The wasteland, as such a name entitles, is a quagmire. Spawned by the stubbornness and pure idiocy of its forefathers as they bathed the lands in balefire. One virtually devoid of amenities and pleasantries. But why bother ponder on such trivial, well known knowledge. How about the wanderers? Those of self interest, the mobile hermits of the wastes? Survival is their only objective, only drive, this to be what Pax believes to be his own virtue. Past, as much as it stung, is pushed to farthest depths of his mind as he seeks to remain living, breathing, and thinking. No matter how much the wastes could throw at him, he was sure he could just step out of the way rather than toss it back ten fold. But neither the wasteland nor his past have any recollection of sympathy.