"This you knows: the years travel fast and time after time I done the tell. But this ain't one body's tell; it's the tell of us all, and you've got to listen it and 'member, 'cause what you hears today you gotta tell the newborn tomorrow. I's lookin behind us now, into history back. I sees those of us that got the luck and started the haul for home and I 'members how it led us here and how we was heartbroke cause we seen what they once was. One look and we knew'd we'd got it straight. Those what had gone before had the knowin' and the doin' of things beyond our reckonin', even beyond our dreamin'. Time counts and keeps countin' and we knows now, findin' the trick of what's been and lost ain't no easy ride. But that's our trek. We gotta travel it and there ain't nobody knows where it's gonna lead. Still, in all, every night we does the tell so that we 'member who we was and where we comin' from. But most of all we 'members them Young, them folks that seen our lights, and we lights the lights not just for them no more, but for all of 'em that are still out there, cause we knows there'll come a night when they sees the distant light and they'll be comin' home."
the Young, post apocalyptic tribal drumming and blaring horns screaming out the maniacal glee that it is to be a brave wandering soul amidst the ruin of the world.
wild movements, like stray cats in heat, fighting over territory - though many have learned to share, these lives are still led by flesh and lust.. they have a million hiding spots, and a thousand more secrets. treetowers, derelict farms, underground flood drains running under old abandoned suburbs. living of off scavenged scraps, foraged foods, with sleeping bags, tarps, backpacks, lunchboxes outfitted with live weaponry hammered from the crude utensils found on the sides of crumbling highways. body armour crafted out of hubcaps, sports equipment, and rescued bits of machinery pirated from scrapyards, cars and abandoned construction sites scattered across the ever expansive landmass.
marked skin, and dangling amulets hanging limply from all of their pierced parts and pieces. keys, bolts, ancient coins, and all sorts of shiny bobbles polished with long greasy twisted locks. bangles, necklaces made of bone wire feathers and long since worn out compact disks scratched with figures and glyphs symbolizing allegiance to varying gods and clans.
these are the ways of the pagan children, the wild Young. nomadic kids who walk this world, beneath the surface, behind the rows, across the mountain ridges. the Young in the forests they are building, hiding out, waiting... waiting for the other Young to come searching, looking to be with others like them. waiting, watching for the seasons to change, and the world to change, and for a sign in the sky, gleaming in the water, growing from the earth, or burning in the fire... a sign showing, an omen telling the tale that the people from the old world have wholly gone.
they knew the old folks. they know they caused the scourge, the end, the Fall. they know they tore the earth and sky apart. they know the old folks still clutch to the cities and the towers and the visions of death which killed the world. the Young knew they couldnt live beside them, and they couldnt live with them who destroyed their lives so completely in their wrecklessness. so they left them behind, and challenged them intently everytime the old folks tried to reach back to the dead time before the winter night, before the Fall. they'd burn them out before they could start the machines. never again; they swore it. no one would turn this healing earth on its ends ever again. the Young, and their young, will remain, vigilant and aware, watching and waiting.
the Fall, it went like this: