63rd of Ashan 720 4th Break
He awoke in the totemic form of his original self, the Lotharro known as Rakvald. And for a moment he lie on the ground, stripped of the memories of how he'd gotten there, or even who he might be. He stirred from his slumber, rising from where he slept. His surroundings slowly came clear, he was in what appeared to be an abandoned building, stripped of furniture and all the trappings of life. After a moment, he drifted back into sleep, his head hazy with amnesia.
18th Break
Memories drifted back to him in waves. Often from ancestral sources, as per his genetic memory gifted by Vri. From there he was able to cobble together his original identity, that of Rakvald. From the first to the last, he is the latter. The last thing he did remember, was the fall of Emea, when the forgotten Mage-lord had flayed the Nightmare King, and where Rakvald had consumed the caterpillar, only to become infected by some form of poison. Yes, it was coming back to him. Yet there seemed to be more that was eluding him.
He milled about the abandoned, large home, just trying to jog his memory.
24th Break
Rakvald couldn't sleep until he remembered everything that had led to this. He remembered his drinking buddy, Zarik from Quacia. How he'd imparted the spark of Becoming into him. He remembered all of his magic and capabilities. The memory was strongly embedded in the fibers of his Lotharro being, of his soul, and thus he was able to recover the memories much faster than the others.
Yes, there were others among them on the floor of that abandoned warehouse. In the midst of Rakvald's wanderings, he'd seen them, interacted with them. They were in various states of mental disarray, unable to communicate at worst, and unable to make sense at best. So Rakvald felt very lonely for the first day of his recovery from memory loss.
7th Break 64th of Ashan 720
Rakvald finally did get some rest, although it was often disturbed by incoherent babbling of one or another amnesiac, more of whom seemed to be arriving by the moment. When he awoke, he found his memory quite recovered, shy of all that had occurred to him while in Quacia beyond just remembering that he was there last. Perhaps as a member of the Order he should see to the sick and wounded here. He shrugged and shook his head. His talents lied in surgery and wound treatment. Not treatment of the mind.
Having recovered his bearings, he searched for an exit from that barren warehouse.
8th break
He found an old man wandering the warehouse with him. He seemed lost. As Rakvald looked at him, he seemed nothing special. A fifty-something old biqaj man, wearing a baggy robe of brown cloth and sandals. His beard was white, and his hands fine, like they'd not done a day of proper work in their life.
He was unresponsive to any attempts at communication or physical coercion. After a moment of observing him, Rakvald felt his spark, the Inheritor, urging him to sample the old man's flesh. He won't even notice... Just numb his hand, and pull off a finger! Rakvald was in no state to deny his spark its request. Besides, the old man appeared so off his rocker that he wouldn't be long for the world. Perhaps Rakvald could make use of his body?
So, he stopped the old man next to him and took his hand. From there, he enervated the feeling out of the finger and separated the muscles and skin and cartilage until the finger fell off. The whole process took several bits, but soon enough he was given the finger over.
The old man stammered incoherently, his finger now gone but sealed up so that it wouldn't catch an infection. Rakvald consoled himself with the idea that the old man wouldn't miss a small finger.
Once he had the piece of flesh, he began molding it into a new totem. He filled it with ether, and wrapped the blood, skin, and flesh with a shell of the bones in the finger. In the end, he was given a large bone-marble, with streaks of red and peach in it. This he slipped into his totem collection pouch. It took much of the rest of the trial, and into the next morning, which was just as well, as Rakvald found he couldn't sleep through this chill.
7th Break 65th of Ashan 720
Having finished the making of the totem, he now he just needed a place that was quiet, where he could perform the transformation. And perhaps find something to clothe his new form. WIth more amnesiacs leaving the warehouse by the bit, Rakvald was eventually able to find some privacy behind a large crate, with a set of blankets laid next to it. Here, he knelt and began the painful process.
His bones snapped out of joints, shrinking painfully into themselves. His muscles contracted and expanded in places, and gray-white hairs began growing out of his chin. His eyes turned red, as he began to scream his agony to the ceiling. Within a few more bits, he'd accomplished the full transformation to the old man. The nightshirt he'd arrived with being far too big for this new form, fell off of him. He was forced to wrap the homespun blankets around his form into a sort of Imperial Toga. The fabric was brown and a bit itchy, but it would suffice for his purposes until he found better clothing.
It was then he remembered the old man's totemic form had been formed from a severed finger. It wouldn't do. So he began the laborious process of regrowing the flesh. Infusing the area intended to grow with his ether, he first grew the bone. Wincing in pain as the raw bone extended from the cartilage of his hand's joint, he was nevertheless able to maintain concentration until the very tip of the finger was formed out of bone. Then, he started wrapping cartilage around the bone joints, then the flesh, then finally the skin and nail.
Before long, Pygmalion the man was whole again, albeit showing the corruption mutations of Rakvald on his arm, a red and useless eye blinking and tearing with blood like an open ulcer. On his back, bristles of boar's hair, and a large birthmark. On his chest an elaborate tattoo of a boar's head.
He took a small nail out of a nearby crate and used it to cinch his blanket around his body, securing it there so he wouldn't have to hold it up. From all his exertions, he needed a rest and decided to sleep away the drain of his ether behind that crate.
10th Break
Pygmalion awoke to the sounds of conversation nearby. Apparently, the Amnesiacs were regaining their faculties. He only hoped the old man would stay addled, so he wouldn't have to contend with a doppelganger. Well, if it came to that he had all his fingers, while the Doppelganger had gone missing! Perhaps that would make him stand out as the true Pygmalion.
He sneaked out from behind the crate, trying to avoid notice as he slipped out the back entrance of the warehouse. The place he emerged to was humble, with many simply constructed buildings and facilities. Pygmalion had arrived at Beacon, though he didn't know it quite yet.
Nevertheless, he found a place where he could gain more information about his own whereabouts, and perhaps try to find clues as to how he'd gotten all the way over to this side of the world.
Still, his memories of being in Quacia eluded him, and he couldn't for the life of him recall them yet. The old man wandered the streets of beacon for some time, looking very lost and yet curious about his surroundings. The place was certainly quaint, not anywhere near on the level of the grandeur of Quacia, that ancient city that predated the Cataclysm and so many other disasters.
He tried to think of his home, anything to jog his memory of the last few seasons. Still, nothing or very little occurred to him. He missed the hallowed stones of his home and most of all the people who could speak his own fluent language. After a while of walking through the village of Beacon, he sat down on a doorstep and gave to pondering his situation.
The totem pouch was hanging from his neck still, as he held it with one hand. He closed his eyes for a few trills and recalled to memory the last moments leading up to his waking here. There was blood, flashes of radiant power exerted upon him, and then, silence. He couldn't recall what had happened, yet he knew it was important, and possibly involving the cult of the Wounded God.
He shook his head out of these confusing thoughts and lifted himself back onto his feet with a grunt.
Pygmalion was hungry and would need to find something to eat soon. Thankfully, there appeared to be plenty of fresh fish hanging from a nearby line, perhaps he could poach some of these fish and cook them on the nearby fires...
