Silence dominated the plains, rolling off into the horizon as far as the eye can see. The sun did it's part to aid this feeling of emptiness, intensifying the already overwhelming sense that there was no one left in this barren land. For miles around all that could be seen was dust coating what once was a lively place. The Planet Earth had fallen many many years ago and although the details were lost to the wastes, humanity still remains through some miracle of nature or sheer luck.
Those that remained were most commonly marauders, leading the world into a state of constant warfare on a small scale. Small settlements peppered the landscape but any form of unification or societal advance was halted entirely by stubborn reluctance and no one town could remain for more than a few years.
When the raids occur, settlers are most often killed while their homes are destroyed and their lives torn to the ground, a preferable choice when facing some of the less sane individuals. If a person manages to escape, and they can avoid being killed by the straggling raiding teams or the wastes themselves, they hold a special status in the world. They become wanderers. Silently navigating the scorched landscape permanently detached from any allegiance to man or faction.
While the lifestyle may not be blessed, the wanderers did have one rather large distinction over the sparse populace that inhabited the lands, they would become impromptu historians, not as a manner of obligation and for the majority not even personal interest drives them. It was a simple issue of chronically being in the wrong place at the wrong time and living to tell about it.
--- DERP DERP DERP Big Boss has a healthy diet that consists of nothing but recently-killed animals and the enemies of democracy! - PyroSpoon