When he wakes up in a clean bed in what he later will learn is a sanatorium, he finds a pair of flintlocks and a rose quartz rosary lying on the night stand next to him, meaning they're probably his. 

Not that he has the slightest idea where he is, or how he got here in first place. 

As he tries to gather himself, a group of people wearing unfamiliar faces enters the room.  They crowd around his bed and ask questions, but when he has no answers it is them who tell him that he was lost to them for nigh half a year, dead and buried, mourned, and now brought back to life by a miracle of the Light. 

They tell him this place is called the Hamlet, and that his own name is Dismas. 

He does not know what to make of the information.  He sits on the bed naked from the waist up, surrounded, and clutching the covers so hard it turns his hands into claws. 

It is a blessing when a stocky woman with a voluminous headdress and a commandeering presence enters the room.  A white veil billows after her from how briskly she strides before she stops to level an incinerating gaze at the thong of strangers. 

"Out.  NOW."  She points in the direction of the door. 

There is a chorus of protests, but when a male voice says, "Come on, let's give him some time," they start leaving, one by one, until the only ones left are the nurse and him and the room is blessedly quiet once more. 

He doesn't understand, doesn't remember, he doesn't remember – 

"Awake, are we?" the nurse asks, her attention turning to her patient. 

He looks up from the crumpled indents that his hands left on the sheets and nods, not trusting his voice. 

"Good.  It's about time."  She approaches him with a pewter cup full of clear liquid.  "Drink this," she says, handing it to him.  "Water and essence of valerian," she explains, reading his questioning look.  "Best you take it easy for a while." 

He takes the cup, and she helps steady his hands and makes sure that he downs the contents. 

Slowly, the tension begins to drain out of him until he realizes he is shaking and sore, several muscles twitching uncontrollably.  He wonders if he cramped and didn't even notice, and if that is the reason why he is so sore.  The tremor in his hands is the last to abate. 

He is fine. 

The medicine is clearly working, and the nurse bustles about as if nothing were out of the ordinary.  He is still confused about waking up in an unfamiliar place, but the sudden wave of exhaustion that crashes over him makes even worrying increasingly difficult. 

He is fine. 

Outside, the sun is shining. 

I've been through worse.  

"Lovely day outside," the nurse says, opening the shutters wide to let a warm breeze in. 

It is, but he has a comfortable bed and is content to enjoy it from inside his nest of blankets.   He sleeps, and when he wakes it is dark outside.  Despite the late hour, he is served a bowl of hot chicken broth, salty and sweet, and it makes his mouth water for more.  He eats a second serving, and then, although no longer hungry, wolfs down a third, and then collapses back into his bed's soft embrace and sleeps until it is daylight again. 

"Feeling better?" The nurse is back. 

She had left him to disrobe and bathe in privacy, and he had made good work of the tub, the slice of soap and the couple of buckets filled with tepid water that he'd been given.  Afterwards he had not bothered with slipping back into the loose linen shirt and pants that he had worn ever since he'd first woken up.  Those needed a wash as badly as he had. 

"Yeah," he rasps, sitting up.  Every time he speaks it feels like he's got gravel stuck in his throat, but at least he now manages words.  The first time he tried, he couldn't make a sound and he ended up coughing so bad, he almost passed out from the lack of air. 

"Good."  She beckons him to follow her.  He hesitates for a moment, but then follows, clad in naught but the towel wrapped around his hips.  The stone floor feels cold underneath his bare feet, but it's not a long walk, just down the stairs and into a smaller room on the left. 

He doesn't have to be told that the room's most prominent feature, a huge mirror of polished silver that leans against the wall, is not originally from the sanatorium.  It looks ornate and heavy and wherever it came from, it must have been a hassle to carry it all the way here.  He wonders why they bothered.  Then, he wonders who did. 

The blurry shape reflected in the dull, grey surface slowly comes into focus as he steps closer. 

The man frowning at him is a stranger. 

This is me.  

He looks like someone he wouldn't want to have a run-in with in a dark alley. 

The corners of his mouth tug downward, and his nose looks like it has borne the brunt of several punches to the face.  He ought to shave, because his stubble is growing in patches around the scars on his jaw. 

Overall, he looks older than he feels.  There are streaks of grey in his black hair, too many to count.  He has brown, weather-worn skin, not dark enough to mark him from the East or as a Southerner, but too dark to belong to a Northerner.  

During his bath he had already discovered that sometime in the past, he'd been stabbed, multiple times.  He wonders what he did to deserve that.  His body tells the story of a past filled with violence and hunger.  He doesn't mind the scars so much as he does the prominent jut of bone at his hips or the hollows he'd like to fill out with muscle. 

He drops the towel. 

The rest is… ordinary. 

"Well, I ain't no beauty," he concludes.  It is a little disappointing. 

"You look better than most things that were dead for half a year," the nurse comments dryly as she pokes her head in to check on him.  He discovers then and there that he sure doesn't have a prudish bone in his body. 

"Heh. Bet I smell better too." 

"Don't push it."  Her eyes narrow, though he manages to catch the flash of teeth in the mirror before she disappears again. 

He returns his attention to his reflection.  "S' just you and me now, pal." 

In the looking glass, the man's shrewd obsidian eyes look back at him, gauging. 

He sighs.  Not even his mirror image seems to approve. 

When he returns to his room, he finds a well worn pair of boots standing next to his bed, and fresh clothes laid out on top of it.  His favourite piece by far is the coat.  It's like a second skin, even though it hangs down to his knees and he needs to fasten the belt because it's made for a man twice his girth.  He rolls up the sleeves and then buries his nose in the soft fur collar, smiling.  He knows it's his with a certainty he cannot explain.  He may not recall who he is, but he has the distinct feeling that this coat knows him well. 

He is informed that he is free to leave. 

The sanatorium has been his world, for the few days he actually remembers living on it.  Leaving it seems like a daunting prospect, but as his strength returned, he has been getting increasingly restless. 

The moment he steps outside, the sunlight makes his eyes water, so he shields them with his hand, squinting through near-closed lids.  The Hamlet is not a very large town; he had been able to see as much from the window.  He only needs to pick a direction, and to follow it. 

He chooses to head right, because it looks like it leads towards the town's outskirts. 

The road swings in a gentle curve, leading him past a pasture with a herd of horses grazing in it.  From there it isn't far to the forest's edge.  A waystone painted orange and green from the moss and lichen growing on top of it marks the border of the Hamlet. 

The cobblestone then gives way to packed earth and the road disappears into the forest.  He contemplates the trees for a long moment before he turns around and heads back.  He will find out more about the world out there after he has grown familiar with this place.  One step after another. 

Going the other way, he realizes that no matter where he is in the Hamlet, there is one sight that doesn't change.  Overlooking the town is a sprawling estate, flanked by ancient oak trees.  With its iron fence and pointed spires it seems ancient, cold and foreboding.  He doesn't approach but he has no trouble making out that like most of the town, it must have seen better days and just like the buildings below it too shows signs of repair. 

He doesn't mind being lost in the crooked streets of this town.  Maybe, he muses a while later as he passes a flock of geese in someone's overgrown front garden, he ended up here because he wondered whether it's true what they say about the countryside; that so far away from civilization, dogs bark out of their arses. 

He is terribly disappointed in that regard when he actually comes across a dog.  It's a gangly wolfhound that shows some white around its muzzle and walks with the stiffness of old age.  He makes kissing noises at it and it wags its tail when he scratches it behind the ears.  Since it looks well-cared for, he doesn't feel too bad about not having any scraps on him that he could feed it. 

They spend some companionable time together, the man sitting on the bench and the dog lying in a sunny spot next to him. 

Considering his situation, it is a marvel that he can feel almost at peace here.  Maybe there is a part of him that recognizes this Hamlet, though why he should choose a place in the middle of nowhere when there were cities out there, busy and full of life, he does not know.  He could have headed to Velstaad, or Fraehaven, or even as far North as Old Port, the jewel of the Northern city states.  For the time it takes to draw breath he can see an ice cold, green sea with ships bobbing in the harbor. 

Then the vision is gone, as if carried away by the wind.  Even the names of the cities slip through his mind like the rough tufts of the wolfhound's fur through his fingers.  He tries not to mourn their loss.  It isn't like he knows whether they are real, after all. 

When the hound's ears prick up and it rises to trot off without a backwards look, leaving him on his own again, he decides to move on.  

He still hasn't seen the other side of the town.  It takes him a moment to remember which way to go, but as he steps into a broader avenue, he can see past a gap in the buildings and catches sight of that estate again.  He'll have to remember to ask whom it belongs to.  For now, it is as good a landmark as he can ask for. 

Nary a minute has passed since he decided on his new course, when an approaching figure catches his eyes.  It's not the everyday villager scurrying past, too busy to spare a glance at a stray, be it dog or man.  No, this is a striking blonde woman wearing a floppy hat and thigh-high boots that would be the cause of much gossip and scandalous looks at any social event.  She walks like a lady and dresses like a rogue, and he is intrigued what a character like her might be doing here, when –

"Dismas!"

She breaks out in a wide smile, and he looks around, fully expecting that she is addressing someone behind him.  There is no one though, and he suffers a moment of confusion until he recalls that,

Dismas, that's supposed to be me! 

"… yeah?"  He can hear the uncertainty in his voice. 

"There you are."  She draws even with him, and then hooks her arm through his like they are a couple out for a stroll. 

He is too surprised to react in any way and thus, the window to do so passes.  Up close, he can tell that they're roughly the same height, and that she's beautiful in an effortless, undone way.  

"How are you?" 

She eyes him up and down from underneath the brim of her hat, coquettishly almost, and he studies her in return.  There is a mole on her right cheek, and she reminds him – he cannot tell.  Dismas swallows, because for one moment it was almost like he could remember…something. 

She doesn't wait for an answer.  "How's the memory?" the mysterious woman asks, all mirth gone in an instant. 

"Things are still…foggy."  Dismas answers truthfully. 

"Foggy, right."  She nods once, her brows drawing together, mouth puckering in a most unladylike pout.  As quickly as it had appeared, the expression is gone again, replaced by a smile.  Less toothy, and this time, it makes the skin around her eyes crease, softens the haughty look.  Even her voice sounds gentler when she asks, "Let me show you around then, yes?" 

"Thanks … " Dismas falters. 

"Audrey," the blonde supplies easily. 

"Thanks, Audrey." 

They stroll through the Hamlet's streets together, and Audrey shows Dismas where he can find the bakery, the barber, and the general goods store.  She leads him to the river where it's broad and slow and one can bathe in the summer, and back to where he can take his laundry to the washerwoman to get it cleaned. 

"This is the barracks," Audrey announces, pointing at a squat building made of stone.  

"Barracks?" Dismas asks, not sure what a place like the Hamlet would need a barracks for.

"Of course," Audrey continues, unaware of his thoughts.  "Where else do you think everybody lives?" 

"Houses?" Dismas offers, because last time he looked that's exactly what they were for. 

"I don't mean the townsfolk," Audrey answers, with a gesture like swatting away a bothersome mosquito.  She pokes Dismas in the upper arm.  "I mean the fighters!" 

"Like…soldiers?" Dismas guesses, because maybe the town keeps some sort of militia at the behest of one lord or another. 

"Something like that," Audrey agrees, her tone implying that it's actually nothing the like.   

"What'd ya need soldiers for?"  Where there are soldiers, there's usually also conflict.  Then, wars follow and then woe anyone who runs into one of the press gangs roaming the streets in search of easy targets. 

"We had a bit of a problem with vermin," Audrey remarks in an offhand manner. 

"Vermin."  Dismas looks at his companion, but she seems too lost in thought to notice.  "Like what?" he insists to know.  "Plague o' squirrels?  Rabid badgers?"  

"No, more of the Eldritch kind." 

Audrey begins to walk again, and Dismas follows her, stumbling on the first step to catch up.  He knows his eyes have to show his disbelief, but… "Eldritch!?"

The blonde nods and pets him on the arm.  "Don't worry, sweetness – it's mostly under control now.  These days it's more about making sure it stays that way.  

Dismas isn't sure any of the news is agreeing with him, but he nods anyway.  Eldritch…cultists…then, something Audrey has said sparks his interest.  "We.  That means you fight too?" 

"Oh, you didn't think I was here to look pretty and provide enjoyable company, did you?"  Audrey tosses her hair over her shoulder.  She is teasing him, but in a good-natured way.  Dismas doesn't mind.  He can tell that she is trying to make this easier for him to swallow.  It goes down as well as boiling oil. 

"Why are you here?"  Dismas asks, meaning, 'Why am I here?' but not having worked up the courage to ask that question just yet. 

"Because cultists carry offerings for the things they worship, and after we kill them, we can strip all the filthy lucre off their cooling bodies," Audrey says with almost maniac glee.  "Of course, the Heir gets most of it."  She sighs wistfully.  "But we still get a substantial cut – oh, don't look at me like this.  We can't all cite noble reasons.  Some of us are really that shallow, and in only for the gold." 

A moment of silence follows.  Dismas doesn't think Audrey is nearly as shallow as she pretends to be.  He also thinks she wouldn't appreciate him saying so.  Therefore, he doesn't.  He likes Audrey. 

They go on, past the smithy and training hall.  Behind the buildings they find grassy plains that melt into gently rolling hills on the horizon.  To their left there is a large field lined with straw dummies, but it's empty now. 

Much closer, a rough dozen of men and women have gathered around a lone figure in armour.  More than one of them carry some form of weapon and all appear to be absorbed by what the knight is telling them.  He is balancing a longsword on one shoulder, gesticulating with the other, and when he shifts it is enough for Dismas to spot the golden cross of the Light on his chest. 

"Who's that?" Dismas asks, pointing in the direction of the crusader.  His mouth feels dry, his heart palpitating too fast. 

"Who - ," Audrey squints as if she had trouble making out whom he means.  "Oh."  She looks at him funny.  "That is – Reynauld." 

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