After a several-year hiatus, Dave returned to his campaign when he was stationed in Haiti during the first three months of 1995. After some e-mail discussion with Sean, it was agreed that Sean would play a new character, a dwarf with amnesia. Over the next month or so Sean discovered that this dwarf was actually Ryde. Still later he discovered that Ryde had been in a state of amnesia for approximately ten years.
The following has been condensed and edited from his and Sean's e-mail. Sean's stuff is in bold, Dave's is not.
So, this youngish dwarf wakes up from a confused dream that he can't remember any of, in fact, he's surprised to find that he had woken up and is still confused by the dream... very confused... the kind of confusion that makes you forget your own name, whatever it was... whatever it was... it was...was...I know this much. I am dwarf.
(Give me some obvious details, like beard color and clothing/armor and what kind of weapons or things I have with me or next to me or in my pockets. Oh yeah, and where am I? Forest, cave, cubicle, prison...?)
As for your character,... [snipped to save space]
A loop of rawhide holds it shut from your side.
Meaning I can open it if I wish and go out...
The dream has faded , again and somehow the again is important. You know this is again and that thought is important.
Hmmmmm, I'll have to remember that...
A bell tinkles in the distance, and a door creaks. The smell of ...Khavshti? It is a kind of bread, different from-somewhere else. It is flat and round and unleavened. The name is alien yet familiar too. You are sore deep in your shoulders and chest.
It sounds as if I've been forging something important, and I'm awake now so I might as well follow my nose and get some breakfast. I've also noticed that most of the fabrics are goat hair, so there is probably a herd of goats around somewhere which are also used for meat, milk, bonecraft, etc.
It was colder, earlier. Maybe it has been getting warmer?
I hope so. This tunic is good for working in a hot forge, but if I'm off doing something else I'd freeze my ass off. (As a player, I remember the harsh colds that Ryde has endured...)
It starts with the opening of a door...
Written on the piece of parchment found in my boot (in northern common):
You are in Northern Condwi. You were wounded very badly in the head, before. Your mind does not remember things. This is a sept of the monastery of Cabo Gran Mihiel, devoted to the Service of the Spirit of Micheal, a warrior who saved Epimetreus in battle one day. The man is Brother Hiram, he is charged with the stablery and guesthouse. You are the smith here. The work is good, but not enough to keep you busy. Hiram does not know smithing, and sometimes he forgets to purchase the right kind of coal or ore, go with him when he does. No one here will hurt you, you are a valued lay brother. You took no oaths here, serve no king here, and live only by your strength and knowledge of the forge. Written the 1st day of harvest, in the year 1060.
I have some small monies in my wall under the bed, and the cellarer has some possessions of mine. Written the Winter solstice day, year 1060.
Sometimes the peacock comes in dreams to me, and I fear it without knowing. 1st day of the new year 1061.
There is very little magic here, I remember magic from before my head was split. I had something magic then, an axe I think. Written after the Annual Blessing of the Shrine, year 1061.
Here the neat squared off handwriting ends. You look at Hiram and he says, "Today is the 20th day of the the second month, the day before the Feast of Epimetreus Forging the Chain, in the year 1061 of our counting, you will have to put up with much ceremony tomorrow, master smith, I daresay you might even enjoy it" He smiles ruefully. "Eat up, I know you'll want to get down to the forge and stoke it up and sing some of those outlandish songs you like. Oh and today I will travel into town to buy some more stock for the reliquary crypt. You told me to remind you to come so I don't buy any of that cheap soft southern charcoal again, we will leave after noon services, of course." His words are a milder version of the boy's, the accent not so atrocious. He too is dark skinned, his hair is grey and wispy, and he has a long straight nose. His eyes are deep brown, set in seams of wrinkles. The face is old, but his eyes are kind.
A cockerel crows in the distance, and somewhere, muffled by walls and doors, a slow dirgelike chant begins, sung from many throats in a careful rhythm. The porridge is bland but filling, but the bread has a hint of cinnamon and little bits of nutty fruit. It is warm and delicious, you are hungry and it goes quickly.
After putting on the boots and following the youth to see Hiram and reading the parchment, I realize that it is in my own handwriting, and I have not yet remembered something as simple as my name. This only frustrates me a little since it seems that I've forgotten before, and remembered before as well. Perhaps I will remember again later and write it then. The boiled millet (player note: My mom eats this for breakfast, it _is_ bland and like a finer grained oatmeal. It's better with butter and honey. It's probably what the goats eat, too, and it's easy to harvest and it stores well.) will do for breakfast as any food will do, but I wonder what I ate before my injury? These are simple brethren, and they lead simple lives. Everything here is simple.
The boy has wolfed his breakfast, and looks sadly on as you eat the last of the loaf. When you finish he stands up.
That dirgelike chant would be the brethren at the morning prayer, to which Hiram is likely anxious to join. And if I should be there, the boy can get me there. I'm curious as to the rest of the monastery. After a pause I ask him, "Should I be attending the noon services so that I'm not late?"
"Your worship is in your hands, my stout friend. The services are for the believers here, and you would not take well to our vows." He pauses. "You have never asked before this day."
After he answers and I take my leave for the forge, I'll be humming to myself a bass line to the chant and thinking up words to go with it. I seem to recall a song that starts 'A blacksmith courted me...' but that hardly seems appropriate for this place...
"Come, let us get to our work," to the boy as I let him lead me to the forge. I am eager to 'discover' what it is I have been making the last few days. Or maybe it's been months since it seems I've been here almost half a year. The work will be good, it will either help me remember things, or it will help me forget all the questions that need answers such as why a peacock in a dream should frighten me or if I dreamed it last night and forgot again.
Enough... the hammer and tongs call and the bellows howl for my hands to make them sing.
"Like a trooper, the carpenter sharpens his own tools." -Musashi
(ps - There are many good names for smiths, from _Endgame_ (by Samuel Beckett) I could have chosen Ham (the hammer) or Nag, Nell, or Clov (3 different names for the nails). Any dwarf can be named Ham, and it might be mine, but I think I'll use Clov for now.)
In the grey cool light now flooding the heavens, the boy (Maher) leads you across the courtyard to a stoutly built forge, made of good firestone. The forge is banked now, but the bellows are well tended, almost new. A carefully sorted pile of wrought iron rods are stacked on wooden trestles to one side, under cover of the roof. On the whitewashed wall is a drawing in charcoal of a screen, a wrought iron fence with a slender gate centered within an arch. The lines are firm and well drawn, the plan is good. Several minutes of taking stock reveal the task nearly finished, the lock needs assembly, and 6 carefully twisted finials (fence tops) for the arch need to be made, then with hammer and chisel, the assembly can be fitted into the crypt where it belongs. The tools are well looked after, in proper order, and the forge is as neat as a hobbit house. The fire buckets are filled with water, and careful use of the remaining coal will get the job done, you think. Yes, more here is needed. To one side is a bucket of nails, and a jig for them. They are passable, and you realize these must be done by your apprentice, who is now busily stoking the blaze, ensconced now in a stout leather apron. He is not well skilled, but has energy.
The work seems to fly through your hands, something about fires and forges. Soon you are humming as the sparks shower, and saving the fine work for last, you are quickly making deft sure strokes with the great hammer on the delicate lacy finials, 6 of them, each an iron sword thrust through a garland of leaves and vines. It is fine work, and as each is finished, it is dipped into a small pot of blackening and set aside. The boy can barely keep the bellows going, but you are done, and the six appear to be sprung from one so alike they be. The boy appears with a small pot of gilt paint and as he watches you carefully add highlights and detail. The work is good, damn good. As each is placed onto a piece of cloth, to be readied for attachment to the rods of the gate the boy says "wondrafully" in his outrageous accent. His eyes glow with pride as he looks upon this bright array.
Indeed, other brethren, hearing the pause in the forging and the respectful murmurings of the apprentice have croweded around the door here, blocking the sunlight and appearing to be so many hulking silhouettes there. The finials, arrayed on a cloth covered board are oohed and ahhed over by these tall, slender headed men. Respectful nods, and liquid syllables pass back and forth. The hour of noon is not far off, and after some urgings, eager hands reverently take the various parts of the screen, the boy gathers the tools together and the procession troops out into the court, up the dusty, warm lane and toward a low, brick building at the crest there. It is whitewashed stone, and is squat and thick, being 60 paces long and 40 wide. It is solidly built, perhaps too solid, but the stone isn't bad. The hillside slopes away to the left here, and far down the way a narrow trickle of water winds through a wide dry watercourse, perhaps a once great river there. Small whitewashed buildings dot the slope, flat roofed and square. There is a low wall a good bowshot away, pierced here and there by a road. Upon its far side are more fields, smaller, and a grove of oily looking trees. There are houses down there, in little clusters. On the far side of the "river" a great road comes down the ridge there and wanders northwards. A thick cluster of buildings is there.
The party troops around the south side of the church, into shadow, there to a plain arched doorway. The straps and hinges show your style, and the sight warms you. Inside, the party of monks each make a bow towards the altar and speak a small prayer toward a simple narrow mosaic which climbs the western-facing Narthex topped by a triangular window. It is simple work, done well. Behind the altar is a square lid, now ajar and set aside. Steep steps go down into dim coolness, the scent of bitter herbs comes up. You and the apprentice make your way down, tools clinking in the gloom, lamps and eager helpers follow. There is a modest square room here, with an arched ceiling that wends back to a series of sarcophagi arrayed against the rear, western wall. You are 12 feet below ground here, and there is another chamber below you, you think. The walls have been notched previously, and it is the work of but a half hour to carefully assemble the grille and gate across the rear of the crypt, enclosing the tombs there. A little careful lampblacking here and there and it shines like the deed it is.
Odd though, the tombs are big, yet somewhere you have seen many tombs, some big, some small. But it is time to eat, and apprentice is eager to do so. Returning to your smithy, you tidy up and knock off 100 nails or so until the service ends and the apprentice returns. He stares at the loose pile of nails, all neat and straight and shakes his head ruefully. He has bread and goatcheese, small beer (not bad) and a handful of onions and small green fruits that have a bitter oily taste, yet not unpleasant. They also have small pits which are carefully saved. The sun is mounting toward zenith, and the heat is rolling off the walls and court. It is very hot here, even the cold tomb would be better, there underground.
But where...? Why would I remember tombs unless I'd been there. Maybe I knew someone who died, or maybe I died and I can't remember dying. Many tombs, but so many as to be a city of tombs? A necropolis... ;) Underground is always better. Us dwarrow figured that out a long time ago. It's also warmer at night, but the tombs are only a few feet underground and I don't think that would be a good place to work or sleep. I don't plan on sleeping with the dead for quite some time...
The apprentice jerks guiltily as he hears a tinkling bell, and glancing quickly at the sun he races off, slippers flapping in the dust. You are alone with your thoughts.
As your eyes roam about, for some reason they ever and anon dwell on the smooth circle of your quenching barrel, now full of water. In it you catch the gaze of a youngish dwarf, with a great scar running two fingerwidths from his right eyebrow up into his hairline. The hair doesn't grow there neath the scar. There are also some very fine white scars leading in and out of your eye there, but your gaze reveals no flaw in your sight.
So many scars on a dwarf so young. I must have been in some pretty heinous caca in order to get this messed up. If my sight is fine, what caused those scars? Did my eye get healed somehow afterwards, or was the skin just broken from the trauma that caused the scar on my forehead?
The image is disrupted as face meets face and rough hands rub the ash and soot from a visage that was expected at the stables. The grime is part of being a blacksmith, but I should probably be somewhat presentable if I'm to go with Brother Hiram into town. I'll go to the stables after Maher and see if Hiram's there.
Hiram is whistling some odd bit of song, and carefully adjusting the tack on a youngish mule. There are numerous bags upon it. Some are full of finely ground flour, some full of freshly pressed olive oil, others with dates and raisins.
There is another small furry pony there, and it is standing in the traces of a small cart. A novice and a lay brother are busily connecting the various bits of gear. Hiram nods amiably, and says, "Your work this day has been truly blessed, the brethren could find ought else to talk about at prayers today, quite the wonder."
"Thank you. It just seemed right when I was doing it somehow, almost easy. That is, it was enjoyable, not that it wasn't work."
"By the way, it seems that I've forgotten things again, so if I ask a silly question that you've answered before, please bear with me."
"What is my name?" (If he doesn't know or I've never spoken one, then I'll say that "I should be called Clov. It would be appropriate.")
"Many are the times you have asked me this question, we have always called you Ismail, since you are the first of your kind to dwell within our walls."
"May I ask, who is in that tomb anyway?"
"Certainly, amongst the the bones of many servants and brothers of Him, there lies within the tomb our first abbot, a shrewd man of war who turned from the road of war and beat his soul into a vessel of love and devotion to the Lord of Light himself, his name before he came to us was Ramakrishna, but everafter he was known as Bernard the Humble."
"When did I start the work on that last project? In other words, how long have I been working on it?"
"As with so many other projects we have created, I understand you fretting at the time, if we were a city founded order, or perhaps less politically extreme to our secular counterparts, perhaps monies would be easier to come by, alas our flock, though worthy and sturdy, is not rich or influential. Supplies come in dribs and drabs, and it has been one month since you first set hammer to this work."
[the market trip goes well and Clov enjoys the haggling and the coffee]
Hiram, flush with his purchases, offers you a bonus, acquired at no small effort, from a vendor from the south. It is a small yellow skinned fruit, it smells sweet. When you stare at it, Hiram takes a small knife, bisects it and says eat it. You stare at the halved orange.. the pattern of its flesh...the radial sections...without realizing it you have brought your hand to your scalp, it tingles and a memory, a hint of hay smell and a mountain meadow. Sweat blooms on your forehead. Your head aches.
"Master smith, are you well, you look ill?"
(cut an orange on the equator, look at it, what is it? You don't really know, but it disturbs you mightily)
"uh... um... I... I'll be okay. It's just... a memory... of... I don't know... a place, I think...", and I take a bite of the fruit, chewing it slowly and wondering if the taste will be familiar.
(Is the mountain meadow a place I've been or that I'm from? Is it where these "oranges" are from? I just happen to have a whole bag of oranges. It looks like a lot of different things. One is a daddy long legs spider, another is an eye with a shrunken pupil and lots of veins. In game terms, this could be that Big Nasty the other party was dealing with, or that cold demon, or the spiders on the moon that marked your forehead, or if you really wanted to stretch it, the symbol of the Tethamagrion clan.)