Begin posting prologues at will. See the discussion thread for more info. I'm using kind of an odd style here, going between regular third person narrative, and first person narrative of my character's writings. I'm just kinda experimenting for fun. Bear with me.
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The bedframe rattled in protest against the panicked body trying to escape its clutches, a sheet tangled with great conviction around the boy's ankle. The furniture and room, wittingly or un-, joined forces to beat the child soundly, as he thoughtlessly flung an arm out to catch his balance only to instead catch the handle of a chest of drawers, and pull one out on his head as he fell. The hardwood floor banged painfully against his bony body in greeting, while the sock drawer, flimsy by birth, dusty and dry by age, just plain busted apart across his head into a bunch of wood scraps and a shower of underwear.

"Auuuuunnnnnngh."



I woke up with a start. It's a spooky feeling, like being stuck in a dream, not being able to remember anything, not my own name, my mom's face, or anything. You just wanna go run and see something, anything, that will so convince you that you're still asleep that you just wake up at the sight of it. A monster, some bad guys with guns and knives, or something. Anything. The bad part, and the one I'm still adjusting to, is the fact that I am awake.



Papers fluttered around as a garishly be-striped boy bolted around his darkened home as if he thought the floor was made of snakes. His holey pajamas flapped and his bare feet pounded him to the front door. He tussled there with the locks and latches for a few seconds before flinging it open, and lunging out into an empty apartment-building corridor.

The dim lights revealed peeling wallpaper and dusty floors. Windows were too dark to see out of in the dead of night. There was not a sound.

He froze right there for a while, staring wide-eyed, wild-eyed at nothing in particular. Every now and then his eyes would dart, but he seemed to dare not breathe, until he got the notion to slowly, quietly back into his door once more.

Slam went the door, clack-clack latch-latch went all the locks. On the other side, he slowly slid down the cool wood to the floor, and plopped there on his bottom, staring into the dark maws of the unlit room.



Okay, really, I kind of freaked out. I would say I don't normally freak out, but I don't know what I normally do. That's the freaky part. I don't know what I'm like! It doesn't even really make sense. Didn't then, doesn't now. Still, I did what I think anybody would do in my situation.

Brush my teeth.

Well, I did just wake up. Dental hygiene is important regardless of the circumstance.



The boy stared at his reflection with an owl-like intensity as he brushed his teeth in slow and deliberate strokes, taking in each and every movement as if only observing it for the first time. Even as he spat into the sink, he watched his reflection like he was afraid it would attack if he wasn't staring at it.



So, I guess I'm twelve-ish. Maybe I'm just a very unfortunate teenager who looks like a twelve-year-old? I'm not much to look at, either way. Big head, skinny body, big eyebrows, unruly hair... It seems my left eyelid suffers from the slight drooping of ptosis. Ptosis? I can't remember my own name, yet I know that cockamamie word? Come to think of it, I have an awfully big vocabulary for someone my age, don't I? Or do I? I don't really know anyone else at this point. This internal monologue looks really silly now that I've written it down.



The boy rifled through his own belongings like a thief, searching for anything that would clear things up a little. He found a ton of books, a disparate smattering of technical manuals and classical literature in the shelves and scattered on the floor, for whatever reason. They were unhelpful, because many seemed to be used, and had the names of various owners written on the flipside of their covers. At the least, he found a notebook he could write in. He began to do so almost immediately, recording his thoughts as he went, just in case he suddenly forgot things again for some bizarre reason. Also, he found a set of keys on the stand by the door. It was promising! At least he could leave and come home at will, as long as he remembered where he lived. The real jackpot was his wallet, however.



WORKING CARD
The Western Brotherhood of Fabricators-Assemblers
Division No. 078
Bell, Winnston C.

A union card! I have a union card, and it has my name on it. The thing looks like it's been bathed in acid and carried on a camel's back across the desert for a few years, and it's barely readable, but there it is.

This means I have a job...? Where the heck are my parents, anyway? Maybe they're just out. I'll wait around a while and just keep exploring the apartment to see what I can find.

Also, I'm apparently broke. My job must suck.



With all the lights in the place on and burning bright, Winnston, or "Winn" (as he had fancied himself to be called in the five minutes after learning his own name) soon discovered he was a boy of meager means. His clothes were mostly shot. They looked too big for him all around. Maybe they were his dad's clothes? There was no female clothing in the closet. That didn't bode well for the maternal component, and struck him with a pang of dread.

There were some old picture frames. Disappointingly, they appeared fire-damaged, with charred wood and glass, and paper that looked like it might disintegrate if removed from the frame. One looked like a pair of adults... Probably his parents, he figured. Another was of a baby. Himself, maybe? And, yet another was...



Is this me? The picture looks so aged, but this looks just like me now. It couldn't have been taken long ago.

It definitely looks like me. But, who is this?...



He sat for what must have been hours on his bed, staring at the photograph. It was him and a girl—a girl with her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek, while her eyes seemed to smile at the camera.



If there's a spot of ink on this paper that isn't worn, it's those eyes. Her eyes are so pretty and blue, like the ocean. She's beautiful... definitely not my sister.

Wait. I have a girlfriend? Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. I have a girlfriend!



I DON'T KNOW HER NAME.



Winn writhed around on his sheets, pen in one hand, notebook in the other, cursing the ceiling above with silent, frustrated half-sobs.

By the time he got over himself and his angst, hunkered in an angry little ball on the floor at the foot of his bed, it was nearly daybreak.



I can't wait around. I need to find someone who knows me so they can tell me all about me and why I can't remember... me. And stuff.

Alright, I was literate a couple pages ago. Maybe I should have slept last night. No time for that! I'm going to get my work clothes on, get my tools, and go find where I work. If I find where I work, I'll find people who know me and my folks and my girlfriend. It's as simple as that.

A sharp smash of glass resounded throughout the room.

The girl gasped like she had been stabbed. Her eyes snapped open, scanning back and forth in her effort to understand where she was. The world seemed upside-down above her, as if she’d gone to sleep and woken up the wrong way around. As if she’d gone to sleep. As if she’d gone to sleep. As if she’d...

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a memory moved uneasily. She had gone to sleep, hadn’t she? She must have gone to sleep. She couldn’t—remember doing it, but—

The memory lurked, deep in the pools of thoughts, like a slimy, crawly thing buried in the mud at the bottom of the pond. It stared up at her through layers of chilled water to where she floated on the surface of the water, which, at her level, was clean, clear, and utterly empty. Beneath her, in the murky clouds, lower down, deep down below, the memory moved.

The force of the memory's presence rippled through her mind, and other memories stirred. She could feel them in her head, just out of her reach. Shimmering at the bottom of the pond like a school of fish, drifting just out of reach. She felt she could get a decent handle on one if she just...

It was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t understand what it was she was trying to remember. It was... gold, or... cinnamony. A smell, an idea, a place. The closest memory to her was almost tangible, something she’d... done... before. Something... she’d—

She grabbed for the thought, and it vanished. The crawly mud-monster that was her memory saw her reaching for it, and it disappeared in a brief flash of silver, leaving behind nothing but an inky, vile cloud of black pond silt. She flailed, desperately, and the rest of her memories fled in its wake.

The girl's mind emptied, memories spilling out of her splintering thoughts like water from a smashed barrel: facts, faces, places she’d been—all disappearing. She could feel herself eroding, slipping away into empty space.

She lurched upright in her bed, and pulled at her face in senseless panic.

“No,” she said, "Help.”

“Help,” she gasped, breathlessly, “help!”

She stopped, and realized that she was completely alone. The room was empty. She clung to her head, as if she could stop what was happening, and suddenly—almost a minute too late to be of any use, it worked. The stream of her memories pouring out of her mind subsided. She felt the horrible feeling stop, with triumph, but—she soon realized, it was not because she had managed to stop it, it was because there was simply nothing left.

There was nothing left.

She stared around the bare, cold, unfamiliar room. Outside there was a horrible sound, crashing and splintering. The sound of things being destroyed.

There was a fireplace. There had been a fire, but during the night it had crumbled and subsided. Ghosts of pale ash fluttered in the residual heat. A palmful of embers glowed a dull, almost invisible orange in the light streaming through her window. The girl was in a strange bed—an elegant, spooled four-poster, covered with carvings quite unlike... anything. She didn’t know when she’d ever seen a bed, but she was... sure that this was not what a bed was supposed to look like.

It was utterly foreign to her.

She kicked the duvet and the sheets away in a panic, trying to escape the alien embrace of the eldritch four-poster, and her foot struck something heavy. She tore the sheets away from herself, diving upon the object aggressively and seizing it in both hands.

It was an iron box. It was black, bevelled, and engraved with vines and leaves, it was warm to the touch. She frantically fought with the clasp that held it shut, and finally managed to jerk it open, only to be the the direct receiver of a gigantic cloud of ash to the face.

She shrieked and recoiled from the opened foot-warmer, rubbing her eyes. Charcoal and little flakey spiders of white ash rolled across the pristine bedspread, spreading as she rolled around in a panic, until both she and the bed were covered. The girl finally rolled off the bed and landed awkwardly on the ground, trailing soot behind her. Glass crunched underneath her hands and knees. Shards of glass were scattered across the bedroom floor in all directions. Behind her, the wind whistled.

“Help!” she shouted.

“Help! Help!”

There was an ear-splitting roar outside that echoed through the broken window of the bedroom, and the girl leapt upright, turning to see where it had come from. Then she stopped. Someone else was in the room with her. For a moment her stomach lurched, sick with fright, and then…

She realized she was staring into a full-length mirror. She stood there.

The gangly, tawny, stubby-horned girl in the mirror looked back.

She moved closer, and stared. Behind her, the wind from the shattered window blew a thin, gauzy under-layer of curtains out into the room. They billowed and fluttered in ghostly shapes.

She was wearing a long, heavy robe of padded cloth — typical nightwear, she thought, for someone who could afford it — buttoned up to her neck. She recognized the make of the robe and the cloth it was made from, she knew it was—

No she didn’t, she didn’t know, but it seemed comfortingly familiar. The face above the robe, however, gave no such comfort. It was sooty and black and wide-eyed, staring at her with an expression that made her, herself feel even worse. It was not even a unique face, it was... totally indistinguishable from any other face she thought she might know. She might as well have been looking at a pillow than a face, let alone her own face. The mouth of the face in the mirror was slightly agape, revealing a row of big, chunky, slightly serrated teeth. The girl opened her mouth, and the mirror version of her responded in kind.

The girl stared at the teeth. A set of jumper teeth. Her teeth.

She knew they were jumper teeth, she could tell they weren’t milk teeth and they definitely weren’t close to adult teeth, but... she didn’t know why she knew. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force the reason to appear, to will to consciousness the memory of learning about teeth. She screwed up her eyes, crinkled up her forehead, stiffened her resolve and bore down her entire being on the empty space in her head where the idea of knowing about teeth should be in any sane, rational person.

She ended up giving herself a mild headache. She opened her eyes and caught a shaky, panicked breath, almost ready to scream for help again, but stopped, again entranced by the sight of the creature in the mirror.

She bared her fangs.

She ran a knobbled finger across them, and then stared at her fingers. She didn’t have any claws. Jumper teeth, no claws, her horns were—she felt the back of her head. They were only a few inches long. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. She looked in the mirror.

She wasn’t very old, but she was old enough. Where was... Was she alone? She realized that the entire time she had been stumbling through this waking nightmare she had been expecting someone to come and find her, but... what if there wasn’t anyone to do that?

Didn’t she have anyone after all?

There was another roar. She flew to the window, anxiously hoping to see someone she would recognize, someone who would recognize her. Glass skittered under her feet. She felt something slice through the bottom of her heel, but she didn’t care.

She looked down from a third-storey window at the scene below. Dozens of tiny, dwarfish creatures, pale, flappy, wearing weird-looking clothing and almost her size, ran and tumbled in a panic around the one thing she did recognize, the huge, hulking shoulders of an enraged sau boy below. A young-looking, wavy-horned kid who couldn’t have been much older than her, he was only twenty or twenty-five feet tall, and his horns were short and only slightly curved. He was bashing and spinning and, she realized, destroying everything down below. Her heart sang. She didn’t know what was going on but someone was on her side!

And he was destroying a whole lot of stuff.

Down below, the little pale creatures scattered and fell back. The boy had chased them all off.

“Hey!” she called out, “Hey, up here! Are you—“

She hesitated as the wavy-horned kid turned big, dark eyes up to look at her. Really, as tall as he was, he was only a few feet from the bottom of her window. He looked like he could’ve been her age, but...

She waved frantically.

“Are you my sunmate?” she called.

The boy stared up at her, quietly. There was no recognition in his deep, coffee-coloured eyes, and her heart fell.

“Don’t y—“ she begged, “please, don’t you know who I am? Who are you?”

The boy stared up at her, then held up his hands to her, palms cupped together. Her heart sang again. She jumped out the window.

It seemed forever that she had been in the dark sea of dreams. They were just shapeless forms moving past her in a blur, yet she could feel their importance. Desire to clutch to her grew in her and she tried to tear them away from the shadows. With each attempt she felt herself being pulled back away from her goal. Fresh pain erupted within her and tore her away to life.

Awaking with a screech, the siren twisted her body as the agony went on. The nest she had made for herself was torn apart by her thrashing, sending pelts and discard bones skittering across the wooden floor. Loose feathers flew as she struggled to reach the throbbing point on her body. The almost useless fingers on her feathered arms did little good as they tried to clutch at her back. It was there. She could feel something foreign in her, rubbing against the inflamed flesh with each breath she took.

Her neck craned as she tried to see the object. There! It was long and thin thing, with colorful feathers decorating the tip of it. The object was unknown to her but still filled her with foreboding upon seeing it. She wanted it gone from her body!

Contorting her body, she attempted to grab at it once again only to pull another screech from her. It was not going to be done. It could not be done! Yet, something had to be done or else the pain would still come in waves of agony.

Falling back on her rump, she sat down and tried to push the pain away from her mind. Muddy eyes scanned the room as her heartbeat picked up. Strange smells filled her nostrils as she breathed in. The room she saw held no familiarity for her. Wooden beams stretched around her, pricks of sunlight gliding in through the cracked beams. Outside she could hear noises that grated against her ears. She felt the need to be away from them; hidden in someplace dark.

It was upsetting for her, even more so than the pain. Pulling herself into a tight ball, she huddled down in the remains of the nest. The smell that penetrated the furs under her comforted her. Robust and warm. Pulling a dry rodent's bone into her mouth she suckled on it much like a small child might. The smell and action comforted her baser feelings and calmed her. The feeling of warmth spread over her like a blanket as she continued to lay there, but the sensory overload she felt only moments ago started to fade away. There was an aching pit in her stomach and she cracked the bone between her teeth.

The marrow had long ago dried up and the dust rested on her tongue. Spitting out the bitter substance, she choose instead to nibble gently on her inner cheek as she plotted her next action. A smell came to her mind of fresh meat; a stronger version of the smell of decay that surrounded her now. The siren craved it, but the instinct of danger kept her in the pelts.

In the distance, she heard the sudden sound of splintering wood. Fear sparked up in her as the noise of wreckage grew closer. Creeping back, she pressed herself against a wall as if to hide from whatever was approaching. It did little good however, as a portion of the room caved in at just that moment.

Anderliene rushed through her body as what looked to be a large hand tore through the wood as if it was paper. Letting out a loud screech, she fled away from it. Arms spread, she attempted to lift off from the edge of the building. It was done thoughtlessly and the cumbersome movement of her arms brought her down quickly. Crashing into the rooftop of another building, she lay there, shaking. Even fresher pain joined the ache in her back as she moaned quietly. She knew she had to move, to escape whatever thing had nearly killed her, but her body ached.

Her stomach choose that time to growl loudly.

(( http://i.imgur.com/IjFc2.png ))

It was warm...

That seems an impertinent detail in hindsight, but at the time, it felt important, the warmth.

And then, jarringly, cold.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I supposed it was what being birthed felt like: Warm and dark, then frigid, searing brightness.

But unlike being born, I was completely alone. I knew this, despite not yet having opened my eyes. I shuddered in the chilled draft, willing myself to get up, without feeling the conviction to. In a begrudging compromise, I opened my eyes, and frowned.

While oddly uncertain of precisely what I ought to have awoken to, I had a rather persistent inkling that it oughtn't have been sky. At last, my curiosity was sufficiently harassed to provoke my body into an upright position, and I felt my brows knit together in consternation. I was indecent.

I sat in a small clearing amid a vast field of tall, gently swaying amber-hued grass. No single direction looked different from another save my immediate vicinity: A perfect ring of still faintly burning embers encircled me, while strange, but distantly familiar symbols and markings scorched the earth in random intervals about its perimeter. There were a number of odd objects -- things like snake skin husks, smooth stones with more queer writing on them, and a single skein of raven colored hair -- placed in aberrant, but apparently deliberate points within and around the circle.

I observed the undulating lengths of platinum spilling over my shoulders and down my back; the bundle of black was not mine. Some distant echo of common sense told me that I should have found my state a bit more disquieting, but it was merely inconvenient that I couldn't recall what had brought me to it, try though I might.

At that point, apparently weary of waiting for me to notice him, a large bird, black, weathered, grizzled, and looking far too fat to fly, crowed from his perch atop the handles of a large leather satchel that shared the bird's description. We met eyes for a moment, before he cawed again, beating his wings imperiously. Pursing my lips, I crawled toward the satchel.

"Excuse me," I croaked, my voice dry with atrophy. The fowl obliged my hands as they drew the bag near, and parted the clasp for me to peer inside. There was nothing to be seen, save for a most opaque blackness, despite the sun's position directly overhead. Still, I was unphased by this. Into the inky darkness my arm plunged, all the way to the shoulder, before emerging with a swath of emerald green in its grasp, and in one smooth motion, I pulled the robe on. Or tried. Only then was I bothered... The sleeves barely extended to my elbows, while the hem hung just above my knees, and the clasps strained against my girth.

"Why doesn't it fit?" I asked of the crow. In reply, he scratched at the ground, and tormented an insect.

Undeterred, I returned to my excavation. My hand closed around a collection of small glass vials, which I examined bemusedly. They contained a variety of viscosities and colors. Neat, hand-written labels, identified them as a vanishing potion, a halitosis elixir, and a draft of engorgement (the disclaimer upon which indicated impotence on organic objects). I found several more bottles of varying sizes, some full and labeled with small, dangling price tags on them, others empty, along with a heavy wooden sign, which bore the words, "Rhiannon's Magical Remedies," and shouldn't have fit in the satchel; I put it back, and continued rummaging.

At last, I drew a delicate parasol of pale blue with fine white lace edging from the depthless bag, raising it over my head as I shrugged out of my ill-fitting tent, and unfurled the tines, which shook loose a haze of luminous dust. As each speck alighted on me, it rolled downward like raindrops, leaving cotton, wool, satin and leather in its wake from head to toe. With a brisk, single nod, I closed the parasol and hung it off the crook of my arm, replaced the robe, shut the satchel, and took its handle in my gloved hand.

"Alright, Mr. Bird," I called. "Shall we go?"

The crow regarded me irritably, unmoving. Setting my knuckles against my waist, I mock-glowered at him in return.

"Well, what are you called, then?"

The chicken-sized bird lifted one of its hefty talons, and fashioned in the dirt a crude diagram of two (asymmetrical) intersecting lines.

"I'll follow your lead, then, Cross," I replied, with a half curtsey. Cross -- whether or not that was his name -- inclined his head to one side.

"Why, to town, of course; we've got to sell some potions, earn some money, and get some food," I told Cross matter-of-factly. "Why, I can't remember the last time I ate."

And true though it was, that was the least disconcerting of what escaped my memory.

There is nothing more concerting for one who has undergone training to be aware of every bit of their surroundings than to wake up and have no idea where they are. Not only that, but no notion of who they are, why they are there, or where that feeling of dread and constant alert comes from. Some kind of honed instinct letting him know everything is wrong, even if he doesn't remember where in his life he picked up such a skill.

The man stepped out of his tent and into the sunlight filtered through the tops of the trees. This wasn't a clearing, and his tent was itself camouflaged to be indistinct from the surrounding brush. This was the kind of camp made by someone who didn't want to risk being discovered. With his memory a blank slate, he quickly took stock of the rest of his surroundings. No campfire - again, presumably for stealth's sake - no other tents or signs of anyone staying with him. So far, all very obvious.

He lifted up a small but heavy rolled cloth blanket that sat beside the tent, testing its weight a little before unrolling it across the ground. Inside were...well, a lot of weapons. More sharp objects than any reasonable person should need strapped to the sides of it, like some kind of library of pointy things. Clearly, this meant he was not a reasonable person.

One of them stood out in particular- a short, sheathed sword with a black and purple grip, some kind of stylized snaked design adorning it. He removed it from the roll and slipped it into his belt. This seemed like it was too important to leave behind at the camp. After all, why else would it look so much more interesting than the others?

The black cloth covering every bit of his body and the arm and hand guards with scratches - presumably from equally unreasonable people and their own sharp objects - definitely added up with the rest of the clues to give the man the impression he was some kind of warrior. Not the type who slays dragons or saves the princess or any of that fairy tale garbage, but the kind who removed targets from existence, hidden in the shadows and without mercy.

It felt like there was a word for that. A word he knew well....stealth assassin guy? No, that wasn't it.

There was one more spot to check. A small scroll, tucked into the opposite end of the belt than where he was currently storing the blade. The man carefully opened it, holding it low and in front of him as if he was afraid someone could actually see it.

To: The Phantom of Kabugari

The terms of your contract have been met. Your reward will be waiting upon the confirmation of Duke Burbon's death. You may collect it from our colleague, the Man with White Eyes, in the town to the north.

I must thank you again for your assistance in this matter.

- G.R.

Well, that wasn't very helpful. Either he was this "Phantom" character or some other blade for hire with a dark persona dropped this in these same woods before wandering off with a bad case of amnesia.

Phantom? Sounded appropriate, at least. The other names didn't ring a bell, and he found himself a bit miffed that this G.R. character had to be obtuse as possible. Still, it gave him a starting point. He hadn't noticed anything worthy of the title reward at the camp site, so either the Duke had to die or he hadn't collected the prize yet.

Either way, north seemed as good of a place as any to start.

OOC: It's me. And Greens. DEAL WITH IT.

To say everything was a haze would've, in addition to being pretty cliché, been kind of an understatement. It was past a haze, and into big thick full-on marshmallowy clouds of nothing but fluff. It felt like floating through the air with absolutely nothing else around.

The first yell mostly bounced off of the impenetrable fog that it was so hard to make anything out in, but it at least bred a sense of dim awareness, that this existence wasn't just floating peacefully, deliriously, forever and ever. The second yell was a lot closer and a lot louder, thus serving to effectively puncture the dreamlike state. It was only then that a pair of eyes slowly blinked open and looked around, seeing rock It was passing by so quickly. Rising up into the air faster than the eyes could even follow. That was when the realization hit - this wasn't floating and it wasn't flight.

Well, they did say the only difference between flying and falling was a shift in perspective.

The eyes looked downward, and immediately a third yell was heard, much higher and closer than the first two and she realized it was her own voice. Instinct kicked in before anything resembling rational thought. She swung her arms out, trying to grab a hold on the rocks as she fell, her hands only painfully rebounding as she fell too fast to grab on. Her hand grabbed a branch, but it stopped her for less then a second before it snapped away, and she was falling again. The thought of her inevitable demise still refused to enter her mind as she looked to her side and saw something that gave her a sliver of hope - a pick. She grabbed it, jamming it into the rock as hard as she could. It immediately gained purchase, digging into the rock and slowing her descent. Short-lived relief quickly ceded into terror as the tool jerked out of her hand and she fell again. This fall was much shorter though, and the reason became immediately obvious. A rope from the handle of the pick down to a harness she was wearing kept her attached to the wall. Somehow, she doubted it would support her weight for long, though, so she immediately began looking for something else and the harness and practically screamed with delight when she found a second pick, which she immediately dug into the rock (it sinking in on the first try again).

It was only then that she stopped, blood pounding in her ears, and remembered what had awoken her from her hazy state in the first place. She listened for the other yells. She could still hear them, and that cause a look of horror to spread over her face. Then, very suddenly, she didn't hear them. It actually took her a minute or two to figure that out and let out a small whimper when the realization hit.

She stayed there like that, for a while, her hands clenched to the tools that had saved her from a similar fate so tightly, her knuckles turned white. She sucked in a breath or two, as her bearings came to her. Survival instinct slowly but surely bled back into rational thinking, which in this case, unfortunately only meant dozens of questions for which she had no answer - Where am I? Why did I wake up falling down this mountain? Why is this mountain here? Why was I at the top? Who were those other two screams I heard? Who- The last question almost made her lose her grip: Who am I? She repeated it out loud once. No answer. She stayed completely still, wracking her brain, trying to pull out something, any useless tidbit on who she was, where she was, why she was there, like she was reaching into a murky pool of water and coming up with her hands bone dry each time. Eventually, her hands, her real hands, not her metaphorical hands, started to hurt, and her grip really did start to slacken. All of a sudden, memories of falling (the only memories she had, and in that inexplicable way, somewhat comforting) came rushing back and her crisis of identity was once again kicked aside like so much worthless cruft.

She couldn't just hang here on the side of a mountain forever, for a whole host of reasons she didn't bother entertaining. She supposed her only choice was to climb down, but her hands were really aching, and the bottom (oh for the love of everything that is good and holy, why did I look down) was a long way away. She looked around, making it a point not to look down. Eventually, her eyes fell on a small bluff, jutting out of the side of the mountain. It looked big enough to support her weight, and it actually looked like it might lead somewhere. The decision was instantaneous. She took in a deep breath and ripped one of the picks out, quickly jamming it back into the rocks slightly to the side of where it had just been. She repeated this process quite a bit, taking baby steps along the side of the rock until she was perched right over the bluff, at which point, she slowly and gingerly lowered herself on to it.

It supported her weight. She let out a long breath of relief and pulled out both of her picks. They fell out of her hands immediately, swinging at her sides along with her arms. She dropped to her knees and looked over at the series of holes she had punched in the rock crawling her way over there. Each time she'd driven the pick in flawlessly. As she crawled on her hands and knees along the bluff, it ocurred to her, that whoever she was, she had pretty strong arms. As the adrenaline rush slowly wore down and a gust of air crossed her face, she realized something else - it was cold. She was wearing what appeared to be a very thick jacket, and she could still tell it was cold. She quickly realized that that made sense, given how high up she was. It was still an unpleasant realization. For the first time, the thought of her possible demise entered her head: was she going to save herself from falling to her death, only to turn around and die of exposure to the elements or starvation or something? The thought was an entirely unwelcome one and was pushed out as quickly as it had entered.

Eventually, she looked up from the rocky floor beneath her and saw a cave lying in front of her. She let out a breath, and quickly crawled towards it, eventually pushing herself to her feet and walking the rest of the way. To say she had no idea what was inside would've been laughably inadequate but even she knew that it was preferable to hanging around outside.

For the record, no, wild animals had not occurred to her yet.

---

Somewhere, a few football field's worth of distance and one or two twists and turns deeper into that very same cave, someone else was just awaking from felt like a long slumber on the floor of this cavern. His nose twitched, and eyes of a deep ocean blue hue flickered and fluttered to life, only to quickly shut themselves once more. He let out an annoyed growl.

"Mmmrrmm."

Just five more minutes, he thought, clearing his throat of the morning gunk and residue of sleep. But he could not-- something was in his nose. It twitched again, and he wrinkled it with a loud snort. It felt heavy, somehow. Slow. As if it had been held out in the cold for too long, and maybe it had.

He didn't know what he did last night, and frankly, he was too tired to care. He reached back and scratched his rear. His behind was covered in some sort of thick leather, and probably for the better-- his nails were long and pointy. He could've poked himself if he wasn't careful!

"Uhhhrrrrrrhhh."

This stupid twitch was getting aggravating. So, left with no alternatives, he flared his heavy nostrils open, and breathed in deeply.

"Hhhhhauh..."

Who invented noses, anyway?

"...aah--"

Wait... who... who was anyone?

"Ah-- AACHHPPHHHOOOOOSH"

In a brilliant, eye-searing flash, his corner of the cave lit up like a wildfire, and for good reason-- because it was covered in fire.

"OoaAAAAAHH!"

He screamed in terror, the swirling inferno pouring out in a gushing stream. Matters weren't helped when he bolted upright and slammed his noggin on the roof. His 'room' was on fire, chunks of rock were tumbling from the ceiling, and now, a tornado of questions, burning like the flames he was enveloped in, whirled about in his (now surely bruised) head. Most of them involving where he was, and when that got boring, who.

"Gaa-aah," he spat, clutching his head with a spare hand, while the other frantically searched for another piece of wall to lean on. Through one eye, squinting with the pain and the light of the flames now fading away, he saw the hand he was using, and saw it was covered in scales of a rusty, greenish orange. This revelation of course, only seemed to bewilder him further, and he tripped backwards over his tail.

Yes, he seemed to have a tail, too.

A few moments passed, and the man... lizard, whatever he was, could be found sitting flat on his bum, feeling around his own body for lack of a mirror. A thick, swaying tail. Claws at the tips of his fingers. Wings. His teeth were huge, and pointed... and there were so many of them. At first, he scavenged about his face in a panic, fearing himself to be some kind of flesh-eating monster, banished to a cave for his vile acts against the world. But it was too dark to see himself properly, so he instinctively breathed out a few spurts of fire to help him see. And that's when he realized with the greatest jubilation.

"Holy CRAP!" he roared, speaking properly in his ragged growl of a throatbox for the first time.

"...I'm a DRAGON!?"

"...Ha, ha! HAHA! Whaaaaaat...!?"

Rather contrast to his expression just moments before, the corners of his mouth curved exponentially upwards. This was literally the coolest thing he'd ever discovered.

"Hol-- I'mma frickin' dragon!"

He blinked a few times, and swiped his hands through the air with exaggerated clawing motion.

"This is awesome! Haha!"

Suddenly, all those burning questions seemed much farther away then they did a bit ago. All he knew right now was that he needed to show off his newfound scales to the nearest person available. And thus, as he swooped boldly down the canal like it was second nature, it was inevitable that the poor girl at the cave's entrance was about to have quite the shock.

The boy jerked awake with a jolt, his knee smacking into solid metal. The pain caused him to groan in response, but a bruised knee was about to be least of his problems.

Jerking his eyes open, the boy found his vision obscured by a set of disheveled goggles. His hands scrambling, he readjusted the eyewear from its off angle, letting them rest quite comfortably across his eyes. He blinked as he noted what was before him.

A mass sea of blue greeted the boy's clearing senses. The air was frigid as he sucked in a gasp, oddly calmed by the vast void. However, the view lasted for a mere second before the world tilted to its side and traded the shade of blue with ones of green and brown. The ground greeted him far below with a brief glance before everything began to spin, starting with a slow rotation before becoming a furious kaleidoscope of earthy colors.

The ground, that far away.

...I'm... I'm in the air!

He rapidly glanced around, finding only the metal skeleton of some sort of vehicle, wings protruding from its sides, covered in taut fabric. Of course, all of this was hard enough to discern through the constant spinning, finding that the craft was helpless in the air. A propeller stayed silent near the nose of the vehicle, not twitching in the slightest.

Whether the boy should have been perturbed by this situation, he only found himself frowning in disappointment and slight irritation.

This is beginning to seem like that time—

His inner monologue paused, shoveling through his mind for the proper memory... yet only finding a black hole where it should be.

...alright, no memory! Not one iota! That must explain why I have no blasted clue where I am.

He glanced casually upward, the wind ripping against his face as man and machine fell.

Think, think, think... what would I do in this situation?

Once again, a mental pause.

...ah, right, who am I? That is the question — Focus, you doomed soul!

Puffing out his cheeks in inner frustration, he looked down, away from the churning earth. He found his body situated in a cockpit of sorts, surrounded by a cylinder of metal, leather straps biting into his jacket as they held him in place in his lofty position in the sky. Before him, a rod of metal protruded from the cockpit's floor, bending to form two handles. The burning instinct rose again, letting him conclude it was the steering mechanism of the craft.

Not as if it were obvious enough.

His hands darted out, prepared to tug back on the yoke with all his might, but then paused. The guiding hand in his head scorned him for his hasty actions, once again the proper ideas forming in his mind. With a calmness no earthbound man would have in such a situation, the boy eased the yoke in the correct direction after judging which way the aircraft was spinning. Knowing some sort of mechanics on the wings were doing their intended work, he watched as the vehicle eased out of the spin, giving him a much calmer view of the earth below.

Slightly awed by how his hands seemed to move out of habit, he calmly pulled back on the yoke now, fighting the forces of gravity and wind. The wings caught, the horizon righted itself in the distance, and now sky and earth were in their proper positions; above and below respectively.

His body, already relaxed through the whole outing and churning with confidence, eased farther back into the cockpit's seat. With a satisfied sigh, the boy smiled, lifting a hand and letting his fingers run through longer locks than he expected.

Well, he thought, amused. That was quite exhilarating.

Smirking, he began a gradual, looping glide back to the earth below, particularly enjoying the feel of the air whipping through his hair.




Flight Log - Date:

He let the pen linger above the page before abruptly deciding to start a new line, lacking the proper idea of the day, week, or month.

Weather conditions were favorable. Light gust out of the northeast. Only issue was loss of generator for propellers why in the blazes am I writing any of this down I don't even have a clue

why I'm bothering, thought the boy, slumping against the tree he sat against, sighing deeply.

Every time he began to have some notion of what used to be, it would linger out of his reach and tease what once resided in his mind before vanishing once again. Of course, the words in the journal that now rested in his lap, including the ones he'd just written, were clear with their meaning, the boy understanding the snippets of sentences describing all that concerned the sky and the vehicle he'd ridden. Otherwise, the constant listing of locations, names, and a jumble of others things escaped him.

Nearby rested his aircraft, lying amongst a field of wheat, a trail scraped behind it from his landing. The boy sat at the edge of a grove of trees, a leather satchel by his side. Numerous objects were scattered around him in the short grass, remnants of his attempts of finding some personal memento that could trigger a return of his lost memory. The closest thing he'd found was the flight log, but that proved to be barely any help all.

Glancing down, he noted the leather jacket he wore. Realizing he'd not checked the numerous amount of pockets adorning it, he let his fingers rummage through them. Moments later, out emerged a small card from a breast pocket.

His eyes hastily skimmed over its information, appearing to be some sort of identification. Only a few particular facts stuck out for him as he hurriedly ate it up.

Adrian G. Austrus.

Now that's quite the name! Fits like a glove, I do say.

Lovendale Air Academy, Third Year Student...

Aeronaut...

Marksman...

Marksman?

The boy who held the name Adrian glanced over to a worn pistol lying beside him. A smug grin crept across his lips. He'd already buried a few rounds in a tree stump perhaps fifty feet away after discovering the weapon within the satchel, having easily gone through the motions of loading, aiming, and firing as if it were second nature. The card now seemed to backup the skill.

Alongside the pistol lay a thin sword, Adrian having not attempted any maneuvers with it quite yet, adding another item to his surprising weaponry. What were they for? Enforcing the law, thievery, or just for protection? He fancied that it may be the first.

Glancing over the card one last time, he slipped it back into where he found it and, coming to a conclusion, clapped his hands together.

Well, won't learn a thing lollygagging about here. Time to set forth and... and make something of the day! He glanced to the featherless bird that was his aircraft resting in the field. And perhaps learn what is wrong with my machine. Maybe a mechanic of sorts would a person to find.

Adrian had already peered over every inch of the vehicle upon landing, hoping to find some flaw amongst the machinery. All he'd found was the aircraft perfectly intact along with a strange wheel like device held in a compartment near the front, but no discernible engine of sorts. He, of course, blamed his absent memory of not knowing the proper place to look.

Just afterward, before resting against the tree, he'd wandered through the field and found a pond lingering near the border of the grove. In its still water, he found his reflection staring back. Brown hair blasted back on his scalp from the wind (he already preferred the windswept look). Dark blue eyes that showed a hint of a spark in them. Shadows of handsome features due to his still growing youth. Otherwise, an image he was fond of having.

Slipping back on his leather gloves, Adrian gathered his things back into his bag, strapped the sword and the pistol's holster around his waist with the according belts, and, with a new found energy in his step, set off to find some form of society.

Vision focused slowly. The first sight in tangible recollection -- actually the first anything -- the green veil of a canopy of trees, the light trying it's damnedest to come through. Eyes darted left and right. Well, more accurately, they lazily scanned. The lone man was amidst an army of trees, but little else was readily apparent.

Hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to recall anything before now. Not so much as a name. Occupation.. He started to stand, a gloved hand patting his head, where some headgear lay. Goggles, it would seem. He tore them off. Broken. He tossed them aside and stood up. He was adorned in a brown wool jacket, decorated on the shoulders and toward the cuff of one arm. Looked military, not to mention old. He unbuttoned it some, but only slightly as a bandolier decorated with small pouches hindered him from pulling it completely open.

Around his neck was an ID tag. Two circular tags, one red and one green.

Daniel Easton was carved around the outside of one of the tags. A bunch of other random numbers of little immediate significance were carved in them as well. One of them was a 4 digit number. Obviously a year. Most likely his birthdate, but without knowing what year it was now rendered it a moot point.

He stuffed it back down into his shirt, and began toying with the shoulder-slung pouches. Most of them didn't really have anything in them..but one of them housed a whistle..?

He pulled it out and examined it. It was nice looking. Ornate, with an eagle head on it. He blew into it...nothing. Must just be good luck charm. Putting it back, he started to remove the bandolier.

The next thing that stood in the way of him removing his jacket was his belt.. It had a few pouches of it's own, and a hip holster. He flipped it open and unholstered the weapon inside. It was Before he could examine much else on his person, there was a loud noise, and rustling in the tree-line above. Then a big creature burst in through it.

He jumped back as a half-bird, half lion creature landed directly in front of him..cocked it's head to the side. His eyes were wide, and he dropped the bandolier, staring right back at the griffon creature. It took a good few moments before he realized that it was collared. The name "Alexander" engraved on the collar. And it had a saddle, complete with a rifle holster. He took a deep breath, reaching down to gather the bandolier back up; slinging it over his shoulder, and slowly raised a hand as he bravely approached the creature. The griffon lowered it's head, as if expecting affection.. He petted it's feathered head as he made his way to it's side. The holster had a rifle already in it.

"Perfect." He said to himself, "Well then, Alexander... You seem friendly. Too bad I can't question you about who the hell I am."

He lifted a foot up(adorned with a black leather jackboot with a tan-colored button-up sleeve over it, and spurs attached to his heels) to catch the saddle footing and pushed himself up on the saddle, patting the back of the griffon's head. It responded with a cheerful squawk.

"I'm Daniel, apparently.. Nice to meet you."

She'd slept an oddly dreamless sleep, waking slowly finding her legs hugged against her chest, still sitting up with her brightly colored wings pressed against a clear glass wall behind her. The fay looked around, she sat in a round glass chamber with strange grooves running along the bottom of the wall where it was narrower. Where the grooves ended the glass bubbled out into a great round cylinder.

This was alarming, being in a small space, with no doors, and no memories. She furrowed her brow, her lips pressing into a thin line as she tried to remember something, anything. A name, would be nice. But nothing came to the small creature. With a sigh she uncurled from her sleeping pose and stood to her full height. It was then she looked closer at her prison. Apparently she was inside of a large jar.

It was then the heavy echoing footsteps of a human running around caught her attention. She assumed the older man with the bald head and curling beard might have been the one to capture her by the way he stomped over once he realized she was awake.

“Undo this evil magic RIGHT this instant, fairy!” He demanded of her, pointing down at the small form in the jar. “Put my mind right or so help me I'll squish you here and now!”

The little fay wasn't impressed by the old human's threats or his attempt to trap her. One moment he yelled at a jarred fairy the next she was gone with a gentle jingle of bells and a puff of shimmering glitter. She appeared in almost the same moment outside of the jar, floating inches from the mans face her entire body glowing a soft blue.

“Heh! Why put you right when I ought to make it worse?!” She threatened raising her arms and waving her spidery fingers at the man. “WooooooOOOoooo!”

She flew after the old man, her glowing pulsed from blue to violet then pink. What was worse then loosing ones self? Well the little fay didn't know but it certainly put the fear of magic into the old man. The pixie almost laughed herself out of the air at just how quickly the man fumbled away and out of the room, shutting and locking her into what she assumed to be his bedroom.

Once finished her guffaw at the old mans expense she fluttered back towards the windowsill her jar had been siting upon. With a wave of her hand the window lock jumped open and the the shutters swung out, offering the fay freedom. The outdoors helped recover none of her memories, but she wouldn't let that get her down. Without any memories she couldn't remember if she had anything better to do, so why not have fun?

Collab between hahaittickles and myself. Sorry about the length. Art later.

Though it was noon, the harsh light was almost completely blocked by the thick foliage. This made it easier for the two sleepers that lounged underneath the low branches. For any passerby giving a simple glance it would seem a human resting on a stubby log. Chest barely rising with each breath, the person’s fingers started to gently waver as if running against strings.

The body suddenly stiffened and gave a loud snort. It was enough to awaken them as sealed lids opened. For a moment, she was still and simply stared above at the canopy. Mouth feeling dry, she ran a tongue across her lips to alleviate the cracked skin and pushed herself up. Mind fuzzy, she rolled off the lump under her to the soggy leaves underneath.

Sitting up, the woman rubbed at her itching eyes. Something flaked off of the skin and when the hands moved away she could see smudged dark brown covering them. The rich color seemed to make her mind finally snap into place.

‘What in all hell?’ , came across her mind as it worked to process everything. Panic rose in her as blanks drew up. Name, identity, even where the shoes on feet came from. Nothing sparked a memory.

“Sweet Dagdha “, she whispered as the words rolled off her tongue without hesitation. The name of the deity who guided her. That much she remembered. Leaning back, she felt the bare skin of her shoulders rub again coarse fur.

Almost falling over herself to move away, she managed to turn herself around. It seemed the lump she had been resting on had fur. And what looked like a very large mouth open just enough to see a glimmer of teeth.

Not wanting to risk speaking anymore, she started to scoot away in the slick pile of leaves. If she could be quiet, then there would be no risk. No need to have her bones used for picking out her liver from those teeth.

The mass of light gray fur groaned as she moved over his body. At first, that was his only reaction, then as she moved again it became all the more obvious that was the wrong choice in action. A hand grasped around the girl’s throat, his grip tight. Primal instinct never changed if memories were retained. This woman was just so lucky; in fact, ‘Luck’ should have been her middle name. Unfortunately, she was making mistake after mistake.

The beast’s vicious claws dug into her flesh as his eyelids jolted open. A growl erupted from his chest, snarls falling from his lips. It appeared as if he didn’t enjoy her tone of voice, or the fact that she had one to begin with. The monstrosity sat up, bringing her close to his face as he threatened her in the language he was most fluent in.

Few spoke growls and roars.

A twitch of the side of his mouth told her that a smirk slowly adorned his face. It seemed off, a neutral response that held no real meaning until he spoke one of the few words he knew. “Food.” It was apparent he decided that she would be his next meal.

Whatever was being spoken to her didn’t register in her mind. Currently, she was more involved with the air leaving her lungs and the blood rising to her skin. Feet kicked at the heavy chest of the male while hands failed helplessly. On instinct her hand shot to her hip. A soft bag hung there and without thinking she shoved her hand in. Eyes rolling back, she felt her brain start to sink and falter.

Fingers closed over something cold and smooth. Body jerking, she almost dropped the object as it was freed from the bag. Though she couldn’t see what was held, her grip held it delicately as fingers ran over the tightly wound strings.

A shaky tune came from the harp; soft and light. The woman knew little of what she was playing and let her fingers run free. Darkness was creeping in on her sight and she hoped the small spell would at least loosen the grip.

His body relaxed a bit, eyes drooping for a moment, before he finally loosened his grip on whom he entitled his intruder. The beast of a humanoid felt his body start to become limp before he regained his sense of mind. His anger wasn’t nearly as obese as it had been a moment before, his hand never dropping from her throat. It seemed as if he didn’t know what to make of her plucky notes. His face riddled with confusion as he tried to understand why his body refused to do as it had a moment ago.

The loosened grip was enough for her to free herself. Ducking from the hand, she scurried back from the beast. Hand still on her harp, which was properly held now, she started to attempt some form of communication.

“Listen you great shaggy stump, try and make me ‘food’ again and I will gladly melt your brain for you,” she spat out. Her tone was far more aggressive than her defensive stance; a bird trying to puff up its feathers.

Plucking another note as a warning, she took a light step towards him. Fear stuck through her but there had to be something that he knew. After all, she woke up atop of him. Perhaps they were-no. She dearly hoped she had better taste.

“Stay calm,” she commanded, if only to herself. Craning her neck back, she met his confused gaze.

“Any idea who I am?”

He stared at her for a moment before curling his thick lips in another snarl, this one much less volatile than the last. As the seconds passed, it became all the more apparent that he didn’t understand her words.

Giving a long sigh, she let her shoulders fall. So he didn’t speak Common. Lovely. Brilliant. Mulling it over for a moment, she tried again.

“Who are you?”, she asked with added stress on each word.

He knew that phrase. He didn’t know what each of those words meant, but he knew the meaning of them being put together. The answer? He didn’t know. Instead of giving a shake of the head, or a shrug, or even giving that embarrassed look off to the side, he gave her a long string of growls and chuffs. The stream flowed as a proper sentence would, the sounds didn’t reach a pause between the switch of noises. It sounded similar to a dying elderly man trying to pronounce the curse words of the fae.

For a moment she just stared bewildered at him. Finally, with a carefree shrug she said, “I’ll call you Felic. So, since neither of us seem to have answers I suggest staying together. Share food, help each other, try to find out what is happening.”

It didn’t matter to her if he could understand or not. The words she spoke soothed herself. There was no sense in fighting against him. Not when she could use the male to her advantage. Finding the problem somewhat resolved she started to examine surroundings. Starting with the harp that had saved her moments before.

It was a dark wood with inlaid sliver. The designs of it curled over each other and craved into the wood was the name, ‘Eri’. So that solved that problem. Eri. Sounded terrible. Slipping the instrument back into the bag on her hip, she spied a burlap sack near the sleeping area. Next to it was a large axe easily the size of her.

The redhead supposed that was Felic’s. The dried brown on it made her gut clench. Paying no mind to it, she scooped up the sack and peered inside to find a jumbled mess of dried food and necessities. Scourging around though, she produced an avian-like mask. The dull earth colors matched her clothing and the nose was shaped into a short ‘beak’. That could explain the eye makeup then. Pausing for a moment, she tied the mask around her head. The weight brought a smile to her face as she adjusted it around her eyes. Her body could remember the feeling of such things, but her mind could not it seemed. Swinging the sack over her shoulders, she faced the beast. An ‘Ursa’ her mind chimed now that she could see him without much fear.

“Well! What say you Felic? Care to see what we can find?”