The space-lanes straighten, the warpgates narrow, the systems become more pastoral. The miners, they are mining veldspar, as they have done for thousands of years on these hillsides. Over the horizon rises Ur-Goon, a monolithic golem hewn out of the most ancient asteroids, shining terribly under the glorious fire of the rising sun, it's facades and fenestrations long ago stained a day-glo orange by the cheetos-dust covered hands that labored tirelessly to erect this terrible monument in sacrifice to the twin spirits of gluttony and space explosions.

Atop Ur-Goon's leering neanderthal head, its face too terrible for modern mortals to look upon without shitting their pants in fear, is King Goon. Performing an ancient and occult dance, he lets out a wild ululation and stamps his technetium scepter madly as he looks down over the unspeakable rituals being performed around the infinite goon-fires that span out in all directions.

"Look on my frigates, ye miners, and despair!"