The tall dark featured figure known only as Sefu stood on a sand dune in the chill of the night, looking at the full moon without really seeing it. They told him that it had been two months since a group of religious travellers had found him near dead in this part of the desert, with nothing but a pair of swords and a cloth of sorts wrapped around his waist for decency's sake. They told him that it had been a month since he had woken up, and that that had only occured when a child had placed one of the swords in his hand. He remembered that. He remembered everything since, from recovering the ability to walk to discovering that the blades he had kept despite losing everything else were like extensions of his arms, to taking a name that wasn't right, but which would do for the time being.
Someone had told him that he had the build of a Connlaothian, perhaps hoping to access his memories by using words and phrases that might spark something off, but he was dressed in the Essryn style now, although something about him required an edge of individuality. Instead of brightly coloured robes of fine materials, he had made sure that he had two sets of clothing made from lightweight but durable fabric. One set had been made in white, and the other, the one he wore at the moment, was made from charcoal grey material. that colour felt right, although he couldn't say why. It was just like the swords; the rightness was inherently obvious, but the reasons for that rightness lurked just beyond reach of his memory, and when he tried to grab for them they blew away like dust in a sandstorm.
But still, he liked to come out this way every now and again, not that he'd had much again to work with. This was his third visit to the area in the three weeks since his sponsors had realised that he could walk and fight and ride beasts of burden, and he was sure that soon enough someone representing them would come and find him again, staring at the moon as if that could help bring his memories back. Someone always did find him, but this was mainly because he had not yet chosen to hide, he was sure of it. After all, why bother hiding a blank slate? That was all he was, a blank slate with everything to learn about himself apart from the fact that he was a swordsman. That meant little on its own, he wanted to know exactly who he was,why he was here, what had happened. There was no sign of head injury according to his hosts, and he could think of no other reason why his memory might disappear, while his verbal skills, his logic and his muscle memory remained. The clear cold air of the desert at night was at least good for helping him relax, but bereft of his nenories that was small comfort indeed, and his right hand remained firmly on the hilt of his sword. This was a desert, after all. There could be anything out here.
