Freedom Seekers

The Waystation smells of dust, pack sweat, cheap food, and people who gave up on asking whether the road gets easier. Your little band stands outside with about 4,000 cats, several wooden backpacks, building materials, iron plates, fabric, wheatstraw, food, medical supplies, and the dangerous confidence of people who have confused having supplies with being ready. There are six of you. Five are idealists, fools, refugees, workers, dreamers, or some mixture still fermenting. The sixth is an Old Soldier with scars, better instincts, an ancient horse chopper, and a bounty that makes Holy Nation territory a conversation best avoided. You came here to build a home away from cities, taxes, lords, priests, and anyone who thinks freedom should arrive with paperwork. The wasteland has received your proposal. It has not signed yet. What do you do?