Berrodin

Cyrus crouched behind the cover of trees, and scanned the glade beyond. A cobblestone house took up most of the clearing, with a small stable to its side, and an open walled hut in the front. 

An old man stood in the center of the hut, his short grey hair outlined by the flames of a forge, while his muscles tensed with each strike of his hammer. The clang of iron came to a brief pause as the man stopped to examine his work.

Curious, Cyrus stepped closer, when a twig cracked beneath his boot. He winced, freezing as the man grabbed his hammer, and strode outside. 

"Who goes there?" The man's voice rumbled as he scoured the trees. 

Cyrus took a deep breath, then raised his hands, and stepped through the bushes. "It was me. I mean you no harm. I just came across your cottage as I was traveling."

The man studied Cyrus with a keen gaze. "Are you a thief? I don't have much that is valuable, so you're better off moving on."

"I'd make for a poor one if I was," Cyrus said. He lifted his cloak, and showed his sides. "As you can, I have nowhere to hide any weapons."

"Then what are you doing out here?" 

Cyrus's stomach grumbled as he lowered his hands. "I've been wandering the woods for a while, and have barely had anything to eat. I was hoping you might have a roll or two to spare. If not, I'd be grateful if you could just point me in the direction of the nearest village or kingdom."

The man eyed Cyrus once more, then tilted his head back to the cottage. "Come with me. I have a bit of food you can eat."

He guided Cyrus into his cottage, and set his hammer on a stand beside the door. The house was a quaint place, decorated with a wool rug, and a small couch. A colorful tapestry hung over the smoldering fireplace, while rickety shelves, and oaken racks lined the walls. 

"Over here," The man said, leading the way into the kitchen. He grabbed a dry roll from the shelf and tossed it to Cyrus, then after a moment's thought, handed him a pouch of dried jerky. "There. That should fill you up. Go take a seat, and I'll bring you some water."

"Thank you," Cyrus said. He glanced around, and spotted a square table, pressed beneath the window. There were two chairs beside, though it appeared only the old man lived in the house.

"So… What's your name?" The man asked. He grabbed a mug, and dunked it into a basin of water. 

"Cyrus, though I have no family name," Cyrus said. He tore open the roll, and shoved it in his mouth. It was hard and stale, but after months of scavenging for food, he didn't care. 

"Cyrus, huh? Mine's Berrodin," Berrodin said, setting the mug in front of Cyrus, and taking the seat opposite from him. "Tell me, Cyrus. What are you doing all the way out here? Are you lost?"

"You could say that," Cyrus said. He switched to the jerky, his mouth watering as he opened the pouch. He fought back the urge to fit as many strips into his mouth as he could, and only took one with a sigh. "Truth be told, I have no idea where I am, or where I came from. About six months ago, I woke up on the shore, with no memories of my past, except for my name. In all that time, you're the first person I've come across."

Berrodin leaned back, arching his brow. "That's quite the story. Were you shipwrecked?"

"I searched for a few weeks, but there was no sign of a wreckage," Cyrus said. "I've considered the possibility that I fell overboard, but that doesn't help me much."

"No, I suppose it doesn't," Berrodin said, scratching the grey stubble growing along his chin. "Are you certain you don't remember anything? Maybe what the place you came from looked like, or vague sights and sounds?"

Cyrus shook his head. "I get a headache whenever I try to piece together the fragments. All I have is this amulet, which I wore around my neck when I woke."

Cyrus retrieved the amulet, and showed it to Berrodin. The old man examined it, then pointed at the inscription.

"Are these runes?"

"Runes?"

"Yes, you know. The written form of magic," Berrodin said. "I have a bit of experience with reading, but those letters are unlike anything I've ever seen."

"I- I don't know," Cyrus said, pulling back his hand. "I'm able to read them, so I didn't think much of them."

Berrodin pursed his lips. "Hmm. Well, if you can find someone else who can read them, then they might know something of your past. Actually, I know of an ancient scholar residing in the nearby kingdom of Galeden. Perhaps he can help you."

"Really? Where might that be?" Cyrus asked. 

"It's about three days from here on foot," Berrodin said. "I'll be traveling there in about a week, to sell my wares. You're welcome to stay here until I do, and ride with me."

"Are you certain?" Cyrus asked. 

Berrodin shrugged. "It's no problem to me. I have a spare bedroom, and Osyras knows I could use the help. It's tough loading the wagon with how old I'm getting."

"I'll do what I can," Cyrus said, grinning. 

"I'm glad to hear it," Berrodin said. "For now, why don't you take your time, and finish eating. Then, feel free to wash up, and change. You can take the bedroom at the end of the hall. If you check the wardrobe, you should find a new set of clothes to wear as well. They were my son's, but they should fit you."

"He won't mind?"

Berrodin waved his hand. "I doubt he even remembers he left them here. He moved to Railvyn three years ago, and only writes back once or twice every few months. Still can't figure out why he went there though. Blasted cold place, covered in ice and snow."