Samrith Trisven

It felt good to hold a sword, natural even. It felt good to move through the motions of a sword duel, movements almost instinctual they were so well-honed. Even with muscles weakened by disuse and a practice sword that felt slightly off-balanced, it felt good to be doing something active, something he’d clearly done before and had been decently proficient at.

Not that he could remember when or how he’d learned to fight. Or where his own sword was. His dueling partner, Sharai, a gray-skinned daemon woman in the light armor of the healing house guard, finally called an end to the fight with an offer of truce. He assumed she could see his arms shaking from the effort of so much exercise after months of bed rest. “Well,” she said, barely sounding winded, “someone taught you how to handle a sword. Pretty well, too, if you can fight so well after being laid up.” She tucked a lock of fiery red hair that had come free of her braid back behind one of the bone-colored horns that grew from her forehead and curved gently toward the back of her head. “If only I could remember who taught me,” he replied. The sword slipped from his trembling hand then, to his embarrassment. He bent to pick it up, fighting a wave of dizziness from straightening too quickly. “The healers will sort you out,” she assured him as she took the sword from his hands and set it in the rack of practice swords, handing him a small towel to wipe his face with, which he did. He wasn’t certain he believed her assurance, given that he’d been at the healing house for months and still couldn’t remember anything prior to waking up on a beach surrounded by shipwreck debris.