The cosmos was savage and wild. It was shapeless, its boundaries had no definition, so as it roiled destruction was the norm. The aether seemed to simply spit things into existence for the sole purpose of destroying it again. No life formed. No life could. Life needed order to root itself to. Chaos could help it grow, but without the foundation, life could not be. The Savagery went on for untold eons. No scholar knows what, if anything, was before it. Light burst forth, like white hot chains, binding the Savagery. After untold eternities of pure, amoral, maddening destruction, The Twelve sprang from the turmoil. Each different in it's own right, but Order was bound up in them; as if Order and Design had no choice but to take these shapes. Just to persist. Just to survive. As they rose, the Savagery tried to consume them, so they contended with it. But each time it struck out against them, one of the Twelve would, using divine powers unfamiliar to the Shadow, carve away portions of Its flesh. As they did, each of their own powers were defined; the Order had taken the Savagery and conformed it to each of The Twelve in specific ways. Soon the Turmoil had grown weak, maimed and scarred. Twelve chains bound the boundless, bringing an end to The Savagery. As the boarders of The Expanse came to be, The Twelve sought to do what they had yearned for. What they had seemed to burst forth for: to create.