>>5127931“An experience for an experience? I think that would sound fair.” You declare, prompting a solemn nod from your compatriot.
“Fair. Yes.” Rupert agrees, settling a little closer to you as the shop keeper regards the two of you with an amused smirk before a potential customer draws her attentions away. “May I start?”
“Of course.” You concede, in no great rush to confess your fears to a largely unknown entity.
“I existed since the Crucible’s start. But my eyes were closed. It was not long after I woke. I was found by two Daughters. Good friends. Camila and Marchesa.” The amalgam begins, a subtle nod towards the shopkeep revealing the older woman’s name. “As I said—I fought. They spoke. I listened. Then, we traveled.”
“…For how long, until you came here?” It takes a gentle bit of prompting from you to make Rupert continue his tale, as his mind seemed to drift a bit.
“Half a year. But it was two months ago.” He says, and before you can ask for clarification, he adds; “When Camila died.”
“I’m…you have my condolences.” You say, at a loss for what else that could to say to comfort someone you barely know.
“She ran to help a settlement. It was being attacked by the Waystation’s Guardian. She commanded me to take Marchesa. The two of us were to help the fleeing survivors. We could not recover her remains.” He explains softly, his voice wistful, but not sorrowful. Accepting, if you had to put a word to how he sounds, in this moment. “Marchesa and I came here. Have been here, for two months. She does not understand me. But she is kind. That is all that matters, I think.”
A pause, and then, as he look to you once more; “What of you, friend?”
…’Friend?’ A bit of a bold assumption, but you appreciate the amalgam’s manners, all the same. As you begin to recount your travels up to this point, you find yourself stumbling over your own narrative. Not for any lack of memory, but for the simple fact that you’ve never retold it, before…and the more you recount, the more another factor begins to rear its head once more.
“Is something wrong?” Rupert asks, head tilting to one side as his antlers twitch of their own accord.
“Yes, it’s just…” You hesitate a moment, before steeling your resolve to address the topic at the forefront of your worries. “…for a while since I ‘woke up’, as you say, I keep having these thoughts. These intrusive things that feel like they don’t belong to me. I don’t know what to call them except-“
“Memories.”
Startled, you meet the amalgam’s eyes to find them wide, their odd pupils dilated a shining bright.
“…yes. Memories.” You relent, shifting on the pillow to face your host completely. “Have you had the same issues?”
(Continued)
