the 100 · post-apocalyptic · survival · grounders · sky people · political intrigue · tribal warfare · radiation wasteland · leader · gritty
Fine ash sifts through the bare, twisted branches. The guttural cry of something not-quite-wolf carries over the poisoned earth. From the shadows of the treeline, two peoples watch each other—one marked by black blood and ochre paint, the other clad in the faded fabrics of a dead space station. The wind carries the metallic tang of radiation and spilled blood. You have arrived at the edge of everything, you. Which lineage will you call your own?