2 Familiar Mystery

The sensation of falling caused the young man to jerk awake.

The fall was swift and sudden. The resulting crash was loud and painful.

He tried to take in his surroundings, blinking his eyes to adjust to the darkness-- trying not to gag at the reek of moldy straw and poorly treated inn-room wood.

"Why… In the Seven Hells does my head hurt so bad?" The man growled under his breath.

He curled his body and clutched at his head, his knees and feet against the floor. With furious focus, he concentrated-- willing his surroundings to slow their incessant spinning.

As if his entire body were trying to rally against him, the man's gut began to rumble and bile began to rise to his throat.

The man had awoken, void of any useful memories. Erratic scraps of knowledge flashed into his mind, fleeting and nonsensical.

1. His memories informed him that he was better than... Most everyone else.

2. He induced he was a very angry individual.

And 3. he'd remembered a deep, deep loathing of vomiting.

Using all of his willpower, he forced the disgusting bile back down. An uncomfortable film of sweat covered his face and formed a thin, disgusting film underneath his clothes. He squirmed around on the filthy inn room floor, trying to adjust his body into a comfortable position, praying desperately for the pain to go away.

Minutes passed in silence.

Gradually, the man's mind began to clear.

The man felt relieved that his first crisis had been averted.

The man briefly considered trying to find out why he was in the situation he was in... But it didn't matter. Only the future did. Thusly, the second crisis was: Who was he? And what was he doing?

Scanning his memories, he smirked as he found another helpful piece of information.

4. He had a System, a Cheat-like database of information, also capable of automating functions.

With this in mind, he consciously thought a specific phrase:

« System, open status. »

A transparent window appeared in the eye of the man's mind, a massive column of highly-detailed blocks of text and numbers.

« Nevermind... System, close status. System inquiry: What's my name? »

The transparent window closed and a friendly, somewhat-neutral voice spoke in his mind.

[System response: The host's name is Tycondrius.]

It sounded familiar, providing Tycon with a sense of relief.

Tycon sat up against his moldy, straw-filled bed and he began to review his situation and examine his surroundings.

He had fallen off of a bed in an inn room. His forehead began to swell from his sudden contact with the floor.

His eyes had quickly adjusted to the darkness-- suspiciously quickly. The room was bright as day, but gentle starlight spilled through the window from a dark blue evening sky.

Tycon forced himself to stand, feeling every ache of his muscles and each creak of his bones. Was he sick? Or was the aching an aftereffect of strenuous physical activity?

He walked to the second-story window to observe the outside, finding a quaint town lit blue by starlight and a full, glowing moon. Cobblestone roads were lit by candle-filled lamp-posts. A few dozen people still walked the streets. And Tycon happened to spy upon a few mercenary-looking men walking casually, lightly armored, armed with sword and bow.

Tycon induced that armor and cold weapons were normal.

He frowned and tapped his fingers on the wooden windowsill impatiently. He tended to excel with the setting, but he felt like he couldn't yet relax.

Noise emanating from the ground floor was mixed with laughter, yelling, and the garbled speech of dozens of speakers.

Tycon had no desire to surround himself with people-- he felt vulnerable, as a confused, weakened amnesiac. However, the delightful smell of sweet, burning wood and cooking meat forced him to reconsider. He licked his lips and could swear that he could taste his next bloody meal.

'I prefer my meat cooked to medium-rare. And from a non-sentient.'

Tycon squinted his eyes in deep thought, 'Is it normal to specify non-sentience in one's preferred meal?'

He sat down on the uncomfortable bed and looked at his hands, rough and callused. He had five fingers and flesh-colored skin. He had no issues with that.

He plucked out a hair. It was green. He found that acceptable, as well.

He felt his face. His nose wasn't too big. He didn't have any tusks. He didn't have any facial hair, either. Tycon didn't find anything particula-- Ow.

His cuspids were sharp and had drawn blood when his finger had pressed onto it.

Near panic, Tycon checked his pulse. Finding it existent, he sighed in relief. He wasn't a vampire.

After examining himself, Tycon stood and explored the room.

He found a small bag of silver and gold coins. Inducing that he was in a private room instead of a common room, he reasoned that he could well-afford it with the coin he owned.

He found a light suit of banded armor in his size. There was a pack filled with adventuring gear, rope and bandages, and the like...

He drew a sword from its sheath, finding it scratched and nicked, though well-oiled and maintained. The shoddy sword-sheath and the boring hilt made it look cheap.

Tycon grimaced as he realized another point.

5. He was cheap.

He looked over to a second pile of gear, which he'd separated from the more standard-fare adventuring gear.

A hand-crossbow, easily hidden. A cloak with a peaked hood, good for hiding one's face, (if unnecessarily stylish.) Three vials containing what he was fairly certain was injury poison. A sturdy whip with sharp, wicked-looking metal pieces at its end. A dagger, designed to be hidden in a boot.

Tycon unsheathed the boot dagger, finding a waxy substance was smeared upon it-- likely the same substance as were in the vials.

He could be a very cautious individual. It was also plausible that he was not a very good person.

He carefully resheathed the dagger, neatly packing his gear away into (assumedly) his traveling pack. As if by instinct, he knew how to pack-- which items needed to be at the bottom of his pack and how to conserve space.

With practiced hands, he buckled on his armor, wore his sword at his side, and donned the peaked hood over it.

...He regretted not doing that earlier, as the warmth from the armor and cloak made the evening chill immeasurably more bearable.

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He walked to the table, the only decoration in the grotty inn room, and poured water into a washbowl. Once he'd washed his hands, he'd seek a well-deserved meal.

A peculiar glimmer of gold caught Tycon's attention. With a feeling of unease, he allowed the waters to still as he stared at his reflection.

He couldn't control the urge to curse aloud, "Seven bleeding hells, I'm not Human."