A Hin's Gotter Do, Whet a Hin's Gotter Do.

[Ebannon]

He was small, much smaller than he should be, and looking up at the warm, strong face of halfling male who's rugged handsomeness was undeniable despite the stress a life of hard labor. Somehow in the haziness of dream logic he knew the halfling to be his father. He was a child sitting on the earthen floor of a meager hut that smelled of coal and horses. His father awkwardly wore a set of ill-fitting chainmail. Covering his father’s breast was a tunic bearing an azure and white crest depicting a falcon atop a morningstar. His father's eyes, filled with apologetic love, met his and the older halfling’s features creased in a reassuring smile. Turning, his father, pressed through the thatch door and into the streaming light.

And then suddenly the world changed. Logan blinked and lifted his head off the leaves and grass of the forest floor. A faint smell of piss and strawberries wafted from the dark wool of the cloak he had covered himself with. He shook the morning's chill from his limbs, and instinctively patted himself to check that he had kept his belongings through the night. The cold had caused a healthy crust to form on the inside of his nose, which he soon removed and wiped on the firm leather of his pant cuff.

The threads of the dream slipped from his consciousness as the birds chittered in the canopy above. Logan looked about the small camp. The fire had gone out during the drizzles which faded in and out during the night. Logan's face set into its natural vicious smirk as he dug through the beaten cloth pouches of his pack looking for food. His hand seized on a bloody piece of vellum which cocooned a hunk of raw goblin meat he had cut from a fresh kill in the twilight of the previous day. Logan's yellowed teeth worked the flesh in silence as he stared down the footpath absently.

"Well, der h'orc dun got 'is tribe now, and der church folk's as liable ter 'ang me inner neck noose as lookit me," he thought to himself.

Logan's small hands disappeared behind his back and appeared lovingly gripping a pair of tiny blades. His smirk grew until a toothy grin was smeared across his dirty face.

"Guess I's gonner 'ave ter look affer myself."

[Ebannon]

Many months later Logan again awoke on the soft fragrant earth, stirred by the sounds of falling water, the growing heat of the rising sun, and rustling of the many animals in the grove. The now familiar panick gripping him as his slipped out of the embrace of sleep to realize that his name, his life, his identity were lost to him.

In his cell at City Hall he had been able to handle the loss of his memory. The little world of Charlie's kindness, Janice's grouchiness, and Jane's flustered innocent determination was small and manageable. Here under the open sky and endless forrest it all seemed too big ... much to vast... frieghteningly alien.

His first encounter with those outside of the City hall had been bloody... they had slashed at him as he was pulled along by the Troll. His second encounter had been pathetic. The large man named Hano and his silver-haired woman had nearly taken weapons to him on sight and turned him over to the Legion. Logan laid back on the grass feeling hopeless lost and alone. Tears began to brim on the edges of his eyes as felt unable to understand any of what was happening. Logan set his head back down on the grass without purpose staring ahead at nothing and waited for it all to make sense.

[Ebannon]

The sound of leather scuffing on cobblestones caused Logan press against the brick and mortar of the Half-Pint in alarm. Walking the city streets was dangerous, he was wanted. Wanted for crimes that he could not even recall, and if had any chance of understanding and overcoming his situation he would need to get those memories back. He peered out from under the concealing folds of his dusk-colored hood as he slipped his head from the shadows growing with the fading sun. A woman in a cornflower dress chased after an unruly and grubby child.

Relieved he thought to himself, "Silly idgit, jest a lady an' 'er tot. Quit jumpin' at ghosts."

Still as death and quiet as a spider he let the pair pass him by without notice, obsorbed in their own city-driven lives. Peeling from the wall he followed the uneven cobblestones through the turning streets of Sundren until he made his way to the thick gnarled double-doors of City's library. Somewhere in his unconsious mind he drew on skills of a practiced burglar, lifiting the door as he opened it to lessen friction, and avoid the complaining creaks and groans that aged wood often gave up.

The smell of dust and aging parchment carried heavy in the dry air of the library. He stood in the doorway allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He spotted a soft man in green formless robes entrenched in stacks of books which he catalogued furiously with a long quill and ink.

Again he moved with thoughtless practice towards the Librarian's high desk, his feet finding the cross beams under the floor to support his weight, he glided noiseslessly across the warped floorboards. Logan spoke deliberately into the fabric of his hood to muffle his voice, unsure if the librarian knew him from his life before the cell.

"Oiyer, I's look'n fer any books yer might 'ave on memory loss."

Nervously, his eyes moved across the Librarian's face, waiting for his reaction.

((Anyone with the Proper Auth-or-it-tay! is invited to Post for Seer Marcus or whomever happens to be at the Library))