Where was he?
He was in a tent, and had no idea how he had come to be there.
He could hear water, and did not know from whence it came or where it flowed, what name the locals gave it, or even if it had a name.
With that thought, he wasn't certain what his own name was — there were far too many to choose from, and none of them felt entirely right or comfortable.
There were things he did know, however. He knew without question that there was a sharp steel sword under the cot, and an equally sharp knife under the pillow.
He knew he wasn't alone in this excursion — recalling a firm, familiar grip on his shoulder, a brush of callused fingers against his lips, a fleeting taste of heather and honey and green
— though he was currently alone in the tent, and the cot was only just wide enough for one, so it seemed likely that whoever he was with had their own accommodation.
His mind filled with images of companionship, fire-bright eyes, laughter as someone slid off a three-legged stool to land at a be-furred hem with comically florid apologies.
He knew he was in an encampment, among (allies, friends, fellow comrades in arms,) the guest of a household, in the midst of other groups,
like a stone in the middle of the rings it made in a pond.
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