Cursed Are the Meek

A Call for Help

Lone Star, chieftain of the Garbage Wastes clan, sat upright on her cot as the sentinels burst into the room to give their report.

"Are all the hunters accounted for?"

"Yes, Mother. We believe it may be outsiders,  perhaps from Industrial Complex."

She clicked her tongue and brought her strong, long-fingered hands together.

"Would other clans truly be so bold, and so stupid, as to set off an explosion on our land?"

The scouts shifted uneasily under her sharp gaze.

"It is a possibility. Though our sentinels at the Toll would've warned us if there was unrest at the border."

Lone Star traced the edges of her mask, feeling delicately around its sharp, jutting edges. A raid was unlikely, if not unheard of. It couldn't be a very skilled group, however, to make their presence known so blatantly.

Unless it was not a group.

But Scavengers don't travel alone; thought the chieftain, her brow wrinkling with fine creases.

She chilled.
Scavengers didn't travel alone.
But they knew someone who did.

Could it be...?

She shook her head abruptly; as if cleansing herself of hesitation.

"Red Wind, send a out a party to search the site of the explosion. Bring torches."

"But, Mother, wouldn't they give away our position?"

"If these are indeed raiders, they hardly seem clever ones. No, Red Wind: this was a distress signal. I hope I'm wrong, but there's only one person who could hope to attract our attention so brazenly without retaliation."

The young hunter stiffened as the implications of those words creeped, slowly, into his consciousness. His colleague made a sibilant sound that could've been frustration or muffled cussing, and together they saluted and bolted out of the room, calling loudly for their companions.

Lone Star was now alone in her room, and having abandoned all hopes of sleep for the night she stood and left her quarters behind.

"Pipsqueak, young friend," she murmured to herself, "what have you done?"