28/04/81 ATE
The morning sun rose over the White Moon Tribe, casting a pale gold light on the rolling hills and scattering the dew that clung to the sparse grass. Illuminus stood by the pen where the donkeys were kept, watching Tyler guide a sturdy, grey-coated animal toward him. The donkey’s large eyes were calm, and its muscular frame hinted at the strength needed to navigate the rugged wasteland.
“This one’s solid,” Tyler said, patting the donkey’s flank. “Knows how to handle rough trails and doesn’t spook easily. She’ll carry your wool without complaint.”
Illuminus gave the animal a brief once-over before nodding.
“She’ll do,” he said, his tone measured. He handed Tyler a small pouch of coins—payment for the donkey and the wool already packed into burlap sacks. The bags were tied securely across the donkey’s back, their weight evenly distributed to avoid strain.
Kukul approached as the final preparations were made, his sharp gaze flicking between Illuminus and the loaded animal.
“Remember what I told you,” Kukul said. “Travel light, stay alert, and avoid unnecessary risks. The Scorpion Sting Tribe are alright. Show respect, and they’ll respect you in return.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Illuminus replied, tightening the straps on the donkey’s load. “Thanks for everything—advice, supplies, the donkey.”
Kukul inclined his head.
“Thank us by surviving. And if you return, perhaps you’ll have goods to trade and stories to share.” Tyler grinned and leaned on his staff and spoke,
"In a place like this, wit often matters more than strength. Trust your instincts." With a faint smile, Illuminus gave a final nod and took hold of the donkey’s lead. The animal responded with a steady step as they made their way out of the settlement. He passed through the gates of the White Moon Tribe, the faint hum of morning activity fading behind him as the open expanse of the wasteland stretched ahead.
The journey west would take three days, and the landscape quickly reminded him of its unforgiving nature. Cracked earth, jagged rocks, and the occasional skeletal remains of long-dead trees marked the path. The sun climbed higher, casting a relentless heat over the barren terrain. Illuminus adjusted his pace, mindful of the donkey’s burden and his own stamina.
By midday, he paused under the shadow of a rock outcropping, letting the donkey rest as he took a small sip from his water skin. The wind carried faint whispers of movement, a constant reminder that the wasteland was never truly empty. But so far, the path westward had been uneventful—just the rhythmic crunch of footsteps and the distant calls of unseen birds.
As he resumed his journey, Illuminus’ thoughts lingered on Olaf. Was he even heading in the right direction? Every step into the wasteland felt like chasing shadows, but it was better than standing still.
29/04/81 ATE
The second day of travel brought a heavier heat, the sun glaring down on the cracked earth without mercy. Illuminus pressed on with the donkey trudging steadily beside him, her ears flicking at the occasional insect. The monotony of the wasteland was broken only by scattered debris—rusted metal, skeletal remains of trees, and the occasional ruined cart long since abandoned. It was in the shadow of a jagged hill that Illuminus’ sense of unease crept in. The stillness felt too complete, the kind of quiet that suggested something was watching. He tightened his grip on the donkey’s lead and scanned the terrain ahead.
The attack came swiftly. A figure lunged from behind a cluster of rocks, a flash of movement resolving into a man clad in tattered clothes and wielding a rusted knife. Illuminus barely had time to react before the blade slashed across his upper arm, pain flaring hot and immediate.
The donkey let out a startled bray, rearing back and breaking free of the lead. Illuminus staggered but kept his footing, adrenaline surging as he drew his handgun with shaking hands.
“Drop it!” he barked, blood seeping through his sleeve. But the bandit, wild-eyed and desperate, lunged again. Illuminus fired—a single deafening crack—and the bandit crumpled to the ground, the knife slipping from his grasp.
The wasteland fell silent again, save for Illuminus’ ragged breathing and the fading echoes of the shot. He clutched his arm, the wound shallow but bleeding steadily. Dropping to his knees, he fumbled in his pack for a strip of cloth and pressed it firmly against the cut, his teeth clenched against the sting.
Once the bleeding was under control, he rose unsteadily, scanning the horizon. The donkey, thankfully, hadn’t run far—it stood a short distance away, nervously pawing at the ground. Illuminus approached it slowly, murmuring soft reassurances until he was close enough to grab the lead. With the animal calmed and secured, Illuminus turned his attention to the fallen bandit. The man’s face was frozen in a grimace of pain, his clothes ragged and stained. Searching the body, Illuminus found a small pouch of coins, a dull blade better suited for utility than fighting, and a crumpled scrap of paper with illegible scrawls. Pocketing the coins and blade, he left the rest and turned back to the donkey.
The encounter had left him shaken, his injured arm a dull ache with every step. But the wasteland offered no time for hesitation or self-pity. Illuminus adjusted his pack, tightened the donkey’s straps, and continued westward, each step pulling him closer to the Scorpion Sting Tribe—and whatever challenges lay ahead.
30/04/81 ATE
By the third day of travel, the wasteland had taken on a harsher and more desolate character. The ground beneath Illuminus’ boots was dry and cracked, broken only by the occasional patch of cacti or hardy scrub clinging stubbornly to life. The sun bore down relentlessly, and the air was thick with the scent of dust and decay. As he neared the Scorpion Sting Tribe’s settlement, the terrain dipped into a shallow basin. Makeshift structures came into view, clustered together in a way that suggested practicality over comfort. The settlement was encircled by uneven ridges and scattered debris, a natural barrier against the outside world.
There were no guards to greet him, only wary eyes peering out from within the settlement. Illuminus noticed figures moving between the tents and wooden shacks—mostly women and older men, their movements slow and deliberate. A middle-aged woman approached him as he entered, her weathered face stern but not unkind. She carried a rusted machete at her hip, her sharp eyes sweeping over him and his donkey.
“You’ve come a long way,” she said, her tone neutral.
“I’m Illuminus,” he replied, keeping his voice steady. “I’ve travelled from the White Moon Tribe. I bring wool for trade and seek information about a man named Olaf. He’s been missing for some time now.”
The woman studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a nod, she motioned for him to follow.
“Come. Gerik will want to hear this.”
They stopped in front of the largest structure, a weathered longhouse reinforced with metal sheets and draped in faded banners. Without a word, the woman pushed aside the heavy fabric at the entrance and gestured for Illuminus to step inside.
The interior was dim, illuminated by a few oil lamps that cast a flickering light over the room. At a wooden table sat an elderly man with sunken features and a lean frame draped in simple, faded robes. His sharp eyes studied Illuminus as he entered, narrowing slightly at the sight of the donkey and its wool-laden packs.
“I am Gerik, chief of this tribe” the old man said, his gravelly voice filling the room. “You bring wool, but you seek more than trade. Speak your purpose.”
lluminus stepped forward, his tone steady.
“I’m looking for someone—a man named Olaf. He’s pale, with red hair. Not the kind of person you’d forget easily. He’s been missing for weeks, and I need to find him.”
Gerik tapped his cane lightly against the floor, his gaze turning distant.
“Olaf,” he murmured, as though testing the name. “No, we’ve not seen him. A man like that would stand out here. But the wasteland is vast, and it’s unkind to wanderers. If he’s missing...” Gerik’s expression darkened, his voice lowering. “It’s possible he’s fallen into the hands of the Flame Brotherhood.”
Illuminus stiffened.
“What would they want with him?”
Gerik’s gaze sharpened, his words weighted with disdain.
“The Flame Brotherhood are slavers. If Olaf has any value—his strength, his knowledge, anything—they will exploit it. They break people, strip them of everything that makes them whole, and sell them to the highest bidder. If they’ve taken him, then he’s been dragged into a darkness most never escape.”
A heavy silence filled the room, the air thick with the weight of Gerik’s words.
“If there’s a chance he’s alive, I have to find him.” Illuminus declares.
Gerik nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering.
“You’ll need more than determination to face the wasteland, let alone the Flame Brotherhood. If you wish to gain our aid, there’s something you must do first. Bring us five scimitars and five crossbows from the White Moon Tribe. Our warriors need to be armed before we can risk aiding you further.” Gerik’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Loretta leads our warriors, but she will not meet with you until we are better prepared. These weapons are the price of her time.”
Taking in the gravity of the situation, Illuminus nodded.
“I’ll get the weapons. In the meantime, I have wool to trade.”
Gerik motioned to the table, where the faint light glinted off several spools of spun yarn.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“We can take the wool and sell you yarn in exchange. The Sharp Spear Tribe to the south is always in need of it for making jackets. If you’re clever, you’ll make a profit there.”
Illuminus met Gerik’s gaze, his voice steady.
“I’ll do what needs to be done.” With business concluded for now Illuminus wastes no time and buys supplies and sets out east back to the Bunker.
01/05/81 ATE
The sun’s first light spilled over the wasteland, casting long shadows as Illuminus adjusted the straps on the donkey’s load. He’d left the Scorpion Sting Tribe at dawn, his interactions with Gerik carefully measured. The elder had no idea about the knife wound beneath Illuminus’ jacket—a detail he’d deliberately concealed.
Illuminus set a steady pace eastward, his donkey moving obediently by his side. The path back to the Bunker was familiar but no less gruelling, the terrain marked by cracked earth and jagged outcrops that jutted like broken bones from the ground.
By midday, he stopped beneath the shade of a lone rock formation. The heat was relentless, the dry wind offering little relief as he sipped sparingly from his water skin. His donkey nibbled at a patch of scrub, oblivious to the weight of its burden or the growing tension in its master’s mind.
Illuminus resumed his trek, the sun casting long shadows by the time he reached the edge of a desolate plain. The air cooled as dusk fell, and he found a sheltered hollow to set up camp.
02/05/81 ATE
By the second day, each step sent a dull throb through his side. But he ignored the pain, focusing instead on the distant ridge that hid the Bunker’s entrance.
By mid-afternoon, the outline of the familiar steel gates came into view, offering a fleeting moment of relief. But even as he approached, Illuminus remained wary. Experience had taught him that safety, even here, was never a given.
The gates creaked open with an old, familiar hiss. Cool air rushed past him, carrying with it the sterile scent of the Bunker. Leading the donkey inside, Illuminus crossed the dim, silent corridors, his boots echoing against the metal floor. He needed to tend to his wound, update Roderick, and prepare for the next leg of his journey. Illuminus pushed open the door to Roderick’s quarters. The harsh overhead light reflected off the steel desk, casting long shadows across Roderick’s features. He looked up from the reports in front of him, his gaze sharp and calculating.
“You’re back,” Roderick said, his voice cold but with an undercurrent of expectation. “What have you learned?”
Illuminus came to a stop, his body stiff from both the wound and the weight of his mission.
“I visited the White Moon Tribe and the Scorpion Sting Tribe,” he began, his voice steady but edged with fatigue. “Neither has seen Olaf. Gerik at Scorpion Sting thinks the Flame Brotherhood might have taken him. If that’s true, Olaf could be enslaved or worse.”
Roderick’s eyes darkened at the mention of the Flame Brotherhood. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“The Flame Brotherhood.” He spoke the name like a curse. “If they have him, finding Olaf just became much harder. But it's still more than we knew before.”
Illuminus shifted, a faint wince passing over his face.
“I also need the medics to look at my side. A scavenger attacked me on the way to Scorpion Sting. Got close enough to cut me with a knife.”
Roderick’s eyes flicked to Illuminus’ stiff movements, then narrowed in suspicion. “And you’re only telling me this now?”
“What was I supposed to do come rushing back here from the outskirts of The Scorpion Sting?” Illuminus replied, his voice tight. “But I won’t make it much further without proper treatment.”
Roderick’s gaze sharpened, but his tone softened just enough.
“Go to the medics. Get yourself patched up. Take a day to recover before you head out again. The wasteland doesn’t wait.”
“Thank you,” Illuminus said, nodding slightly.
Roderick studied him for a long moment, then added,
“You’ll need to keep moving. The longer Olaf’s out there, the harder he will be to find. Rest, but don’t waste time.”
Illuminus turned to leave, his thoughts already shifting to the next phase of his journey. The medics would patch him up, but the work ahead would be far from easy. The Sharp Spear Tribe awaited, and with it, more questions to answer.
03/05/81 ATE
The sun rose slowly, casting its pale light over the barren wasteland. Illuminus moved forward, guiding the donkey as it carried the bags of yarn across the dry, cracked earth. The path ahead was a harsh, unyielding expanse of desert and scattered scrub, with no sign of any path or road to follow. Only the occasional cacti and jagged rocks marked the landscape as he pushed onward.
By midday, the heat had begun to take its toll. Illuminus paused in the shadow of a large rock outcropping, letting the donkey rest while he took a drink from his water skin. The silence of the wasteland seemed to press in on him, the weight of isolation settling over the vast, empty landscape. There was no sign of life beyond the occasional wind stirring the dust.
As evening approached, Illuminus found shelter in the ruins of an ancient stone building, its structure crumbling under years of neglect. He settled down for the night, the donkey grazing quietly nearby. The vast emptiness of the wasteland surrounded him, broken only by the distant call of unseen birds and the wind rustling through the ruins.
05/05/81 ATE
The third day of travel brought him closer to the Sharp Spear Tribe. The terrain remained as unforgiving as ever, but the hills marking the tribe’s land were finally in view. Illuminus pushed forward, his pace quickening as the end of his journey neared. The donkey, too, seemed to pick up its step as it sensed the approach to a settlement. As Illuminus approaches the Sharp Spear Tribe’s settlement, the air around him seems to shift. The land feels sacred, the dust settling in a way that speaks of reverence and history. The soft sound of chanting or prayer might be heard in the distance, the peaceful atmosphere almost a stark contrast to the harshness of the wasteland he has traversed.
As he nears the tribe’s borders, a figure steps out from the settlement—a tall, elderly woman with deep, thoughtful eyes and a serene presence. She wears simple robes adorned with intricate patterns, symbolizing the tribe's spiritual beliefs. Her expression is one of cautious curiosity, and there is no weapon at her side. Instead, she carries a staff decorated with feathers and beads, a symbol of peace rather than power.
“You’ve travelled far,” she says in a soft, measured voice. “What brings you to our land, traveller?”
Illuminus, mindful of the tribe’s pacifistic nature, lowers his voice and adopts a respectful tone.
“I am Illuminus, a caravaner. I bring yarn for trade, but I seek information. A man named Olaf has gone missing, and I’ve heard that your tribe may know something.”
The elder studies him carefully, her gaze unwavering, as though she can sense the weight of his journey and the toll it has taken on him.
“The wasteland is vast, and many souls wander, lost in its sands. Olaf... I do not know an Olaf. But his fate lies in the balance, as all things do. I shall take you to our elders and we shall discuss this more.”
After being led to the elders, Illuminus steps into the heart of the Sharp Spear Tribe’s settlement, where a group of elders sits in a large, open space surrounded by symbols of their spirituality. The elders are seated in a circle, each one wrapped in simple robes, their eyes full of wisdom and tranquillity. The peaceful atmosphere of the settlement seems to hum with the energy of long-held traditions. Illuminus, having been prepared for this moment, stands before them, his expression determined yet respectful.
“I am grateful for your time,” he begins, bowing slightly. “But I come with urgency. The Flame Brotherhood is a scourge on the wasteland. Their violence is not just a threat to the tribes—it is a cancer that poisons everything it touches. They enslave, kill, and destroy. I implore you—your tribe is the only one in this region with the strength and resolve to stand against them. Only you have the capacity to make a difference.”
The elders exchange solemn glances. The woman who first greeted him steps forward, her serene face betraying a flicker of conflict.
“We do not fight,” she says gently. “Our ways are rooted in peace, in understanding. We believe that all life must be nurtured, that balance is key. Violence cannot be the answer.”
Illuminus’ tone hardens, but he remains respectful.
“Then how can you stand idly by while the Flame Brotherhood spreads its corruption? The only way to reduce violence in this world is to eliminate the source of that violence. If you do nothing, they will continue to ravage the land and everyone in it. The balance will continue to tip in their favour, and peace will be further out of reach.”
The elders listen, but their expressions do not change. The elder woman speaks again, her voice tinged with sorrow, but her resolve firm.
“We understand your pain. But peace, true peace, cannot be built on bloodshed. If we respond to violence with violence, we become like them. We would no longer be the Sharp Spear Tribe—the tribe of peace, the tribe of harmony. We would become just another force of destruction, like the very people you seek to destroy.”
Illuminus clenches his fists, trying to rein in the frustration that bubbles up inside him. He’s desperate, knowing that the Flame Brotherhood won’t stop unless someone puts a stop to them. He pauses, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. Illuminus, fed up with their response, sighs deeply.
“I do not have the luxury of time for such idealism. I need your active intervention.” The elders remain calm as Illuminus’ frustration grows. Their peaceful demeanour is unshaken by his impassioned plea, and the air around them seems to hum with a quiet, unwavering presence of resolve. The woman who first greeted him steps forward once again, her staff in hand. Her gaze remains steady, yet there’s a deep sadness in her eyes. She speaks slowly, as though choosing each word carefully.
“Peace cannot be coerced, Illuminus.”
Illuminus understands their viewpoint, he just disagrees especially in the face of such a clear, immediate threat. He’s here to stop Olaf’s potential enslavement, to save lives, and the elders are offering him philosophy instead of action.
“You speak of peace but do you not also value justice? Where is the justice for the Flame Brotherhood?”
The elder woman, who had greeted him earlier, steps forward. She carries her staff lightly, the feathers and beads hanging down from it swaying softly with each movement. Her gaze is steady, but the tension in her features betrays the quiet deliberation of her mind.
“Your words are urgent, Illuminus,” she says, her voice calm but tinged with a trace of sorrow. “We hear your pain, and we understand the depth of your resolve. But our ways are not to strike with anger. We do not seek to become like the very people we oppose. Our strength lies in our understanding and in the path of peace we walk. Violence cannot be the answer, for violence only breeds more violence.” Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Gary, one of the elder men who has been quietly observing, speaks up. His voice is soft but carries the weight of wisdom built over a lifetime.
“Your plea carries with it much sorrow, Illuminus. We are not blind to the danger posed by the Flame Brotherhood. But we must not become like them in our attempt to stop them. Our ways are different, and we must seek a solution that does not compromise our values.”
He pauses, his eyes studying Illuminus closely. “Perhaps there is another way. We are a peaceful people, but we understand that the wasteland is a place of harsh realities. We will not send you to face them with force. But there is another path—one that might allow you to confront them while remaining true to our beliefs.” Illuminus listens intently, his pulse quickening with hope.
“What do you mean? I need to stop them. I need to save Olaf.”
Gary’s expression softens, and he looks to the other elders for confirmation. After a moment of silent consensus, the elder woman steps forward, her voice filled with quiet resolve.
“We will send an envoy with you, Illuminus. An envoy of our people. He will accompany you to the Flame Brotherhood’s camp, but not to fight. He will go with you under the protection of diplomatic immunity—an offering of peace, but also as a shield for you both. It will allow you to speak to them, to confront them without engaging in violence.”
Illuminus’ eyes widen in disbelief at this suggestion and speaks,
“You’re trusting them to respect diplomacy? From what I’m told they don’t care for such trivialities.” The elder nods.
“Yes. We will not send warriors to fight them, but we will send a representative of our people to speak for us. You will be protected by the sacred laws of diplomacy. It is a chance to reason with them, to offer them a different path. If they refuse… well that would be unthinkable even for them.”
An agreement is reached Illuminus sells the yarns he carries and purchases knitted jumpers from the tribe. The path ahead is uncertain, but the opportunity for a peaceful negotiation is one he never expected or even believes will work. He prepares himself for the journey, the weight of his mission now tempered with the solemn responsibility of representing peace.
He heads to the tribe's market area, where the bustling activity of trade and barter offers a moment of normalcy amidst the heavy atmosphere of his mission. The knitted jumpers, sturdy and well-crafted, will serve as valuable trade goods.
With the trade concluded, Illuminus looks to the envoy chosen by the elders—a calm, composed individual who will accompany him on this crucial mission. The envoy’s presence is a reminder of the tribe's commitment to peace, and Illuminus is grateful for the support, though the responsibility still feels heavy. The weight of his decisions, now more than ever, will shape the future of the wasteland. As the sun begins to set over the tribe's sacred hills, Illuminus sets out once more, the path to the Flame Brotherhood's camp ahead, with hope for a peaceful resolution—yet the harsh reality of the wasteland always lurking in the background.
