Debts of old all coming due
A forest of bones to pick
Overlook the wastes, and see the view
Debts of old all coming due
Closer to false, no further from true
We'll die standing, however sick
Debts of old all coming due
A forest of bones to pick
Awareness returns in a rush. There's no gap, no perception of missing time. One moment you were in a ruined temple, and a pool of churning energy had just exploded out in a rush of strange, unearthly colors. The next, you're on your back, in the sand, being dragged. Your head is pounding, you reek of sweat and vomit, and the afternoon sun is lancing into your eyes like daggers.
The person dragging you is only dimly recognizable as such. They're short, muscular, and have thick leathery skin. More notably, a third arm, stunted and twisted, hangs useless from their left shoulder. They are, clearly, a mutant, their body twisted by the strange energies of the Wastes.