Few are those dragged tooth and nail into the Wasteland, fewer still, whom enter of their own volition. To those Born of the wastes even that handful is a threat to survival. These nomads have earned their presence in this land through a life time suffering the torments of the waste. The storms lash their bodies, and toughen their hides. The heat of the jutting rock boils their blood as they hide in its shade, they eat the sun and drink the sand, scrying for the bounty that the waste may leave. The takings are meagre and it is not to be shared, as such, the embrace of the Wasteborn, to those who would trespass on their home, is as welcoming as the wasteland itself.