He opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the fiery brilliance of the late afternoon sun. Panic and confusion set in almost immediately. He had no recollection of…well, anything. In the deep recesses of his mind he could faintly see the shadowy images of dancing, fleeting memories; but as he reached for them in an attempt to hold them still, they drifted into nothingness; dissipating like smoke in a strong breeze. There was nothing; just existence devoid of context. It was as if he had just been born right this moment, birthed into of the hot desert sands, fully grown.
He steadied himself, forcing his mind to slow and focus, quelling the panic within. Somehow he knew how to do that, and at least that was something. He drew his focus to himself, and the first thing he noticed was his terrible thirst. His mouth was cracked and dry, and it tasted of metallic blood and gritty sand. Swallowing gave him no relief, the act producing only desperate, parched agony.
There were figures with him here, he slowly realized; noting the faces staring down at him. And they were speaking amongst themselves. Their words sounded like gibberish to his addled brain, but he forced himself to center upon them, and their words slowly shifted into focus.
“We don’t have water for us, let alone strays,” one of the figures protested angrily. He placed his attention on the man who had spoken. That one had the amber skin of a man who spent much of his life outdoors under the harsh desert sun; he had dark features, but striking crystal blue eyes. The others in the room had similar traits, and from their dress, he somehow recognized them as being lowly desert savages. This realization was comforting in a way, for it meant that, if his prejudices could survive in his current state, then perhaps other parts of him still existed as well – just buried deeply and locked away.
He struggled to sit up, thinking a change in position might improve his recollection; but the delicate protestation of an elderly woman’s hand upon his chest held him soundly in place. He was so weak; what had happened to him? They were still talking he realized, and now they were looking at him expectantly as if expecting a reply, but his attention was drawn to another figure. Standing out in stark contrast to the rest of them was a terrifying dragon’s face, staring down upon him where he lay; her metallic scales glowing with azure majesty thanks to the dramatic backlighting of the afternoon sun. A dragonborn? Who were these people, to have one of her kind counted among their number?
The sight of the fearsome dragon warrior snapped him from his confused reverie. He needed to figure out how he had ended up here, who these people were, and what they meant to do with him. He looked to the man speaking to him now; he was old for a tribesman – perhaps nearing forty – and he radiated a calm authority as he spoke, “Let’s start with your name.”
He wracked his brain for an answer, but none came. “I don’t remember,” he answered honestly, in a low voice.
“Then explain your clothes, fine silks, nothing we would ever dream of having, let alone see in our lifetime.” A hint of anger sharpened the edge of his tone.
He looked down at his clothes and noted that indeed he was dressed differently from them. Where they were dressed in leather scraps, stitched with coarse thread and bone, he was wearing brightly colored silk clothing, obviously tailored for his body; and completely out of place in these harsh desert climes. He had been correct in his earlier assessment of them, he noted dryly. He was indeed their better, though little good that did him now, in his current predicament.
He looked at his hands, marveling at how smooth and uncalloused they were; his nails were perfectly manicured, though dirty from the exertions of the day. Then, he started. Was he missing a finger? A quick glance at the hands of the tribesmen showed that each of the hands were perfectly symmetrical, sporting an equal number of digits on each hand; yet his left hand was indeed missing a finger. Something told him this was a new injury in spite of the lack of scabbing or blood, and it provided one more mystery he had to unravel. He toyed with the nub absentmindedly before realizing that the others were staring at him, expecting an answer to their implied question. He felt a red-hot anger begin to well up inside of him. Who were these primitives to speak to him in such a manner? He did not have to explain himself to the likes of them.
He found the strength to sit up, and replied imperiously “I do not remember,” leaving off the string of expletives that formed in his mind. As he spoke, he reached deep inside of himself, expecting to find a reservoir of power lying dormant there that he could use to lay waste to the uncivilized cretins who had the audacity to interrogate the likes of him! But he found nothing there. Only a vast emptiness – a metaphorical desert wasteland was all that awaited him within. He felt crushed and slumped back down, letting his rage drift away into the hot summer air, leaving him feeling light and empty and defeated.
The elderly tribesman looked at him thoughtfully, and then spoke again, “Then travel with us brother, or not. That is your choice, but the invitation has been given. Your memory will come, I am….almost sure of it. We will be leaving in the morning, rest here in my tent tonight.”
Was that kindness? Among savages like these? He felt a sense of relief wash over him like a summer rain. He accepted the water they handed him, drinking greedily from the wooden cup, only pausing briefly to look upon his reflection in the water. The face that looked back at him was that of a stranger, rippling and warping as the surface of the water tried in vain to still itself in his shaking hands. His eyes…they were wrong, but he could not quite place how because the image staring back at him suddenly shifted and changed – becoming stark and cruel, grinning with overt malice. The visage was so startling -yet familiar somehow – that he was tempted to throw the cup of water to be free of it; but his overwhelming thirst prevented him from taking such a rash course of action. Instead, he closed his eyes and forced himself to down the rest of it in a single gulp; savoring the sustenance as much as the sensation of being free of that malevolent face.
He would travel with them he decided in that moment – he had no choice in the matter, really. He would accept their kindness and even find a way to repay them for it. And in the process, he would find out what had happened to him and who needed to pay for it. He sank back down on the hard bedroll and quickly surrendered to his exhaustion. Darkness folded in around him, cradling him as he slept; but his dreams were tormented by the image of that cruel, smiling face. Deep down he knew that the wearer of that face held the secret to his current predicament, and he would stop at nothing to exact his vengeance upon him.