"Ha?. . ."
A gasp had escaped the lips of a man, standing in completely impenetrable darkness.
The mind felt surprisingly blank — not a single thought had harnessed it, nor could remembrance of the past ease it.
To begin, it was none; the presence of all-devouring nothingness, so could the confusion truly be seized and controlled?
And yet, it was not a 'soar', nor was it a 'descend': he was completely aground, balance shaken only by an unwelcoming grasp of the hollow ratio.
A single palm had reached out to his forehead — it lightly petted the place where sweat had gathered.
"...Wh-Where am I?"
The darkness was still present.
And with the sorrowful realisation of its being, his hand clutched around an unfamiliar object in his palm.
Object.
As his eyes have given him up and allowed only contours of surrounding objects, his hands and feet still could feel the counteracting momentum.
So had his nose, uncomfortably contracting as per the loathsome smell of feces.
The few only senses that he could currently rely on.
And well, the smell.
"This is… foul."
He has caught the soft of his nose between two available fingers, which have previously caressed his forehead, and had once stepped backwards.
Repeat. Another step.
Both were quieted by the ever-consuming mud, pressing downwards as if it were no ground, but plate.
Mud? The particles have clung to his footwear, of which he had—
Footwear?!
Indeed, the man had barely any knowledge of what he wore.
Too, he doubted his own biology, aside from the dictionary definition of "human", which has only now appeared in his rather clouded mind.
So what was he? A human? A vampire? A zombie? Or of any stranger race?
Humans cling to safety, so would he be one, standing in complete unviewed darkness?
Quickly testing, the man clung his fingers onto his teeth:
The hard calcium and remnants of an unknown dinner have pressed onto them, and bitter particles have landed onto his tongue.
If we are to judge a vampire by his teeth, then he is not one.
Or is he?
He still could think, albeit his memories were not intact aside from the knowledge, whereabouts of which are unknown, so certainly not a zombie.
"Hah."
Then, must be human or any other humanoid being, as per at least the presence of four limbs.
Pride filled his chest.. which, due to its sheer uselessness in the current situation, he has quickly brushed off.
All the current information must be accessed, and pride would barely assist him.
Removing his fingers from atop his lips, the hot topic has become the held object. As he quickly swung in front of himself, it easily brought a swoosh noise.
Drips with droplets too, scattered in a quick melody.
The heaviness is not too much; more so, it felt at least aerodynamically correct.
"...Must it then be a prolonged cup, if it just.. spilled a sort of liquid?" An idea of him in fact being a vampire has again appeared in his mind.
Why else would a man stand in such darkness, with nothing but a cup?
A finger was brought to it, to the part unheld—
And it felt mysteriously cold, metallic.
It mingled with his own warmth and thinned, thinned until it became far too sharp.
The limb has met a liquid and slipped.
His skin was torn horizontally: warm, crimson blood spat at the steel, combining with the foreign —indeed, the former liquid at the steel was blood.
The pain was palpable: the man gritted his teeth and twitched uncomfortably, as the sharp feeling did not merely disappear.
What else could be present, though? If we are to speak of the foreign liquid, would it be mud?
No, the mud would not hold; besides, the intuitive grasp was far too tense for it to fall to the ground and be dirtied, to begin with.
Water? Would it hold? It is not as sticky and thick as, for example, blood.
So, presumably, it is blood — proven by further smell tests.
So, undeniably, it is a weapon.
Foreign blood? The mind returns to the previous foul odor, and it begins to run with assumptions of various levels of insanity, allowed to the still blank mind.
But for now, the man has inspected the weapon — and carefully found runes, origins of which, obviously, he did not remember.
One.
Two.
Three
Four.
At the steelish blade alone, as much has been traced; the finger dipped at their presence, by which he could properly realize their structure.
"..So not a cup. It makes far more sense." Yet another silent thought.
No fear was instilled in him upon it being a weapon.
No fear was instilled in him upon the idea of foreign blood.
Why, is there truly a reason why must he, the survivor, be worried?
"...So I do have a weapon. Unsure what."
That evoked a sense of safety in him, the paternity brought by a weapon so bland.
Perhaps, as long as his memories were naught, the blade was the only thing that truly cared, that could truly defend him.
But it is just a tool. A foolish notion.
The goal, for now, has not reduced itself in significance.
"I must.. uncover a bit more. Otherwise, it'll be dangerous."
So, the question of his being.
So, the question of where he is present.
So, the question of. .
Of what else, exactly?
Blink. Two. The realisation has crossed his mind, or more a question that has not truly been asked.
It was raised appearance-wise, biology-wise, but then?
..
"..Who am I, truly?" Finally, the man pondered out loud.
The lightly sharp voice was the only one to break the darkness. Perhaps afar, some distant ones have reached the ear, but those were not quite enough to be considered as a filling for the void.
Tentatively stepping forwards—
Flaxen lights have taken their hold, around a distant corner. The edges of wooden, simpler buildings have appeared — the full imagery yet rested in contours.
Step. It is light, as if the weight of the creature — if it is a creature indeed— is closer to nothing.
With the step, light has approached: the burlesque, poor buildings of wood, that barely had any 'art' to them, have now entirely bathed in lights, shown to the man's eye.
Polluted by various-sized chunks of metal and leather, rocky ground beneath them, too…
Far too primitive.
Indeed, is it not?
But the architecture of this God-forsaken town has not quite mattered to him;
Tense. Without a logical realization, his muscles have tensed.
Panic. Without a logical realization, the breath has lost its path in the midst of his throat.
And heartbeat..
Beat..
Beat; It rings in his ears, and sings a song of a fastening tempo!
Beat!
Beat! Beat!
Beat.. Beat..
"... I have a weapon. It doesn't matter; if this blade is covered in blood, and not only mine, that must mean— "
Too late. A pale, thin hand, grasping a steelish bar atop a burning, cheap lamp fueled with wooden chunks has shown itself.
The man has gritted his teeth: horribly, feeling as if a tooth or two have painfully ground a crack in calcium.
A curse or two, in the form of silent growls, have appeared in his mind — due to the short-circuited panic, he could not gain an obvious idea of hiding, gaining a position that had the utmost advantage.
But—
How could those remain, as met with a voice so gentle? It rose not from his chest — the voice appeared from around the corner and its gentleness captivated him whole. Entirely, as if a thinly threaded net has caught him motionless.
But it irritated him, damn the soothing coo and the nature of the human mind!
"Suitable length, the 'Code'; the hilt a bit off, but pe-haps it was recently overused?.."
No sound creatures deduce aloud: the voice emitted sheerly to tease. It acknowledged, and dealt a final, verbal blow!
"Mh-h!~ Wonda-ful!~ My sword, is it not? M-mh-h-h! Finally!"
..With a sharp emphasis on 'My'.
'My'!