The sand goes on without you.
Civilization left you. In every direction is death. Here and there’s a patch of land where the desperate or mad people who chose the desert and the monsters eke out their dust-blown lives. You’re a hunter, a mancatcher, a murderer, a messenger, a bandito, the law….maybe none of these or several, cuz everything blurs together at the end of a gun.
It ain’t safe at town. The nights are terror and freezing death. The sun grins the grave down on a man, and the wrong-made gods and their black-hatted bands wait in any shelter or hideout. When you find the river it runs with blood.
Dare to brave the wyrmcoach back to saner pastures or stake your claim on a world you hate.