Technoblade Never Dies

As the thoughts came together, so did the rest of his senses begin to return. The jumbles of noises sorted themselves into sound, then to speech, then to words.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar…u well, s’knight?”

The man — the knight, he presumed, from being addressed as such — opened his eyes. Between the sudden influx of light and still being shook, it was hard to see much of anything but a blurred face, and an involuntary groan rolled from somewhere deep in the knight’s throat.

“Oh good, you’re not dead, sir knight!” The face moved, and hands finally stopped shaking the knight. Motes of distant shadow shaped themselves into a canopy of leaves far above. A face came into focus, sharp eyes over a well-groomed goatee that framed a quickly-moving mouth. “I had thought not, for I had felt a pulse, and while I have indeed met that which is alive but had no pulse — or at least some semblance of alive — I have yet to meet someone with a pulse who is still dead. Dead to the world, perhaps, until awoken from slumber, but that too is solved here! Are you well?”

With the world finally still, the knight’s brain caught up to the rest of him. The aches settled in his joints from lying on the ground felt familiar enough, and yet there were places that hurt that the knight was fairly certain shouldn’t be hurting for no reason. He grunted again, testing his jaw. “I’ve probably been better.”

“Likely,” the man agreed, slipping an arm carefully around the knight’s shoulder and helping to pull his torso upright, “and yet it could have been far worse. When two knights at odds trail off into the forest together, it is not rare that both leave alive and whole, but neither is it rare that one or both never leave again, or with pieces missing. Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.” They shifted together, seating the knight against a nearby tree to take his weight and assess. “And yet you do seem to be mostly whole, unless you had an extra limb hidden somewhere prior that is now missing?”

The light from the trees above still seemed too bright compared to that void he had awakened in, and so the knight focused on the other man. Long hair tied back and held in place partly by a too-big floppy hat perched on pointed ears, the garish attire of one who made their livelihood on attention in shades of green, and the neck of an instrument of some sort peeking over his shoulder. A musician of some kind, then. 

“Nothing’s missing, that I can feel, it just hurts,” the knight grunted. His mind probed at itself and found a void, or a wall, or some kind of emptiness that felt Wrong. He rubbed the side of his neck. “Or. Well. Nothing physical. I can’t quite remember what I’m doing out here…or who I am. You say I’m a knight?”

“An educated guess.” The musician gestured down, and the knight followed it to see the suit of armor he was wearing; well-used, covered in dirt and scrapes and spots of fairly fresh blood. “It is not only knights who wear such things, but its care and signs of use along with your general bearing felt indicative enough from previous meetings. Do you think you were not a knight?”

The knight thought for a moment. “No, that sounds right. I was probably a knight, yeah. I feel like I was trying to do something important.” 

“A quest, perhaps? That’s what knights do, go on quests.”

“…maybe. Sounds right enough, I guess.” The knight lifted a hand, feeling out the ache before gesturing between himself and the musician. “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no,” the musician said, sitting back on his heels. “We had made brief acquaintance this morning as you passed through town, but our conversation was interrupted by your other knightly friend, and though I did not hear all that was said between you, it seemed of enough importance and animosity to require a continuance in these woods so as to not upset the common folk with what was to follow–and what it seems has followed, considering your state. If it were not for your intelligent companion,” —and here the musician gestured behind himself, and the knight could make out a brown horse in blue barding standing patiently near the edge of the glade— “I may not have found you for quite some time.”

The horse snorted, as if it knew it was being discussed, and the knight chuckled. “Good ol’ Riley’s probably smarter than me.” The horse’s name came easily to the knight, and he cocked his head. “Huh. Can remember that much, at least.”

A nod from the musician, rocking back from his heels and to his feet with practiced acrobaticism. “Riley, indeed. A fine name, for a fine steed. It shall read well in the tales told.” He leaned down with a hand, and the knight gripped it tight, and they both pulled to bring the knight to an unsteady stand against the tree. 

Bracing against the bark, the knight found himself laughing. It hurt a bit. “You expect there to be tales of my horse?”

“Well, where knights go, oft are stories found to tell; and where knights go, so do their horses, as far as I’m aware. And perhaps he has his own stories for us.” The musician held out a hand towards Riley, who looked at the knight first, as if awaiting permission. He nodded, and Riley picked his way over the roots and leaves to stand beside them. “Perhaps there is something within your effects that will illuminate who you are? A journal, or such?”

The knight clicked his tongue, already reaching into the saddlebag at Riley’s side. “Got a feeling I wasn’t the journaling type, which I guess is at least more than nothing.So far just a coin purse, some rations, a pot of what I think is some kinda salve–Oh?” 

A small smile, and his hand came out, a double-folded piece of parchment caught in the panels of his gauntlet. “Hello. This could be something.” The knight unfolded the parchment, smoothing out the creases as he read it aloud.  

“‘To the brave; any who can bring His Majesty, King Scar, proof of having slain the fell dragon that lurks within the kingdom’s northern bounds shall have a hero’s reward given unto them, for protecting our kingdom from its wrath. You shall find the cave in which it dwells by the runes carved above thusly,’ and then it has a bunch of what I guess are the runes below. And then just a bunch of ‘in the name of His Majesty, this decree’, yadda yadda, formal stuff.”

“Runes?” The musician peered down over the knight’s shoulder at the decree, squinting. “Ah, yes, looks like Wynnian runes. The meaning of each can shift a lot depending on context, but I believe it says... ‘Only the pure of heart may slay the evil within, and take from the dragon the life that cures all ails.’ Huh.” He scratched his chin. “You’d think if killing a dragon could cure all ails, there would be all sorts of stories and songs about that, but I can’t say it’s ringing any bells or whistles.”

“Are there a lot of stories about dragons at all?”

“No, there’s not, and a good point in that. Perhaps we just don’t know enough yet.” Leaning back, the musician smiled. “And where there is something not known to be known, it is a fool who turns down the chance to be the knower, good sir knight. A knight who’s had an unknown spell cast on him always makes for a good story. Plus you haven’t thrown a tomato at me yet for suggesting it!”

“Do you have a tomato for me to throw at you?”

“As a matter of fact I do!”

The knight snorted, amused. “Well I don’t want to, but thanks for telling me.”

The musician adjusted his hat and cleared his throat, standing almost abnormally straight. “If you intend on pursuing this quest once more, sir knight, I would offer my humble self as accompaniment both in musical and moral support–if you are amenable to companionship on the road ahead. I have already involved myself by following yon Riley to your side, and having begun to be involved, it would be rude of me to set you on your feet and on your way with a mere goodbye, especially where bardic curiosity bids me continue along until a clear conclusion.” He offered a hand. 

After a moment of consideration, the knight took the hand, shaking it firmly. “Sounds good to me.” A low chuckle. “Feels like at least one person who knows who he is should be a part of this, and you already had your chance to stab me and steal everything, if you were the type to do that.”

“A wise observation–and I promise you, the sharpest thing about me is my wit. And some would call into question even that. So then!” 

A clap of his hands. “We know of good Riley–what might your name be, sir knight? Or. Hmm. I’m guessing that’s gone to the same place that your quest and reason for being in this forest did in your mind, and is therefore inaccessible at the moment,” the bard asked and answered in the same breath. He waited for the knight to nod, which the knight did do, and scrunched up his mouth. “Well, now. I don’t mind putting you down as The Nameless Knight in my notes–honestly, the mouthfeel of that phrasing is already sticking well, and I think others of my ilk will agree–but if I am to accompany you outside of this forest, it would seem both prudent and practical to find an alternate term of reference for you until the truth is returned unto you. Is there anything that feels like it’s the right thing to call you, sir knight? Or at least a tolerable temporary title?”

The knight thought for a moment. His mind flicked through what it could reach, bumping against the blankness and replaying the few pieces left. It looped on the little the knight had known since awakening.

Thick dirt and rocks and roots underneath him, muffling the sound of hoofbeats approaching. The world, shaking.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar….u well, s’knight?”

“Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.”

 “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no.”

“...Wels.” The knight tested the name on his tongue, and nodded. “Wels will do.”

“Wels? Wels.” A nod, a spin, and a bow. “Well, sir Wels, a pleasure to make a proper acquaintance, or as much as any can be made in these conditions. I am Joe, of the Hills variety, and the bardic profession.”

Wels blinked twice. “The Hills…variety?”

“Indeed! For there are many folk of the name Joe, and not more than a few bards among them, and yet unique among those bards named Joe is my hailing, the great Hills of Tennassy, and therefore in combination that is the variety of Joe that I am.”

“I see.” A moment, and Wels shrugged. “Sounds good enough to me. Not like I can speak too much on names right now. Or on anything. So, Joe of the–do I have to–”

“No, you do not indeed need to call me Joe of the Hills Variety every time. Joe is fine unless you believe there to be a possibility of confusion with other nearby Joes.”

“Thank you. So, Joe.” Wels wrapped his hand around Riley’s reins, taking the moment to orient himself. Though the forest was only as unfamiliar as everything else in his head, that didn’t make things easier. “Do you have any idea what direction it is to get out of here and set out on this quest? Or, re-set, since I was apparently on it before?”

Joe tapped a finger against his chin twice. “Well, sir Wels, considering the town you and your not-so-fellow knight entered the forest from is to the east of here, and I did not see him or his compatriot on my way in to find you...” He gestured broadly with the grin of a practiced performer. “Not east!”

The knight sighed, turning to look towards the edges of the glade. If the sun was coming in from over there, and it probably wasn’t before midday, then east would be–

Joe interrupted him again, stepping close. “Hold on, sir Wels–this may be presumptuous of me, but considering the circumstances, I would hope you would allow it.” He reached a hand towards the back of Wels’ neck. Joe’s fingers brushed something, and suddenly Wels felt another wave of vertigo, smaller than before. “This mark here, is it…familiar?”

“Mark?” Wels’ hand joined Joe’s, and poked at the spot that made the feeling. There was nothing to the touch but skin, and yet the dizziness came once more. “I don’t…think so? Just feels real weird. What’s it look like?”

“Magic, if I’ve ever seen it.” Joe hummed, and his hands dove into his pockets, quickly pulling out a small journal. The quick scritch, scritch, scritch of quill on parchment followed, and Wels stood still. Finally, Joe held the sketch up in front of him.

In the jumble of lines, two rings surrounded a sigil, and between them more smaller rune-like shapes appeared. Wels squinted at the image. “...you’re right, that looks like magic. As much as it looks like anything.” He looked over at Joe. “Do you know what that mark means?”

Joe shook his head. “Unfortunately, where my reading of ancient languages is fairly strong, my grasp of performing the arcane arts they often produce is strongly lacking. However, I would hazard a guess that it has something to do with your current memory–or lack thereof. Probably functioning as the lock on them. It’s also a rather unsettling shade of red.”

“Oh, that’s a great sign,” Wels sighed. He met eyes with Riley, who seemed to sigh as well and turn towards what looked like a well-trodden path out of the glade. “Well. We can figure that out somewhere that’s not the forest where I got beaten and left for dead, I suppose. If Riley was smart enough to find your way in to me, he can probably get us back out, and we can go from there.”

As the thoughts came together, so did the rest of his senses begin to return. The jumbles of noises sorted themselves into sound, then to speech, then to words.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar…u well, s’knight?”

The man — the knight, he presumed, from being addressed as such — opened his eyes. Between the sudden influx of light and still being shook, it was hard to see much of anything but a blurred face, and an involuntary groan rolled from somewhere deep in the knight’s throat.

“Oh good, you’re not dead, sir knight!” The face moved, and hands finally stopped shaking the knight. Motes of distant shadow shaped themselves into a canopy of leaves far above. A face came into focus, sharp eyes over a well-groomed goatee that framed a quickly-moving mouth. “I had thought not, for I had felt a pulse, and while I have indeed met that which is alive but had no pulse — or at least some semblance of alive — I have yet to meet someone with a pulse who is still dead. Dead to the world, perhaps, until awoken from slumber, but that too is solved here! Are you well?”

With the world finally still, the knight’s brain caught up to the rest of him. The aches settled in his joints from lying on the ground felt familiar enough, and yet there were places that hurt that the knight was fairly certain shouldn’t be hurting for no reason. He grunted again, testing his jaw. “I’ve probably been better.”

“Likely,” the man agreed, slipping an arm carefully around the knight’s shoulder and helping to pull his torso upright, “and yet it could have been far worse. When two knights at odds trail off into the forest together, it is not rare that both leave alive and whole, but neither is it rare that one or both never leave again, or with pieces missing. Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.” They shifted together, seating the knight against a nearby tree to take his weight and assess. “And yet you do seem to be mostly whole, unless you had an extra limb hidden somewhere prior that is now missing?”

The light from the trees above still seemed too bright compared to that void he had awakened in, and so the knight focused on the other man. Long hair tied back and held in place partly by a too-big floppy hat perched on pointed ears, the garish attire of one who made their livelihood on attention in shades of green, and the neck of an instrument of some sort peeking over his shoulder. A musician of some kind, then. 

“Nothing’s missing, that I can feel, it just hurts,” the knight grunted. His mind probed at itself and found a void, or a wall, or some kind of emptiness that felt Wrong. He rubbed the side of his neck. “Or. Well. Nothing physical. I can’t quite remember what I’m doing out here…or who I am. You say I’m a knight?”

“An educated guess.” The musician gestured down, and the knight followed it to see the suit of armor he was wearing; well-used, covered in dirt and scrapes and spots of fairly fresh blood. “It is not only knights who wear such things, but its care and signs of use along with your general bearing felt indicative enough from previous meetings. Do you think you were not a knight?”

The knight thought for a moment. “No, that sounds right. I was probably a knight, yeah. I feel like I was trying to do something important.” 

“A quest, perhaps? That’s what knights do, go on quests.”

“…maybe. Sounds right enough, I guess.” The knight lifted a hand, feeling out the ache before gesturing between himself and the musician. “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no,” the musician said, sitting back on his heels. “We had made brief acquaintance this morning as you passed through town, but our conversation was interrupted by your other knightly friend, and though I did not hear all that was said between you, it seemed of enough importance and animosity to require a continuance in these woods so as to not upset the common folk with what was to follow–and what it seems has followed, considering your state. If it were not for your intelligent companion,” —and here the musician gestured behind himself, and the knight could make out a brown horse in blue barding standing patiently near the edge of the glade— “I may not have found you for quite some time.”

The horse snorted, as if it knew it was being discussed, and the knight chuckled. “Good ol’ Riley’s probably smarter than me.” The horse’s name came easily to the knight, and he cocked his head. “Huh. Can remember that much, at least.”

A nod from the musician, rocking back from his heels and to his feet with practiced acrobaticism. “Riley, indeed. A fine name, for a fine steed. It shall read well in the tales told.” He leaned down with a hand, and the knight gripped it tight, and they both pulled to bring the knight to an unsteady stand against the tree. 

Bracing against the bark, the knight found himself laughing. It hurt a bit. “You expect there to be tales of my horse?”

“Well, where knights go, oft are stories found to tell; and where knights go, so do their horses, as far as I’m aware. And perhaps he has his own stories for us.” The musician held out a hand towards Riley, who looked at the knight first, as if awaiting permission. He nodded, and Riley picked his way over the roots and leaves to stand beside them. “Perhaps there is something within your effects that will illuminate who you are? A journal, or such?”

The knight clicked his tongue, already reaching into the saddlebag at Riley’s side. “Got a feeling I wasn’t the journaling type, which I guess is at least more than nothing.So far just a coin purse, some rations, a pot of what I think is some kinda salve–Oh?” 

A small smile, and his hand came out, a double-folded piece of parchment caught in the panels of his gauntlet. “Hello. This could be something.” The knight unfolded the parchment, smoothing out the creases as he read it aloud.  

“‘To the brave; any who can bring His Majesty, King Scar, proof of having slain the fell dragon that lurks within the kingdom’s northern bounds shall have a hero’s reward given unto them, for protecting our kingdom from its wrath. You shall find the cave in which it dwells by the runes carved above thusly,’ and then it has a bunch of what I guess are the runes below. And then just a bunch of ‘in the name of His Majesty, this decree’, yadda yadda, formal stuff.”

“Runes?” The musician peered down over the knight’s shoulder at the decree, squinting. “Ah, yes, looks like Wynnian runes. The meaning of each can shift a lot depending on context, but I believe it says... ‘Only the pure of heart may slay the evil within, and take from the dragon the life that cures all ails.’ Huh.” He scratched his chin. “You’d think if killing a dragon could cure all ails, there would be all sorts of stories and songs about that, but I can’t say it’s ringing any bells or whistles.”

“Are there a lot of stories about dragons at all?”

“No, there’s not, and a good point in that. Perhaps we just don’t know enough yet.” Leaning back, the musician smiled. “And where there is something not known to be known, it is a fool who turns down the chance to be the knower, good sir knight. A knight who’s had an unknown spell cast on him always makes for a good story. Plus you haven’t thrown a tomato at me yet for suggesting it!”

“Do you have a tomato for me to throw at you?”

“As a matter of fact I do!”

The knight snorted, amused. “Well I don’t want to, but thanks for telling me.”

The musician adjusted his hat and cleared his throat, standing almost abnormally straight. “If you intend on pursuing this quest once more, sir knight, I would offer my humble self as accompaniment both in musical and moral support–if you are amenable to companionship on the road ahead. I have already involved myself by following yon Riley to your side, and having begun to be involved, it would be rude of me to set you on your feet and on your way with a mere goodbye, especially where bardic curiosity bids me continue along until a clear conclusion.” He offered a hand. 

After a moment of consideration, the knight took the hand, shaking it firmly. “Sounds good to me.” A low chuckle. “Feels like at least one person who knows who he is should be a part of this, and you already had your chance to stab me and steal everything, if you were the type to do that.”

“A wise observation–and I promise you, the sharpest thing about me is my wit. And some would call into question even that. So then!” 

A clap of his hands. “We know of good Riley–what might your name be, sir knight? Or. Hmm. I’m guessing that’s gone to the same place that your quest and reason for being in this forest did in your mind, and is therefore inaccessible at the moment,” the bard asked and answered in the same breath. He waited for the knight to nod, which the knight did do, and scrunched up his mouth. “Well, now. I don’t mind putting you down as The Nameless Knight in my notes–honestly, the mouthfeel of that phrasing is already sticking well, and I think others of my ilk will agree–but if I am to accompany you outside of this forest, it would seem both prudent and practical to find an alternate term of reference for you until the truth is returned unto you. Is there anything that feels like it’s the right thing to call you, sir knight? Or at least a tolerable temporary title?”

The knight thought for a moment. His mind flicked through what it could reach, bumping against the blankness and replaying the few pieces left. It looped on the little the knight had known since awakening.

Thick dirt and rocks and roots underneath him, muffling the sound of hoofbeats approaching. The world, shaking.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar….u well, s’knight?”

“Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.”

 “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no.”

“...Wels.” The knight tested the name on his tongue, and nodded. “Wels will do.”

“Wels? Wels.” A nod, a spin, and a bow. “Well, sir Wels, a pleasure to make a proper acquaintance, or as much as any can be made in these conditions. I am Joe, of the Hills variety, and the bardic profession.”

Wels blinked twice. “The Hills…variety?”

“Indeed! For there are many folk of the name Joe, and not more than a few bards among them, and yet unique among those bards named Joe is my hailing, the great Hills of Tennassy, and therefore in combination that is the variety of Joe that I am.”

“I see.” A moment, and Wels shrugged. “Sounds good enough to me. Not like I can speak too much on names right now. Or on anything. So, Joe of the–do I have to–”

“No, you do not indeed need to call me Joe of the Hills Variety every time. Joe is fine unless you believe there to be a possibility of confusion with other nearby Joes.”

“Thank you. So, Joe.” Wels wrapped his hand around Riley’s reins, taking the moment to orient himself. Though the forest was only as unfamiliar as everything else in his head, that didn’t make things easier. “Do you have any idea what direction it is to get out of here and set out on this quest? Or, re-set, since I was apparently on it before?”

Joe tapped a finger against his chin twice. “Well, sir Wels, considering the town you and your not-so-fellow knight entered the forest from is to the east of here, and I did not see him or his compatriot on my way in to find you...” He gestured broadly with the grin of a practiced performer. “Not east!”

The knight sighed, turning to look towards the edges of the glade. If the sun was coming in from over there, and it probably wasn’t before midday, then east would be–

Joe interrupted him again, stepping close. “Hold on, sir Wels–this may be presumptuous of me, but considering the circumstances, I would hope you would allow it.” He reached a hand towards the back of Wels’ neck. Joe’s fingers brushed something, and suddenly Wels felt another wave of vertigo, smaller than before. “This mark here, is it…familiar?”

“Mark?” Wels’ hand joined Joe’s, and poked at the spot that made the feeling. There was nothing to the touch but skin, and yet the dizziness came once more. “I don’t…think so? Just feels real weird. What’s it look like?”

“Magic, if I’ve ever seen it.” Joe hummed, and his hands dove into his pockets, quickly pulling out a small journal. The quick scritch, scritch, scritch of quill on parchment followed, and Wels stood still. Finally, Joe held the sketch up in front of him.

In the jumble of lines, two rings surrounded a sigil, and between them more smaller rune-like shapes appeared. Wels squinted at the image. “...you’re right, that looks like magic. As much as it looks like anything.” He looked over at Joe. “Do you know what that mark means?”

Joe shook his head. “Unfortunately, where my reading of ancient languages is fairly strong, my grasp of performing the arcane arts they often produce is strongly lacking. However, I would hazard a guess that it has something to do with your current memory–or lack thereof. Probably functioning as the lock on them. It’s also a rather unsettling shade of red.”

“Oh, that’s a great sign,” Wels sighed. He met eyes with Riley, who seemed to sigh as well and turn towards what looked like a well-trodden path out of the glade. “Well. We can figure that out somewhere that’s not the forest where I got beaten and left for dead, I suppose. If Riley was smart enough to find your way in to me, he can probably get us back out, and we can go from there.”

As the thoughts came together, so did the rest of his senses begin to return. The jumbles of noises sorted themselves into sound, then to speech, then to words.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar…u well, s’knight?”

The man — the knight, he presumed, from being addressed as such — opened his eyes. Between the sudden influx of light and still being shook, it was hard to see much of anything but a blurred face, and an involuntary groan rolled from somewhere deep in the knight’s throat.

“Oh good, you’re not dead, sir knight!” The face moved, and hands finally stopped shaking the knight. Motes of distant shadow shaped themselves into a canopy of leaves far above. A face came into focus, sharp eyes over a well-groomed goatee that framed a quickly-moving mouth. “I had thought not, for I had felt a pulse, and while I have indeed met that which is alive but had no pulse — or at least some semblance of alive — I have yet to meet someone with a pulse who is still dead. Dead to the world, perhaps, until awoken from slumber, but that too is solved here! Are you well?”

With the world finally still, the knight’s brain caught up to the rest of him. The aches settled in his joints from lying on the ground felt familiar enough, and yet there were places that hurt that the knight was fairly certain shouldn’t be hurting for no reason. He grunted again, testing his jaw. “I’ve probably been better.”

“Likely,” the man agreed, slipping an arm carefully around the knight’s shoulder and helping to pull his torso upright, “and yet it could have been far worse. When two knights at odds trail off into the forest together, it is not rare that both leave alive and whole, but neither is it rare that one or both never leave again, or with pieces missing. Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.” They shifted together, seating the knight against a nearby tree to take his weight and assess. “And yet you do seem to be mostly whole, unless you had an extra limb hidden somewhere prior that is now missing?”

The light from the trees above still seemed too bright compared to that void he had awakened in, and so the knight focused on the other man. Long hair tied back and held in place partly by a too-big floppy hat perched on pointed ears, the garish attire of one who made their livelihood on attention in shades of green, and the neck of an instrument of some sort peeking over his shoulder. A musician of some kind, then. 

“Nothing’s missing, that I can feel, it just hurts,” the knight grunted. His mind probed at itself and found a void, or a wall, or some kind of emptiness that felt Wrong. He rubbed the side of his neck. “Or. Well. Nothing physical. I can’t quite remember what I’m doing out here…or who I am. You say I’m a knight?”

“An educated guess.” The musician gestured down, and the knight followed it to see the suit of armor he was wearing; well-used, covered in dirt and scrapes and spots of fairly fresh blood. “It is not only knights who wear such things, but its care and signs of use along with your general bearing felt indicative enough from previous meetings. Do you think you were not a knight?”

The knight thought for a moment. “No, that sounds right. I was probably a knight, yeah. I feel like I was trying to do something important.” 

“A quest, perhaps? That’s what knights do, go on quests.”

“…maybe. Sounds right enough, I guess.” The knight lifted a hand, feeling out the ache before gesturing between himself and the musician. “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no,” the musician said, sitting back on his heels. “We had made brief acquaintance this morning as you passed through town, but our conversation was interrupted by your other knightly friend, and though I did not hear all that was said between you, it seemed of enough importance and animosity to require a continuance in these woods so as to not upset the common folk with what was to follow–and what it seems has followed, considering your state. If it were not for your intelligent companion,” —and here the musician gestured behind himself, and the knight could make out a brown horse in blue barding standing patiently near the edge of the glade— “I may not have found you for quite some time.”

The horse snorted, as if it knew it was being discussed, and the knight chuckled. “Good ol’ Riley’s probably smarter than me.” The horse’s name came easily to the knight, and he cocked his head. “Huh. Can remember that much, at least.”

A nod from the musician, rocking back from his heels and to his feet with practiced acrobaticism. “Riley, indeed. A fine name, for a fine steed. It shall read well in the tales told.” He leaned down with a hand, and the knight gripped it tight, and they both pulled to bring the knight to an unsteady stand against the tree. 

Bracing against the bark, the knight found himself laughing. It hurt a bit. “You expect there to be tales of my horse?”

“Well, where knights go, oft are stories found to tell; and where knights go, so do their horses, as far as I’m aware. And perhaps he has his own stories for us.” The musician held out a hand towards Riley, who looked at the knight first, as if awaiting permission. He nodded, and Riley picked his way over the roots and leaves to stand beside them. “Perhaps there is something within your effects that will illuminate who you are? A journal, or such?”

The knight clicked his tongue, already reaching into the saddlebag at Riley’s side. “Got a feeling I wasn’t the journaling type, which I guess is at least more than nothing.So far just a coin purse, some rations, a pot of what I think is some kinda salve–Oh?” 

A small smile, and his hand came out, a double-folded piece of parchment caught in the panels of his gauntlet. “Hello. This could be something.” The knight unfolded the parchment, smoothing out the creases as he read it aloud.  

“‘To the brave; any who can bring His Majesty, King Scar, proof of having slain the fell dragon that lurks within the kingdom’s northern bounds shall have a hero’s reward given unto them, for protecting our kingdom from its wrath. You shall find the cave in which it dwells by the runes carved above thusly,’ and then it has a bunch of what I guess are the runes below. And then just a bunch of ‘in the name of His Majesty, this decree’, yadda yadda, formal stuff.”

“Runes?” The musician peered down over the knight’s shoulder at the decree, squinting. “Ah, yes, looks like Wynnian runes. The meaning of each can shift a lot depending on context, but I believe it says... ‘Only the pure of heart may slay the evil within, and take from the dragon the life that cures all ails.’ Huh.” He scratched his chin. “You’d think if killing a dragon could cure all ails, there would be all sorts of stories and songs about that, but I can’t say it’s ringing any bells or whistles.”

“Are there a lot of stories about dragons at all?”

“No, there’s not, and a good point in that. Perhaps we just don’t know enough yet.” Leaning back, the musician smiled. “And where there is something not known to be known, it is a fool who turns down the chance to be the knower, good sir knight. A knight who’s had an unknown spell cast on him always makes for a good story. Plus you haven’t thrown a tomato at me yet for suggesting it!”

“Do you have a tomato for me to throw at you?”

“As a matter of fact I do!”

The knight snorted, amused. “Well I don’t want to, but thanks for telling me.”

The musician adjusted his hat and cleared his throat, standing almost abnormally straight. “If you intend on pursuing this quest once more, sir knight, I would offer my humble self as accompaniment both in musical and moral support–if you are amenable to companionship on the road ahead. I have already involved myself by following yon Riley to your side, and having begun to be involved, it would be rude of me to set you on your feet and on your way with a mere goodbye, especially where bardic curiosity bids me continue along until a clear conclusion.” He offered a hand. 

After a moment of consideration, the knight took the hand, shaking it firmly. “Sounds good to me.” A low chuckle. “Feels like at least one person who knows who he is should be a part of this, and you already had your chance to stab me and steal everything, if you were the type to do that.”

“A wise observation–and I promise you, the sharpest thing about me is my wit. And some would call into question even that. So then!” 

A clap of his hands. “We know of good Riley–what might your name be, sir knight? Or. Hmm. I’m guessing that’s gone to the same place that your quest and reason for being in this forest did in your mind, and is therefore inaccessible at the moment,” the bard asked and answered in the same breath. He waited for the knight to nod, which the knight did do, and scrunched up his mouth. “Well, now. I don’t mind putting you down as The Nameless Knight in my notes–honestly, the mouthfeel of that phrasing is already sticking well, and I think others of my ilk will agree–but if I am to accompany you outside of this forest, it would seem both prudent and practical to find an alternate term of reference for you until the truth is returned unto you. Is there anything that feels like it’s the right thing to call you, sir knight? Or at least a tolerable temporary title?”

The knight thought for a moment. His mind flicked through what it could reach, bumping against the blankness and replaying the few pieces left. It looped on the little the knight had known since awakening.

Thick dirt and rocks and roots underneath him, muffling the sound of hoofbeats approaching. The world, shaking.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar….u well, s’knight?”

“Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.”

 “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no.”

“...Wels.” The knight tested the name on his tongue, and nodded. “Wels will do.”

“Wels? Wels.” A nod, a spin, and a bow. “Well, sir Wels, a pleasure to make a proper acquaintance, or as much as any can be made in these conditions. I am Joe, of the Hills variety, and the bardic profession.”

Wels blinked twice. “The Hills…variety?”

“Indeed! For there are many folk of the name Joe, and not more than a few bards among them, and yet unique among those bards named Joe is my hailing, the great Hills of Tennassy, and therefore in combination that is the variety of Joe that I am.”

“I see.” A moment, and Wels shrugged. “Sounds good enough to me. Not like I can speak too much on names right now. Or on anything. So, Joe of the–do I have to–”

“No, you do not indeed need to call me Joe of the Hills Variety every time. Joe is fine unless you believe there to be a possibility of confusion with other nearby Joes.”

“Thank you. So, Joe.” Wels wrapped his hand around Riley’s reins, taking the moment to orient himself. Though the forest was only as unfamiliar as everything else in his head, that didn’t make things easier. “Do you have any idea what direction it is to get out of here and set out on this quest? Or, re-set, since I was apparently on it before?”

Joe tapped a finger against his chin twice. “Well, sir Wels, considering the town you and your not-so-fellow knight entered the forest from is to the east of here, and I did not see him or his compatriot on my way in to find you...” He gestured broadly with the grin of a practiced performer. “Not east!”

The knight sighed, turning to look towards the edges of the glade. If the sun was coming in from over there, and it probably wasn’t before midday, then east would be–

Joe interrupted him again, stepping close. “Hold on, sir Wels–this may be presumptuous of me, but considering the circumstances, I would hope you would allow it.” He reached a hand towards the back of Wels’ neck. Joe’s fingers brushed something, and suddenly Wels felt another wave of vertigo, smaller than before. “This mark here, is it…familiar?”

“Mark?” Wels’ hand joined Joe’s, and poked at the spot that made the feeling. There was nothing to the touch but skin, and yet the dizziness came once more. “I don’t…think so? Just feels real weird. What’s it look like?”

“Magic, if I’ve ever seen it.” Joe hummed, and his hands dove into his pockets, quickly pulling out a small journal. The quick scritch, scritch, scritch of quill on parchment followed, and Wels stood still. Finally, Joe held the sketch up in front of him.

In the jumble of lines, two rings surrounded a sigil, and between them more smaller rune-like shapes appeared. Wels squinted at the image. “...you’re right, that looks like magic. As much as it looks like anything.” He looked over at Joe. “Do you know what that mark means?”

Joe shook his head. “Unfortunately, where my reading of ancient languages is fairly strong, my grasp of performing the arcane arts they often produce is strongly lacking. However, I would hazard a guess that it has something to do with your current memory–or lack thereof. Probably functioning as the lock on them. It’s also a rather unsettling shade of red.”

“Oh, that’s a great sign,” Wels sighed. He met eyes with Riley, who seemed to sigh as well and turn towards what looked like a well-trodden path out of the glade. “Well. We can figure that out somewhere that’s not the forest where I got beaten and left for dead, I suppose. If Riley was smart enough to find your way in to me, he can probably get us back out, and we can go from there.”

As the thoughts came together, so did the rest of his senses begin to return. The jumbles of noises sorted themselves into sound, then to speech, then to words.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar…u well, s’knight?”

The man — the knight, he presumed, from being addressed as such — opened his eyes. Between the sudden influx of light and still being shook, it was hard to see much of anything but a blurred face, and an involuntary groan rolled from somewhere deep in the knight’s throat.

“Oh good, you’re not dead, sir knight!” The face moved, and hands finally stopped shaking the knight. Motes of distant shadow shaped themselves into a canopy of leaves far above. A face came into focus, sharp eyes over a well-groomed goatee that framed a quickly-moving mouth. “I had thought not, for I had felt a pulse, and while I have indeed met that which is alive but had no pulse — or at least some semblance of alive — I have yet to meet someone with a pulse who is still dead. Dead to the world, perhaps, until awoken from slumber, but that too is solved here! Are you well?”

With the world finally still, the knight’s brain caught up to the rest of him. The aches settled in his joints from lying on the ground felt familiar enough, and yet there were places that hurt that the knight was fairly certain shouldn’t be hurting for no reason. He grunted again, testing his jaw. “I’ve probably been better.”

“Likely,” the man agreed, slipping an arm carefully around the knight’s shoulder and helping to pull his torso upright, “and yet it could have been far worse. When two knights at odds trail off into the forest together, it is not rare that both leave alive and whole, but neither is it rare that one or both never leave again, or with pieces missing. Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.” They shifted together, seating the knight against a nearby tree to take his weight and assess. “And yet you do seem to be mostly whole, unless you had an extra limb hidden somewhere prior that is now missing?”

The light from the trees above still seemed too bright compared to that void he had awakened in, and so the knight focused on the other man. Long hair tied back and held in place partly by a too-big floppy hat perched on pointed ears, the garish attire of one who made their livelihood on attention in shades of green, and the neck of an instrument of some sort peeking over his shoulder. A musician of some kind, then. 

“Nothing’s missing, that I can feel, it just hurts,” the knight grunted. His mind probed at itself and found a void, or a wall, or some kind of emptiness that felt Wrong. He rubbed the side of his neck. “Or. Well. Nothing physical. I can’t quite remember what I’m doing out here…or who I am. You say I’m a knight?”

“An educated guess.” The musician gestured down, and the knight followed it to see the suit of armor he was wearing; well-used, covered in dirt and scrapes and spots of fairly fresh blood. “It is not only knights who wear such things, but its care and signs of use along with your general bearing felt indicative enough from previous meetings. Do you think you were not a knight?”

The knight thought for a moment. “No, that sounds right. I was probably a knight, yeah. I feel like I was trying to do something important.” 

“A quest, perhaps? That’s what knights do, go on quests.”

“…maybe. Sounds right enough, I guess.” The knight lifted a hand, feeling out the ache before gesturing between himself and the musician. “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no,” the musician said, sitting back on his heels. “We had made brief acquaintance this morning as you passed through town, but our conversation was interrupted by your other knightly friend, and though I did not hear all that was said between you, it seemed of enough importance and animosity to require a continuance in these woods so as to not upset the common folk with what was to follow–and what it seems has followed, considering your state. If it were not for your intelligent companion,” —and here the musician gestured behind himself, and the knight could make out a brown horse in blue barding standing patiently near the edge of the glade— “I may not have found you for quite some time.”

The horse snorted, as if it knew it was being discussed, and the knight chuckled. “Good ol’ Riley’s probably smarter than me.” The horse’s name came easily to the knight, and he cocked his head. “Huh. Can remember that much, at least.”

A nod from the musician, rocking back from his heels and to his feet with practiced acrobaticism. “Riley, indeed. A fine name, for a fine steed. It shall read well in the tales told.” He leaned down with a hand, and the knight gripped it tight, and they both pulled to bring the knight to an unsteady stand against the tree. 

Bracing against the bark, the knight found himself laughing. It hurt a bit. “You expect there to be tales of my horse?”

“Well, where knights go, oft are stories found to tell; and where knights go, so do their horses, as far as I’m aware. And perhaps he has his own stories for us.” The musician held out a hand towards Riley, who looked at the knight first, as if awaiting permission. He nodded, and Riley picked his way over the roots and leaves to stand beside them. “Perhaps there is something within your effects that will illuminate who you are? A journal, or such?”

The knight clicked his tongue, already reaching into the saddlebag at Riley’s side. “Got a feeling I wasn’t the journaling type, which I guess is at least more than nothing.So far just a coin purse, some rations, a pot of what I think is some kinda salve–Oh?” 

A small smile, and his hand came out, a double-folded piece of parchment caught in the panels of his gauntlet. “Hello. This could be something.” The knight unfolded the parchment, smoothing out the creases as he read it aloud.  

“‘To the brave; any who can bring His Majesty, King Scar, proof of having slain the fell dragon that lurks within the kingdom’s northern bounds shall have a hero’s reward given unto them, for protecting our kingdom from its wrath. You shall find the cave in which it dwells by the runes carved above thusly,’ and then it has a bunch of what I guess are the runes below. And then just a bunch of ‘in the name of His Majesty, this decree’, yadda yadda, formal stuff.”

“Runes?” The musician peered down over the knight’s shoulder at the decree, squinting. “Ah, yes, looks like Wynnian runes. The meaning of each can shift a lot depending on context, but I believe it says... ‘Only the pure of heart may slay the evil within, and take from the dragon the life that cures all ails.’ Huh.” He scratched his chin. “You’d think if killing a dragon could cure all ails, there would be all sorts of stories and songs about that, but I can’t say it’s ringing any bells or whistles.”

“Are there a lot of stories about dragons at all?”

“No, there’s not, and a good point in that. Perhaps we just don’t know enough yet.” Leaning back, the musician smiled. “And where there is something not known to be known, it is a fool who turns down the chance to be the knower, good sir knight. A knight who’s had an unknown spell cast on him always makes for a good story. Plus you haven’t thrown a tomato at me yet for suggesting it!”

“Do you have a tomato for me to throw at you?”

“As a matter of fact I do!”

The knight snorted, amused. “Well I don’t want to, but thanks for telling me.”

The musician adjusted his hat and cleared his throat, standing almost abnormally straight. “If you intend on pursuing this quest once more, sir knight, I would offer my humble self as accompaniment both in musical and moral support–if you are amenable to companionship on the road ahead. I have already involved myself by following yon Riley to your side, and having begun to be involved, it would be rude of me to set you on your feet and on your way with a mere goodbye, especially where bardic curiosity bids me continue along until a clear conclusion.” He offered a hand. 

After a moment of consideration, the knight took the hand, shaking it firmly. “Sounds good to me.” A low chuckle. “Feels like at least one person who knows who he is should be a part of this, and you already had your chance to stab me and steal everything, if you were the type to do that.”

“A wise observation–and I promise you, the sharpest thing about me is my wit. And some would call into question even that. So then!” 

A clap of his hands. “We know of good Riley–what might your name be, sir knight? Or. Hmm. I’m guessing that’s gone to the same place that your quest and reason for being in this forest did in your mind, and is therefore inaccessible at the moment,” the bard asked and answered in the same breath. He waited for the knight to nod, which the knight did do, and scrunched up his mouth. “Well, now. I don’t mind putting you down as The Nameless Knight in my notes–honestly, the mouthfeel of that phrasing is already sticking well, and I think others of my ilk will agree–but if I am to accompany you outside of this forest, it would seem both prudent and practical to find an alternate term of reference for you until the truth is returned unto you. Is there anything that feels like it’s the right thing to call you, sir knight? Or at least a tolerable temporary title?”

The knight thought for a moment. His mind flicked through what it could reach, bumping against the blankness and replaying the few pieces left. It looped on the little the knight had known since awakening.

Thick dirt and rocks and roots underneath him, muffling the sound of hoofbeats approaching. The world, shaking.

“…ight? Sir knight? Ar….u well, s’knight?”

“Well, sir knight, it seems whoever you came to meet has met you as your match.”

 “Do we…know each other?”

“Not well, sir knight, in any familiar sense, no.”

“...Wels.” The knight tested the name on his tongue, and nodded. “Wels will do.”

“Wels? Wels.” A nod, a spin, and a bow. “Well, sir Wels, a pleasure to make a proper acquaintance, or as much as any can be made in these conditions. I am Joe, of the Hills variety, and the bardic profession.”

Wels blinked twice. “The Hills…variety?”

“Indeed! For there are many folk of the name Joe, and not more than a few bards among them, and yet unique among those bards named Joe is my hailing, the great Hills of Tennassy, and therefore in combination that is the variety of Joe that I am.”

“I see.” A moment, and Wels shrugged. “Sounds good enough to me. Not like I can speak too much on names right now. Or on anything. So, Joe of the–do I have to–”

“No, you do not indeed need to call me Joe of the Hills Variety every time. Joe is fine unless you believe there to be a possibility of confusion with other nearby Joes.”

“Thank you. So, Joe.” Wels wrapped his hand around Riley’s reins, taking the moment to orient himself. Though the forest was only as unfamiliar as everything else in his head, that didn’t make things easier. “Do you have any idea what direction it is to get out of here and set out on this quest? Or, re-set, since I was apparently on it before?”

Joe tapped a finger against his chin twice. “Well, sir Wels, considering the town you and your not-so-fellow knight entered the forest from is to the east of here, and I did not see him or his compatriot on my way in to find you...” He gestured broadly with the grin of a practiced performer. “Not east!”

The knight sighed, turning to look towards the edges of the glade. If the sun was coming in from over there, and it probably wasn’t before midday, then east would be–

Joe interrupted him again, stepping close. “Hold on, sir Wels–this may be presumptuous of me, but considering the circumstances, I would hope you would allow it.” He reached a hand towards the back of Wels’ neck. Joe’s fingers brushed something, and suddenly Wels felt another wave of vertigo, smaller than before. “This mark here, is it…familiar?”

“Mark?” Wels’ hand joined Joe’s, and poked at the spot that made the feeling. There was nothing to the touch but skin, and yet the dizziness came once more. “I don’t…think so? Just feels real weird. What’s it look like?”

“Magic, if I’ve ever seen it.” Joe hummed, and his hands dove into his pockets, quickly pulling out a small journal. The quick scritch, scritch, scritch of quill on parchment followed, and Wels stood still. Finally, Joe held the sketch up in front of him.

In the jumble of lines, two rings surrounded a sigil, and between them more smaller rune-like shapes appeared. Wels squinted at the image. “...you’re right, that looks like magic. As much as it looks like anything.” He looked over at Joe. “Do you know what that mark means?”

Joe shook his head. “Unfortunately, where my reading of ancient languages is fairly strong, my grasp of performing the arcane arts they often produce is strongly lacking. However, I would hazard a guess that it has something to do with your current memory–or lack thereof. Probably functioning as the lock on them. It’s also a rather unsettling shade of red.”

“Oh, that’s a great sign,” Wels sighed. He met eyes with Riley, who seemed to sigh as well and turn towards what looked like a well-trodden path out of the glade. “Well. We can figure that out somewhere that’s not the forest where I got beaten and left for dead, I suppose. If Riley was smart enough to find your way in to me, he can probably get us back out, and we can go from there.”