Catlorian I

The half elf woke next to a campfire and sat up. Twenty feet from him an expanse of what seemed to be white granite went to his left and right toward what destinations he knew not. He pushed the cloak back and got to his feet. As he stretched, he saw, in the early morning light, a post on the other side of the road that proclaimed this the “Kings Way Road”. He shrugged, because he did not recognize the name, the road, or his place upon it.

The shock went straight to his soul and he sat down hard. He remembered nothing prior to awakening! He sat looking at the perfect expanse of white and knew he didn’t even know his own name.

“Don’t sit there, stupid!” came a commanding voice from inside. “What good is it to sit here bemoaning your loss when you haven’t the first clue as to what it is you’ve lost? You could try to find answers, or you could just sit here like an ass!”

He saw then the pack and sword that lay next to him on the ground. He opened the pack and, though nothing miraculous happened to bring back his memory, some of the things tingled at his mind. The bundle of hair, for instance, seemed to mean something to him, but the other things meant nothing at all.

The five loaves of trail bread were welcome, though he had no memory of where they came from. He broke one open and took a bite. It was palatable, but not great.

He took the sword in hand, hefted it, and brought the great blade from its sheath. It was familiar, from the filigreed pommel, the down-turned hilts, and the dull metal blade, yet he couldn’t place it. The dull sheen of this blade seemed to call and beckon him to remember. He sheathed it and reached for the cloak. It had no memory for him at all. He stood and tossed it on and, while fastening the catch at his throat, found it to be a bit longer than his size, but it was functional. Then, while looking both ways up and down the white expanse of road, he absently slung the sword to his back and strapped it in place, the hilt over his left shoulder. When he realized what he’d done, he grinned.

“So, it is mine, then.” he mumbled absently.

He’d be patient. He had the feeling that he’d been in worse situations, and it made no difference whether he’d been able to extract himself from them or this was the result of failure. Today was now. He knew he must decide what to do now and where to go. Left or right?

He shouldered the pack and stepped out onto the white roadway, noting as he did that the surface seemed to give under his feet; yet when he stepped off it slowly returned to its original smoothness.

As he stood and marveled at the engineering genius that must have gone into the making of this material, he felt the pull, the gossamer strands that seemed to direct him to the left and west. He didn’t fight the pull but went with it.