Now, I had a very important thing to decide upon as I approached the civilization before me: what to do about my apparent amnesia. I was currently heading towards a town that, for all I knew, could be the most wretched hive of scum and villainy I’d ever see. Also, I couldn’t discount the possibility that someone here would recognize me, as the only path out to that weird religious site I’d woken up in led directly to here.

So what to do about it? Simple, I planned on faking it. The idea was to roll with whatever the situation gave me, whether it was a supposed old friend or a bitter nemesis. I mean, not like I had a better option, right? What was I to do, throw myself upon the mercy of the first person I encountered, hoping they would be a noble soul willing to aid me instead of someone willing to use my ignorance to their own advantage? If there was one thing I knew about myself, I was a cynical bastard. Actually, come to think of it, that probably is the only thing I knew about myself. Alright! Defining character trait get! I am now self-referencing as the cynical, amnesiac bastard.

Anyways, putting aside my reasonless cynicism, with my plan of action made, I approached the town gate with a bit of confidence.

It was a simple gate, made of wooden logs, and there was currently a single man in simple chainmail standing outside it. The gate itself was ajar, and the guard was paying little attention to his surroundings, currently cleaning one of his nails with a penknife. He had a spear leaning against the wall next to him, within arm’s reach, but with my years of combat experience, I could tell this guy wasn’t formally trained. Hell, even a farmer could have realized that.

He glanced up as I approached, and I offered him a friendly wave and greetings, “Hello.” Oh! I’ve got a nice voice! Pleasantly deep and mellifluous! I now realized I hadn’t spoken before. I wonder if I can sing at all?

My distracted thoughts were interrupted by the glare and unwelcoming grunt. “Yer still alive, ‘uh?”

Alright, worst case scenario. This guy knows me and doesn’t looked pleased to see me. Roll with it!

“Why, of course I am alive! Good sir, did you expect otherwise?” I feigned indignance as best I could.

The guard snorted, “Otherwise? A lone halfwit with naught but the clothes on his back takin’ on the strongest, powerfulest cult ‘is side of the Sorlath Mountains? Me ‘n halfa militia had a pool runnin’ on how many pieces ye’d be sent back to us in. Guess’n Ralf’ll be right happy to know he won, with his bet on yer body being whole.” The guard shook his head, “So, what happened, chicken out? Get lost? Hard to do, cult’s lair’s a straight shot down that path.”

Hmm. Information that I could use just kept flowing out of this guys mouth. A veritable fount of intelligence, if you ignore the lack of intelligence. Also, I am not liking the recklessness of the past me he is describing. Well, keep on rolling, keep him talking, and maybe I’ll learn more.

“Is that really what you all thought of me? A defenceless fool? Then why did none of you stop me from trying? Is this town filled with heartless bastards?!”

The guard rolled his eyes, “Spare me your outrage, mage. We all knew ye had the gift. Defenseless, ye were not, but the Doom Cult’s not something no sane man would take on, let alone by hisself. So what happened?”

More and more information, though this info was worrying. He called me mage, and I had some info on that tucked away, somehow untouched by the amnesia. What is and isn’t affected seemed arbitrary at times, but I was blessed to know this chunk of information.

Magic can be accessed in multiple ways. Some did it through the power of gods, taking on roles such as clerics or paladins depending upon their relationships with their gods. Others communed with the elements, bearing titles such as druids or shamans, while others still made pacts with magical beings, such as the infamous warlocks did with demons. But none of them would be called mage. No, that title denotes one of two distinct possibilities in the realm of magic.

The first is the sorcerer, a being who, for some reason or another, has a font of magical power inside him. They are able to wield magic like a third arm, though they are limited in what forms that magic might take by the nature of their magic’s origin. Seeing as I haven’t felt this third arm of magic, I doubt this is the one I had been.

Which leaves the wizard. While more versatile than the sorcerer, as a true wizard can access any school of magic, the power of a wizard comes not from within, but without. They study for years to learn the arcane rituals and incantations required to shape the world around them. Theirs is a power granted through knowledge, a power that only grows with study and memorization.

And thus we come to my dilemma. If I truly had been a wizard, then a wizard I was no more. For all that knowledge was gone, either locked or erased from the vaults of my mind. I could no more remember an incantation than I could my name. I still had the intelligence of a wizard, as my thoughts were ordered and my thinking precise, but I lacked the knowledge of the arcane that once accompanied that intelligence.

An involuntary sigh escaped my lips. Then, remembering my current situation, I quickly shook my head, turning the sigh into a gesture of disappointment as best I could. Stick to the plan, keep rolling with it. I am now a wizard of some unspecified amount of power, and I must be confident enough in that fact that none shall trifle with me!

“Oh ye of little faith,” I forced a smile to my lips. “I,” I paused, gesturing myself, “have vanquished your little ‘Doom Cult.’”

A quick glance at the guard confirmed his disbelief in my claim. Thinking quickly, I needed some form of proof. I had taken two things with me from the supposed cult’s lair. The shield was nondescript, well-made but nothing to signify it as having belonged to the ‘Doom Cult’. The dagger, on the other hand…

“And now, behold!” I quickly thrust forth the dagger, “The Doom Cult’s cherished ritual dagger. Blessed by their greatest priests, it is now my prize!”

The man moved forwards, glancing over the dagger. His eyes froze upon its hilt, and he looked back up at me slowly, eyes wide. “T-that truly’s a dagger from the Doom Cult! Yer serious? Ye killed the lot?”

Alright, I needed to get moving before they started asking questions. In fact, though I would likely have to spend the night here, due to the fading light and my lack of desire to rough it when it could be easily avoided, it would probably be a good idea to get away from this town that knew the past me before they started asking too many questions. Not to say I didn’t want to reconnect with past me and relearn my past, but the cynic in me spoke strongly against allowing others to know my secret and thus take advantage of me. Besides, were I to stick around, there would be an expectation of my possessing a power level far beyond what I have so far been able to call upon.

With that in mind, I decided to get the ball rolling with my departing words, “Indeed, they’re all dead. If you don’t believe me, send some men to examine the site of the battle. They’ll find nought left of the cultists but ashes, I’m afraid. Oh, and I’m afraid my services are desperately needed elsewhere, and after a night’s rest I’ll have to be off first thing in the morn.”

And with that, I left the guard staring at my back in awe as I passed through the gates and into the town of Tattlebrook.