Danzai City. Midday.
The bustling city was quite lively this day. It's sprawling towers seemingly more vibrant than normal. The inhabitants hurriedly hustled about the stuffed streets, bumping into one another but paying no mind to it. Stalls were open and peddlers were selling their wares with extra vigor as people passed by, using the techniques only known to merchants to entice passerby's to approach and peer their merchandise.
The sun beat down on the lively city, yet none complained this day. They had more important things to worry about.
"When will they arrive?" Many of the city's residents asked, though none had an answer.
"Why are they coming to this isolated city?" Others pondered curiously, thinking about where they were.
Though Danzai City was a relatively large city when compared to others within the kingdom, she was well off the traveling path. Many traveling merchants preferred the safer routes that went around where the city was situated, and that was because the city was situated within the Eternal Desert.
The Eternal Desert earned its name due to its vastness. It took many months to travel through the desert, but it was a dangerous journey to attempt. Many beasts called the sands their home. Only those brave or foolish enough to attempt the journey did so. So it was a surprise when Danzai City was built in such an arid and dangerous environment. But regardless, the city thrived. How it did so was a mystery even to its own inhabitants.
As the city bustled and boomed with noise and excitement filled the air above everyone's head, a man stood alone in a room. The room overlooked a majority of the city, allowing him to peer down at the busy streets. He had a slight frown on his face.
This was Barron Daisan, current mayor of Danzai City. He was a good man, who cherished his city and her inhabitants like they were his own flesh and blood. He did his utmost to make sure the residents were taken care of, even in the poorer neighborhoods. He was known as the man who always smiled, even in the face of adversity.
When he was campaigning for the position of mayor and his opponent resorted to underhanded tactics, not even bothering to hide it as he felt he would succeed, Barron smiled and continued on. Ultimately, that unwavering nerve proved to push him into the role of mayor, while also causing his opponent to find an untimely disappearance, and he was pretty sure his supporters had a hand in making that happen.
Today, however, he held no smile. He did not have any confidence. He was frustrated and annoyed, though there was little he could do in such a situation. Just a few days ago he had received word that the Lord of the region would be coming by with his family, and thus he expected Barron to make sure that the city was prepared to receive him and his retinue. In return, he would provide the city with a bit more money and sellable goods that would allow the markets to blossom with business.
Today was the day the Regional Lord was slated to arrive. Though Barron was very confident that his city's denizens would succeed in making the streets look beautiful and accommodating, he worried that it still wouldn't meet the Lord's standards. There was little else he could do but wait...
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A lone man lay motionless in a sand dune. The steep winds blew all around him, roaring and howling like demons off in the distant. They kicked sand into his face and hair, violently lashing out at him but doing nothing more than stirring him from his slumber.
He slowly peeled his eyes open, glancing at the sunburnt sky through a sand cloud that slowly blew over him. He let a soft groan escape his cracked lips. He was skinny with long, matted hair that fell to his shoulders. It was caked in sand and mud from his sweat.
As he attempted to push himself up, he suddenly fell to his right, kicking up a small puff of sand. He let out a low moan as a wave of pain cascaded throughout his body, originating from his right arm and flowing to his left side.
Glancing down once some of the pain subsided, he saw his arm. Well, he saw what was left of his arm. Where an entire arm should have been, there was only a dried puddle of blood and sand, and a stump. A stump that ran from his shoulder to just about half way to where his elbow would have been. The man began to breathe heavily as panic set in. What happened to his arm?! When he tried to scream, only a raspy squeak came out that was followed by a pinch of pain. He swallowed the saliva that began to build up, which caused another pinch of pain to travel across his neck and make him flinch.
He pushed himself up and, with his only arm, supported himself until he could find an advantageous sitting position. Next, he gingerly touched his throat. There, he could feel a slight indent that was rough to the touch.
'A scar?' He thought as he gently ran his fingers over the coarse surface. That answered a couple questions, but raised others.
That scar - along with his missing right arm - left him with a lasting impression. Whoever had done this didn't want to outright kill him, but they definitely didn't want him to live for long. The slit throat wasn't deep enough to kill him, only silence him, thus his assailant didn't want him to speak of the deed. It also sent a message to others. Who his assailant was and who those he was sending the message to, that was something he didn't know. His arm, however, and his being unconscious were meant to slowly kill him. Whoever had severed the limb wasn't a professional. That wasn't clean, and he imagined that had he been awake, he would have passed out from the pain. The blood had clotted, fortunately enough, thus he hadn't bled out like his attacker had intended for him. Though why he didn't was a mystery. Though he didn't understand why or how he knew, he was certain that he should have died from the blood loss. It wasn't a small amount. Maybe the sand helped stop the bleeding? He didn't know. Too many questions with no answers.
As the sands slightly shifted from the winds, something began to gleam from the rays of the sun that managed to pierce the veil of sand in the air. The reflection bounced into the man's eyes and he reflexively closed them. He reached out in the direction of the gleam, using his hand to block the gleam enough to open his eyes into a squint.
Brushing the sand away, he found that he was staring at a hilt. Curious, he grabbed the hilt and tugged at it. It barely budged. Frowning, he gripped it tighter and yanked a bit harder, nearly throwing himself off-balance in the process. His action, though, succeeded in dislodging the hilt from the sand. Though not fully dislodged, he had freed it enough so that he could pull it free with much more ease.
To his amazement, it was a sword. Though a plain-looking sword, it was still a weapon he could use to defend himself with. How well, that had yet to been determined.
As he pulled the sword from its sheathe, he noted that it looked different. He didn't understand why he knew, but he could tell that sword was a foreign-made weapon. The blade was thin, yet sharp. It's spine was flat with just the slightest of curves. There was a faint design along the ridge of the blade, though it was hard to make out so he couldn't be certain if it was a design or something else. The metal was a dark color, something he had never seen before. Granted, he couldn't be sure if he had or had not seen this, that was simply how it felt to him as he tentatively ran his fingers over the blade.
The steel was cool to the touch.
He was enamored with the weapon. Something deep within told him this weapon, though appearing plain, was masterfully forged and held the pride and joy of the forge-master. He didn't know why he felt that a master sword smith forged this blade, but he was certain one had. Why they chose to make it look plain, he couldn't say.
He gripped the hilt firmly, noting the comfort and smoothness in which he gripped it. 'Have I wielded this before...?' He pondered, lifting the sword slightly, slightly adjusting his arm to account for the blade's weight. Though he felt a little off-balance, there was an ease that felt natural to him. Again, he wondered if he had ever used this sword. Something in the back of his mind told him that he had, but looking at the pristine blade and the grip that looked as though no one had ever held it once, he doubted it. He admired the plainness of the blade and hilt, of the plain black of its sheathe, with only a single red stripe that ran down it. Even that stripe looked unremarkable, somehow, yet magnificent to him at the same time.
After he returned the blade to its holder, he apologized to it in his mind for what he was about to do. Repositioning himself so that he was kneeling, he used the hilt as a cane and pushed himself off the ground. The sword sunk into the sand, which made him stumble forward. He barely caught himself from falling flat on his face. This feeling of imbalance was something he would have to get accustomed to before he could unravel the mystery that was himself.
Nodding with his current goal, he lifted the sword and lay it across his shoulder, like a club, and pressed forward, unsure of where he was or where he was headed. He simply knew he wasn't going to let this desert be his death. At least, not until he figured out who he was and what had happened to him.