You stagger into an unseen puddle.
Splashing now through what is apparently a wide bog, you grapple for non-existent hand holds and pray that the sloshing noises behind you are not indicative of imminent danger. Nonetheless, you are afraid.
But fear lends all kinds of energy. You quicken the pace, and tripping out onto solid ground, catch your heaving breath. Light momentarily blinds you. You have broken through the woods. You hear a thump and a groan from behind. But as your eyes adjust, your snagged breath releases with an exclamation of marvel.
SCROLL DOWN
Spinning around, retreating steps, you falter to your knees and peer up at a man. His hair is blonde, his moustachio black, and his grin like the devious crooked line of an arched serpent. "You are a hard one to follow, I'll give you that!" he remarks, staring down at the city. Fingering the longsword at his waist, he turns his pale blue eyes to you. "The name is Fortinad," he extends a tanned, callused hand.
Hesitation halts your half-returned hand for help, but he siezes it by the wrist and vaults you up. He straightens out your tunic like a mother fussing over her child. "Hmmmm, not what I expected," he frowns. "Ah, your name?"
The odd feeling that you've seen this Fortinad before sits at the back of your mind like a stubborn child refusing to leave its hiding spot. You've done things with this man before. You recognize the scar across his brow, the rustic sideburns...even the way his disheveled hair is set. You know him. But from where?
"Your name, then..." he repeats.
"Oh, yes...ah, it's...don't you know?"
"What do you mean. child?"
"Don't you....know me? I mean, don't I..." you cut yourself off. "My name is *****."
