Detroit Dead City
"Look where you ended up. Smack-dab in the rough-and-tumble Paleocene."
Salt. There are still deep mines, and there are still places where chunks of salt sit, unused, coating everything. Even the death fears to tread in these areas, for the salt corrodes it all, and ancient clutches of spiritual eggs still quiver, untouched by time. Where they have been unearthed, they infect the living, and the ancient triggers that lay buried in human souls are brought bubbling up to the surface in the chosen few. The Triplets are burned, and they speak little. They slip between the world and the Shadow, protecting their territory as well as they can, keeping to their admittedly slim pickings of feral-blooded and devouring anything unwary enough to enter their territory. Most who come by would be admittedly confused as to what they even are, but to those who know, they are the last of their kind, keeping their story solid in the rocks by their very existence. Anomalocaris will not be forgotten.