Wylen grabbed two handfuls of sand and sat up with legs still outstretched and let the sand run through his fingers to his pant legs below. He turned his hands over, and then over again. ‘What happened to my hands? I don’t remember my hands looking like this,’ Wylen mused. His hands were thick and calloused, dirty and full of old cuts alongside the Scorpion’s barrage.
Wylen shook his head and looked around himself at a small tent, a cold pit for fire, a pile of branch wood, and a pack full of something he couldn’t quite make out. Looking the opposite direction Wylen thought he could make out the beginnings to tops of buildings on the horizon, but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just his eyes playing tricks.
A deep thrumming began, quiet and barely noticeable, inside his head making his temples ache. The slight pain turned into an itch that cascaded down to the back of his neck, and he reached up to scratch it. A wet, shallow, horizontal indentation sunk into the back of his neck further than he knew should be possible. ‘What is that? When was that?’ He thought as the itch subsided, and he shook his head before standing and noticing for the first time the desert rags he was wearing.
The thin garb did nothing to stave off the early morning air that sank a chill into his bones. ‘Where the hell am I?’ Wylen wondered. ‘The last thing I remember… Was… What?’ Wylen remembered everything about the basic things around him besides where he was, how he was there, or what he was doing in a place like this. ‘I am from Jumirin, but… what else?’ He was simply from Jumirin, nothing else stood out.
‘Ah, well it will come back to me, but how did I get so damn dirty and broken, how…’ he thought once again examining his hands. Nothing was bringing anything to the forefront of his thoughts, so he moved on to basic needs. ‘Fire… I’ll make a fire then. I’m cold.’ He decided.