In the barrens stands a newly planted flag. No one knows who put it there, nor what settlement it belongs to. It's lifted by a crude pole stuck into the earth, wind sweeping up sand and flying the banner straight. A passerby sees the design upon it and is struck by vague familiarity, but where he's seen it before totally escapes him. A cloth with the same design covers the grain pile back at his home, dust having long worn that special symbol away. He sees the towering flag and pulls out his hatchet, thinking to cut the flagpole down. The fabric seems sturdy and strong, the pole suitable for firewood. Unwanted by anyone, he may as well chop it down and put it to better use. Just like how every settlement in this stretch of the wild fights one another over soil and resources, ultimately evolving into ever more brand-new civilizations. The axe hacks into the pole, but cannot cut it. He puts a hand out to shake it, but the flag defiantly flies even straighter in greeting the sun. He hocks a glob of spit onto the ground, shifts away from the light, and squints his eyes as he looks up. The material's very new. Not yet stained by rain or dirt. The burlap flaunts its sheen. A few days ago, a mechanical arm brushed aside the traps set all around its cabin home, picking flax from the long-forsaken waste, and weaving as its Mom and Dad once taught it. The hand so used to bows was somewhat clumsy, but the metal hand briskly rolled the flax into thread. Suppose one said this arm used to be treasured for how it could draw a bow with greater force—now, it had its owner's full interest for how meticulously it could weave. But the mechanical arm understood none of this; it simply followed its master's will, making good on what she saw fit. A few years ago, the arm's owner thankfully told the old man that installed it how she would use it to further her revenge. In time, she used the greater force within it to loose arrows into the bodies of mercenaries. She looked at the things they left behind, at the unfamiliar symbol on them—the story of her. Time stopped here, and not a soul remembers all that he was before. She pulled her cloak off, fixing it tight to the wound that almost saw her windpipe slit open. Revenge can easily wipe away a person's past. She didn't want to turn out the same way when her demise came. So she returned to her home, wove this mantle, sought out a firm flagpole, and stuck it rigidly into the soil. It is the final remaining symbol of this settlement in the wilds, and she used her vengeful arm to weave this memento of civilization. The flag rises, the steel arm's owner walks her new path, and those who pass by the banner will recall the pattern she wove.