolen, grafted-together brains in its head, and the brainless, soulless shell of its creator strapped into its chest cavity, serving as its heart. The Mechanomancer had a grand job ahead of him, not giving up only his own memories to create his new god, but forfeiting all the specific memories others have had of him as well.

The New Colossus waits, dreaming. It sends messages to its worshippers to get them to act on its behalf. Its divine spark is immense, but it is not yet THE true god. Its followers whisper that they seek to capture The Comte, to feed him to The New Colossus and complete its metamorphosis, ushering a new age in which the universe will not be ruled by the collective will of man, but by the supreme and ineffable will of a deity. Any duke worth his salt will simply brush off their ambitions, of course. No one could stand a chance of capturing The Comte. That would be impossible.

Impossible.