I turn the amulet between my fingers, letting its dull metal catch the flicker of the campfire's light. It's cool, heavier than it looks, and etched with delicate patterns I can't quite decipher. Still, something about holding it feels right. The parchments' runes used to twist my stomach with unease, but now, when I run the amulet's surface over the inked symbols, my eyes don't water as much. I sense meaning beneath the scribbles, like whispers muffled behind a wall.
Lynn watches me from a few steps away, arms folded, the warmth of the fire painting gentle hues across her robes. I glance up at her and try to show what I've discovered: the amulet seems to lessen the strain of looking at the runes. I trace a line of ink on the parchment, tilt the amulet close. One rune seems to shift shape under my scrutiny—what once looked like a chaotic scratch now suggests two crossed lines over a small circle. A letter or a sigil?
I look to Lynn for any sign of recognition. She meets my gaze and nods slowly. When she tries to speak, the mist seems to gather at the edges of the Campground, swallowing her voice. She purses her lips, frustrated, then pats the ground near the stump to suggest we continue. I understand: to learn more, we must keep exploring.
I set the parchment aside and open the leather box holding the deck. By now, the ritual of choosing cards feels natural, if still mysterious. I shuffle lightly, letting my instincts guide me. The cards seem to hum, guiding my fingertips. Three rise to the top. I draw them out, studying their art under the subtle glow of the fire.
Location: Hallowed Underpass Shrine.
A place carved beneath a collapsed overpass, lit by scattered candles and adorned with symbols of reverence. It might offer some spiritual calm—or hidden dangers among the offerings.
Event: Mnemonic Shards.
Fragments of old memories floating in the air like glass shards catching stray light. If I gather them, perhaps I'll glean more about my past. But the cost? Such things are rarely free of risk.
Enemy: Static Husk Dancer.
A creature of illusions, twisting forms and afterimages. It can double itself, creating phantoms that confuse the senses. Another test of perception and will.
My throat tightens at the prospect. The Mnemonic Shards might help me recall something concrete, a piece of who I used to be. But defending myself against a creature of illusions in a candlelit shrine beneath ruined stone? I could lose myself in the confusion.
Still, I've come this far. Each step into the misted fragments has hardened my resolve. I look at Lynn. She straightens, eyes solemn, and offers a gentle incline of her head. She trusts me to be careful. I take the cards and approach the mist's edge.
This time, the mist parts more quietly, no stubborn resistance. We step through, and I find myself beneath an old overpass supported by cracked pillars. Tall weeds and twisted vines frame a small shrine assembled from salvaged debris. Candles—real or phantom, I cannot be sure—burn in niches carved into crumbled concrete. Old talismans dangle from iron hooks. The air smells of wax and damp earth.
As I approach the shrine, I notice tiny shards of light drifting aimlessly. Mnemonic Shards. They sparkle like slivers of glass, bobbing gently on an unfelt breeze. Lynn stands back, letting me go first. I stretch out a hand to catch one. The moment my fingertips brush it, I see a flicker of something: a glimpse of boots marching in formation, the clash of steel on steel, a distant shout. It's gone in a heartbeat, but my heart pounds. These shards hold pieces of memory, disjointed but precious.
I try another shard, brushing it lightly. A voice—my own voice, gruff with tired humor—echoes in my mind: "Stand firm. If we falter now—" and then silence. A fragment of a command, a leader's words, perhaps. I swallow hard, leaning on my axe for support. The memories sting like tiny sparks. They hint at a life of discipline, orders, and duty.
Lynn edges closer, her eyes soft. She cannot speak, but her gaze says: You are learning who you were. I manage a tight smile. This place grants me hints, but I must remain wary.
A rustling sound draws my attention. By one of the support pillars, I see movement. Something shimmers, shifting shape like a reflection in rippled water. The Static Husk Dancer. It steps forward, humanoid yet indistinct: limbs too thin and elongated, face blurred. As it moves, it leaves trails of afterimages behind, a dozen phantom dancers spinning in silence.
I raise my axe. The dancer tilts its head, and the phantoms step forward as one. They ripple around me, forming a ring of flickering illusions. My eyes struggle to track which image is real. Each time I try to focus on one, another glides into its place. My heart races. If I swing wildly, I might waste energy or miss entirely.
I breathe deeply, remember my training—instinctive or recently earned. The amulet on my chest feels heavier, tugging me back to solid ground. I close my eyes for a heartbeat, then open them again, slower this time. I don't chase the illusions. I wait for them to make a mistake.
A slight shift in the candlelight reveals the true dancer: its shadow against the wall doesn't multiply, even though the illusions do. I lock onto that one shadow. The creature lunges, claws outstretched. I meet it with a swift strike of my axe. Sparks fly as my blade grazes its shoulder. It hisses, the illusions blinking erratically.
The dancer tries to circle me, but I pivot, keeping the shadow in sight. Another strike, a heavy blow to its flank. The illusions falter, half disappearing into the darkness. It lashes out, scoring a shallow cut on my arm. I bite back a cry and retaliate, forcing it against a cracked pillar. With a final swing, I drive the axe down. The dancer's form distorts, then snaps out of existence, leaving behind a faint scent of ozone and dust.
Panting, I touch my wound. It's not deep, and Lynn is at my side in a moment, pressing a clean scrap of cloth against the cut. I look around. The Mnemonic Shards still drift near the shrine, serene and aloof. I catch another, and another, chasing small glimpses of myself: a hand clasping another in a gesture of solidarity, a glimpse of a sigil on a banner (the same crest as my brooch?), a feeling of pride mingled with sorrow.
These shards do not give me full memories—just hints, pieces of a larger tapestry. But it is enough to confirm what I suspected: I was once a soldier, maybe an officer, who stood for something worth fighting for. The Knight-To-Be path I forced from the system aligns with what I might have been in life.
With the Static Husk Dancer defeated and a few shards collected, I scan the shrine for anything tangible. Among melted candles and old offerings, I find a small token made of bone. Etched onto it is the same crossed-blade symbol as my brooch. I pocket it, heart pounding.
We return to the Eternal Campground, stepping through the mist, our footsteps echoing softly. The campfire's warmth welcomes me back. I settle onto a sleeping mat, still breathing a bit heavily. Lynn kneels beside me, taking the cloth from my arm, checking the wound. Her touch is gentle. I see sympathy in her eyes—she knows I've learned something significant.
The amulet, the brooch, the parchment, now a bone token, and fragments of memory like scattered leaves on a windblown path. I'm assembling a history piece by piece. I do not know the end goal—am I here to reclaim my old identity, or to forge something new? The silence of the mist and Lynn's enforced muteness offer no answers. But I feel stronger in heart, as if carrying a spark of purpose again.
I meet Lynn's gaze, nod once to show my resolve. She smiles faintly, lowering her eyes, acknowledging that we grow closer to understanding. Maybe the mist will not always silence her. Maybe one day these runes and relics will yield their secrets, and we can speak freely about what must be done.
For now, I rest, the Knight-To-Be who is uncovering what it means to stand firm against despair and illusion. Tomorrow—if tomorrow exists here—there will be more cards, more locations, more enemies, and perhaps a clearer memory. Until then, the campfire crackles softly, a comforting companion in this world of fragments and silence.