As it drew nearer her, the horse stumbled again, and collapsed into the mud. It fell away from the lump it was pulling on its stirrup and she heard the distinctive sound of clanking metal as the lump was pulled over and halfway atop the falling horse.
Breaking into a run, she approached the fallen steed. Run is probably too generous a word, but she moved with all possible haste, anyway. She got to the horse, and saw immediately, now that she was closer, that it was dead. The smell of cooked meat emanated from it. She felt bad for the poor beast, but her attention then focused upon the humanoid lump of mud, leaves, and twigs that laid partially atop the animal. She grabbed a double-handful of mud from where she thought the face should be, it was caked on the face completely. As her hands met something solid she pulled them away and threw the mud to her sides.
The shock of the sight of a skull almost caused her to fall into the mud as she tried to backtrack, but then the seam of rivets became more visible as rain knocked more of the mud from the leering countenance of death. It was a helmet's visor, shaped to resemble a skull. She tried to pry it open, and it seemed locked down. It moved a fraction of an inch, lifting away and up from the face, but then it stopped and would not budge. She jammed her fingers under it and yanked with all her might. There was a loud pop and the visor came off in her hand. She looked down into the helmet below her.
It was a young man, possibly in his twentys, she thought as she looked at his beautiful face. She could think of no other way to describe him. He had generous, full lips, that turned slightly up, in the suggestion of a smile, and high cheekbones, that gave him a look almost elven. Had he been a woman, he would have been quite lovely, as a man, he was handsome in a very peculiar way to her. He wore a carefully trimmed goatee on his upper lip and chin. His dark brown hair set off his light-colored skin in quite attractive contrast.
She pressed her fingers to his neck and felt a thready, but present pulse. She decided he had been horse-dragged for a ways and a little farther of her dragging him by his armpits would not likely do more harm. Grabbing him under his armor-plated arms, she dragged him across the intervening space to the small knot of trees and their relative shelter. She then took a good look at the situation. He was bleeding from somewhere on his head, so she tried to get the helmet off. She was not familiar with heavy armor helmets like this one and soon found out it would not come off easily even if she were. The armor was welded to itself.
"One hell of a powerful bolt of lightning," she murmured as she rummaged in her small pack and came out with a small, thick-bladed knife. After about five minutes of prying and grunting, the helmet popped loose, taking part of the ring it locked into with it. She carefully removed it and cradled the man's head as she laid him down gently to the ground. He was a handsome devil, she thought. He had a thick head of dark brown hair, flowing almost to his shoulders as the helmet came loose. Blood ran from one ear. She figured that he had fallen off the horse when the lightning struck and hit his head. She examined the bleeding orifice and realized his ear had a slight, but very obvious point. The lad was a half-elven youth, she realized as she looked at his other ear and then examined the face with a forwarned eye.
The rest of his armor bore similar welded joints and sections. She worked for the better part of two hours to free him of the constricting, damaged metal plates. When she was done, she laid a blanket over him and let him warm in the relative shelter of the copse of trees while she went back to the horse to collect his belongings from the dead steed.
Oddly, all he seemed to have was a long, rather vicious-looking sword and a small leather pouch full of documents. She looked at one of them, and saw that it was written in a tongue she did not recognize. Given his goatee and dark hair, she thought he might be Rojando.
The armor itself was unusable, though perhaps the smith in Morrovale, Gradel, could repair it. She buried it in a shallow pit under the copse so she could come back for it if and when she were able. As she put the pieces into the little grave, she noted that skulls and bones formed the main motif of this armor's decoration. It was all rather sinister, she had to admit.
The storm lightened at nightfall and ended sometime in the night, not that she was awake for that occurrence. She tended to him as best she could, mainly keeping him warm by leaving her blanket over his chilled body.
---
As the sun poured over the wood by morning, a spike of golden rays struck her face and caused her to awaken. She looked around, eyes bleary and confused for a moment, then she remembered her place and situation. She walked over to the sleeping man, he had kicked off the blanket overnight at some point, and she regarded the heavy felt undergarment he wore. It was scorched in a couple of places, but he appeared to have not been burnt by the lightning that had struck his horse and him.
Kneeling beside him, she placed a palm to his smooth brow, checking for feverishness. He had none, but as she withdrew her long, slim hand, his eyes snapped open and he inhaled deeply. He stuttered something she could not understand, and looked very confused.
The man's eyes focused on her own, his were bright blue, almost white. He said something in what sounded like another language to her, and observed her a moment. Then he said something in still another language. Nadia shook her head and smiled. Finally he said, "Where am I?" In Westron. His accent was a little difficult to place, but was definitely not Ghantian or Windy Islander, both of which she was familiar with.
"You are in the Duchy of Morrovale," she said quietly, sitting back on the ground as she spoke.
He paused a moment. "Morrovale," he pondered. "What happened to me?"
She pointed to the scorch mark on his shoulder. "You were struck by lightning," she said, "and then you apparently fell from your horse and struck your head."
The man grimaced. "That would explain the throbbing head and ringing ears," he murmured, touching his finger and thumb to his temples. He then graced her with a feeble smile. "Thank you for helping me."
"It was the right thing to do," she said. "I am Nadia of Morrovale." She introduced herself.
"Pleased to meet you, Nadia." He then opened his mouth to speak, and his face took on an almost comical expression of confusion. Sealing his lips he focused his mind a moment, then spoke: "I am afraid I cannot tell you my name."
She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. "It's a secret?" she asked.
A deep chuckle emerged from his chest. "I wish that were the reason," he said, his eyes still showing consternation. "But, truth be told, I don't know."
She smiled at that. "You know not your name?" she asked, following that with a nervous giggle.
"The One as my Witness, I do not," he said, looking at her with intense eyes. "I really do not."
Nadia's face grew very concerned. "Poor dear," she said, leaning forward. "I've heard head injuries can do such things," she mused. "Perhaps it will come back to you with a little time. Meanwhile, perhaps these papers will tell you who you are?" She held out the pouch holding the large stack of parchment.
With a grunt, and obvious discomfort, the man sat up and took the pack. Peering at the documents, he looked blankly at them. "I cannot read these," he said, blinking oddly. "I thought I could read there for a moment, but I suppose I cannot."
His fingers flipped through the documents and he regarded each as the text revealed itself. "No, I cannot read these." With a sharp shake of his head that caused him to wince, he handed the pack back to her. "Did I have anything else upon me?" he asked
She picked up the sword. "You had this," she said, holding it out to him, and understandably moving a bit back after he gripped its hilt. He made no move to draw it from its scabbard, however.
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