It's that time of year again, whether or not you or your people are able to even mortally comprehend the passage of time. The extra-dimensional clock-tower-fortress of the Nether, in which the Multiversal Census Committee gleefully stack papers and race one another on wheeled office equipment, reaches out into the universe with silent, reality-shattering bells, and the walls between dimensions dutifully melt and slip away in response. In every reality and every time they exist, their colossal paper-maché world-ship split at the multiverse's dimensional crux, and in all times, in all realities, even within the dreams of slumbering Gods and star-crunching monstrosities, their crumpled purple orb of a home hovers menacingly across the skyline. The leaders and keepers of uncountable civilisations watch with trepidation, while all around their people ready the world's defences, pray to their merciful gods, cower under piles of garbage, or simply throw spears at the sky in frustrated confusion. But all is not what it seems, for a mysterious package falls from the clock-fortress on a beam of globulous light not indistinct from cyan-dyed treacle, and falls with a splodge at the feet of those great and powerful men and women with the intellect, wisdom, foresight, and sheer balls to try and organise a group of people into something approaching civilised society. The box opens automatically, somehow, and a great white obelisk rises from the pit of shimmering ivory energy within. Upon the monolith, scrawled in the bluest ink the universe has ever produced, is a very official-looking and organised letter addressed to the noble peoples of INSERT NAME HERE. As you read the foreign script with perfect legibility, not yet questioning how exactly you are able to do so, you discover to your horror that -- thanks to that dick Steve from Accounting -- the intra-dimensional records within your time-region have been accidentally swept from history in a sea of wantonly-discarded triple-chocolate mocha. And that, in a bid to keep your nation from fading into spontaneous non-existence, the MCC do so humbly request you fill in the form on the reverse of the obelisk, whereupon it will automatically warp back to their Head-Office to be processed along with Steve's letter of resignation.