Theocracy

You were found by devout villagers shambling through the wastes, nude and carrying only a crude sword. You don't remember your name, where you came from, or even what you were doing out there. 

But none of this matters.

The strange sword in your grip writhes and churns with hunger, hunger for the strange fruit bore by the tree these villagers seem to worship. 

Let your sword bite into the hardened flesh.