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“Well, the world ain't safe, I can tell you that much.” The barbarian spat in the dust. “The enemy's enslaved most o' the land. We could turn to the Resistance, the Protectorate or even the Africans for 'elp, but they're too far off an' strugglin' just as much as us. We didn't 'ave a choice but to wake you up, the old god slumberin' 'neath the mountain.” A tenative pause. “... But you say you ain't a god. You can 'elp us though, can't you?”
“I will.” Though you might regret it, you gave your word. You'll do what you can for this savage and his village. “I'll need to know who I'm helping first.” The barbarian blinks. Clearly he didn't realise that he never bothered with pleasantries.
“Uh, I'm Jurvaz an' my tribe, we're the Voss. What 'bout you? What sort o' names are gods given?” He squints at you as you finish suiting up. You're forced to pause for a couple of seconds as you figure out an answer – you don't actually know your name, nor is there any evidence of it on any of your personal effects.
>Three Hundred. That's the number imprinted on the inside of your left wrist. You don't know what it's supposed to mean, but it's the only identifying thing you have on your person.
>Argie. The letters <span class="mu-s">RG</span> seem to be plastered on almost everything inside of this bunker. It might not be your name, but it could be an organisation you once belonged to.
>Nomen. For whatever reason, you just recalled a scrap of Latin. It simply means 'name' and it will suffice as a placeholder, until you figure out what your real name is.
>Tell the truth about your missing memories and allow Jurvaz to name you. Perhaps this will be a step towards creating trust between you and this tribesman.
>Write-in. If you can figure out a better name that you would prefer to be called, feel free to suggest it. So long as it isn't ridiculous and other people like it, I'll go with it.
