The Black Hand

The wastes are not empty. They are bleak, harsh, even dangerous, but people make a living out here. Some say an inferior race lives like animals. This proved untrue, becoming my saving grace.

I encountered a band of hunters. They were wary, but led me back to their ramshackle town, more of a camp in reality. Despite notable differences in our speech, with effort, we could communicate.

Basic knowledge, such as building, gardening and animal husbandry that I would take for granted, was invaluable here. I shared openly to make myself welcome and became their teacher. In time, the village grew successful, nearly prosperous compared to other wastelander groups, who at first feared, then shared in improved living conditions.

My intent was to help them in return for my survival. I did not expect the gift when they presented it, nor could I fully explain what it meant. When I unrolled the banner and saw the mark of my shame stained upon the cloth, a strange and wondrous opportunity began to form in my mind.