Creighton
By Gary Astleford

        It was the cold wind blowing on his face that woke him. His head pounded, a dozen drums rolling like thunder in his skull. He was laying on his back, and as his vision cleared he could make out the roiling clouds of an autumn sky above him. The smell of rain was strong upon the air, yet the dampness on his brow was neither dew nor sweat. With a trembling hand he reached to his scalp, and his fingers came back sticky with blood.
        He rolled over, rising to his knees. Thin, spindly trees sprouted from the mulched earth that surrounded him, their dead leaves making a carpet across the forest floor. Their boughs creaked in the wind, sounding like the dried bones of the dead after months of interred slumber. His head swam suddenly, and he fell into a crawl, retching bile and black froth onto the fallen leaves. After a few moments the nausea passed. He stood, shaking with cold and sickness, and took a few steps forward, stumbling but not falling.
        The clothes he wore were fine and woven of blue silk, splotched with old bloodstains that dyed the cloth an ugly purplish-brown. A long, thin-bladed sword hung in a scabbard from his belt, while a shorter blade was sheathed along his right thigh. His hands brushed over the hilt of the rapier before grasping it. Though he could not recall the weapon, it felt natural in his grip as he drew it forth and gave it a weak, experimental swing.
        He chuckled then, but he knew not why. It seemed ridiculous, somehow, that he was here, even though "here" was no place that he recognized with any clarity. He sheathed the rapier, and it settled into its scabbard with an oddly familiar click. "One direction is as good as any," he rasped, wincing at the rawness of his throat. He stumbling onward.
        The evening grew darker and colder, just as his steps grew less and less steady. Rain began to fall, the icy drops punctuated by pea-sized hailstones that pelted his shoulders and head relentlessly. He mumbled a curse, but continued to force himself onward. Something within him drove him on, a strength of will that was not entirely his own. A voice murmured in the back of his head, mingling with the throbbing ache in his temples, but he couldn't make out the words.


        It was long hours of frigid wetness later that the rain yielded to drizzle. The darkness was nearly complete, and the silence was broken only by his ragged breathing and the tread of his feet on the soggy leaves. The comforting aroma of wood smoke drifted on the air, growing stronger as he walked. The scent coaxed him onward, even as the voice in his head grew silent. Fear, present but heretofore ignored, raked its icy claws up his spine. He clapped a numbed hand over his mouth to stifle a cry for help that was rising, unbidden, from his chest.
        His composure regained, he moved forward once more. A light flickered in the distance. Drawing closer, he could see the outline of a dwelling, the light spilling from its single window like a beacon of hope. He ran then, the fear finally taking control of his legs. He stumbled, tripping over something unseen, and fell with a clatter upon the ground.
        The blackness returned as his eyes clamped shut with pain and shock. His body, cold and aching, seemed suddenly far away. A sound echoed in the distance, a door swinging open on rusty, creaking hinges. A voice, this time clear and feminine, called out, and he answered, though he did not know what he had said.


        "Creighton."
        His eyes snapped open and shifted towards the voice that had spoken the unfamiliar word.
        A woman, aged but comely, leaned over him, staring at him. Her eyes were like green amber, and her face was framed by hair that must've once been red, but which was now run through with streaks of gray. "Creighton," she said again.
        "Who?" he managed.
        "Is that your name?" she asked him, seemingly surprised that he had spoken at all.
        He shrugged, the movement shooting sharp pains through his back and chest. "I…" he began, but his speech faltered. His name? He couldn't remember. "I don't know," he finished.
        The woman pulled away from him, studying him with open suspicion. "It was the last thing you said before you passed out."
        He tried to sit up, but his strength had left him. If he'd ever had it to begin with.
        "Easy!" the woman snapped at him. "You'll open the stitches up, and then where will you be? Bleeding again, that's where. So lay still."
        It wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter, as weak as he was. He lay still while she tended him, her gentle hands pulling the sheets back from his naked body. A poultice was tied about his left shoulder, just below his collar bone. She lifted it and took a peek underneath. "Who put a knife to you?" she asked, her eyes glancing up from the wound.
        "I've been stabbed?" He couldn't remember being wounded. He couldn't remember anything.
        She chortled without humor. "A couple of times, aye," she said, nodding. "Now help me roll you over so I can get to the one on your back." It took some doing, but between the two of them, they managed to get him onto his side. As he panted, she clucked and prodded his back. "Ruined that nice suit of yours something awful."
        Satisfied, she helped him onto his back once more. He made as if to speak, but she silenced him with a pointed look. "Sleep now. We'll talk more tomorrow."


        Weeks went slowly by, and under the woman's care he regained his strength. She persisted in calling him "Creighton." The uncertainty of a name that might not be his own nagged and tugged at his soul, yet he made no protest.
        In the early days of Creighton's convalescence, the woman had been aloof, tending and feeding him, but little else. She refrained from speaking to him at length, and it seemed that she preferred to keep their relationship more or less "professional." As the days passed, her words became more frequent, and she would speak to him at length about trivial things. She had been a long time without anyone to speak to, it seemed.
        Her name was Mallory. Her husband had died several years ago, and she supported herself with midwifery in the nearby town of West Haven. She was barren, and had provided no sons to her husband. Sons would have made her life easier, now that she was alone, but fate had not favored her in that regard.
        It seemed a cruel joke, she'd said, that a midwife would be unable to birth children of her own. She was forever cursed to see the happy spark of motherhood in the eyes of young women, yet she would never know such elation herself. It had weighed heavily upon her husband, too, but he remaining true to her despite her inability to conceive.
        "What happened to him?" Creighton asked her as they sat for their supper one evening.
        Mallory rubbed her chin absently with her left hand, while her right stirred a small bowl of cooling broth with a horn spoon. "He was killed."
        He nodded quietly, noting the sadness of her face, the set of her jaw, and the dampness at the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry to have asked."
        "'Tis no matter," she said. "It was a long time ago."
        "Have you ever thought to remarry?" He tried to seem earnest with his question, perhaps to offer her some alternative to her solitary life.
        Her green eyes flickered across his face, searching for a trace of insincerity in his expression. "Who would marry me, Creighton? I'm no longer a young girl, and my womb may as well be a grave for all the life it can beget."
        "You're a lovely woman, Mallory," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Not even your years can hide that from the eyes of men, though you may try to hide it away from them in this cottage."


        It was then that her mien towards him changed. He had rekindled a hope in her heart, but it was now obvious what that hope entailed. He could see the way that she looked at him. Longing, youthful in its intensity, mingled with the desperation in her eyes. Even though his muddled mind held no memory of women or their ways, it was obvious that she had grown fond of him.
        He didn't blame her for her feelings. She had lived alone for many years since the death of her husband, a woman with no family and only a few friends living in West Haven. She grew more attached to him as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into a month. Though he did not spurn her advances, neither did he accept them with any degree of warmth or longing. The comfort of Creighton's presence in her empty life, no matter how temporary, was payment, of a sort, for the healing she had given him.


        Creighton was startled awake. He'd been dreaming just then, but the memory of it was slipping away like water through his fingers. There'd been a voice, deep and droning, in the back of his mind, speaking in riddles and tongues. He tried to capture those words, to somehow fit them into the puzzle that his life had become, but they faded like mist into the darkness of the room.
        It was Mallory, slipping between the warm sheets of his bed, that had woken him. Her naked skin brushed against his own, and her head rested gently upon his shoulder. The scar there, still pink and fresh, ached with the memory of razor-sharp steel. "Do you love me?" she whispered in the darkness, pulling close to him. He didn't answer her, nor did she ever ask him again.


        "Have you any idea where I came from?" Creighton asked.
        "No," Mallory answered. She was sewing the hem on a pair of her husband's trousers, fitting them to Creighton.
        "All I said when you found me was my name? Nothing else?"
        She sighed wearily. "Nothing else. I've told you that a score of times already, yet you persist in asking again and again. Can't you let it rest?"
        "I don't know who I am, Mallory. I don't even know if 'Creighton' is my true name or not."
        "What does it matter?" she asked. "You're here now, and you're 'Creighton' to me."
        "I have no memory of my past," he answered. "Wouldn't you be curious, were you in my shoes?"
        She looked away from him, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth. "You'd been cut up, left for dead. Whatever life you've left behind, it doesn't appear to have agreed with you."
        He sighed. She was stubborn, and he knew that pushing the subject would only make matters worse. It made little sense to rile her, but he'd grown impatient with her evasions. He couldn't help but think that Mallory was hiding something from him.
        "And what of this?" he asked, pointing to the tattoo on his left palm. It was in the shape of a seven-pointed star, rendered in black ink that glinted like quicksilver in the moonlight. Mallory didn't look away from the fire. Her indifferent silence mocked him, and his face grew red and hot. "If men had wanted me dead, it's obvious they've failed. What's to stop them from coming for me again? What will stop them from killing me, or anyone I happen to be with?"
        This time she did raise her eyes, though she wouldn't meet his gaze. "Be thankful for the life you have, Creighton. The gods have blessed you with a second chance." Her words, spoken slowly, betrayed no emotion. "Not all men are gifted with such an opportunity."
        A strange gift, he thought, to be left for dead and stripped of one's identity. He looked again at his palm, trying to puzzle out its meaning.


        "You're leaving."
        He looked up from the stump where he'd been chopping wood, and stinging sweat ran into his eyes. Mallory was standing several feet away, her eyes red. He wiped his brow and swung the axe again. Wood split and scattered, clattering upon the ground in slivers and shards. "I'd given it some thought," he answered, though he knew that she had not asked him a question.
        "Do you know what awaits you out there?" she asked him, her jaw trembling as she pointed off in the general direction of West Haven.
        He sat heavily upon the stump and stared at her, the axe between his knees.
        "Death," she said, answering her own question. "If you leave this place, you'll be killed. Is that the sort of explanation you're looking for?"
        "If I die here or there, what difference is made?" he countered. "Each day I stay here, I am cursed with more questions than answers. Each day I stay here, I expose you to risk. I'd not wish for you to come to harm on my account."
        Mallory wiped at her cheek, which was wet with tears. "If you leave me alone, it would wound me more deeply than any weapon of man," she answered. "I would rather die than see you abandon me."
        He shook his head. "For all I know, I've got friends in the world. Or a family. There must be someone who can tell me who I am, where I come from, and why I am here."
        "Men like you don't make families, you destroy them." Mallory blinked in surprise at the venom of her own words. She covered her mouth with one of her thin hands and began to sob.
        He stared at her, his gaze wounded and unwavering. "I want my things. I know I had weapons when I came here. I want them, and everything else that you found on my body."
        She continued to weep, but nodded to his request.


        Mallory wouldn't speak to him.
        The silence in the single room of her cottage was oppressive, punctuated only by the crackling of the hearth. His blades, sheathed and hanging from his belt, were the only comfortable items that he wore. The rest of his clothing was second-hand, garments taken from the piles of laundry that had sat unworn since her husband's death.
        He gathered the rest of his things and stepped towards the door. He undid the latch and swung it open, inviting the cold winter air inside. He hesitated, turning to look at Mallory. "Thank you, Mallory. I'll come back someday, when I know who I am. I promise."
        Mallory made no reply.
        Creighton left then, shutting the door gently behind him and walking in the direction of West Haven. He could hear Mallory sobbing. He continued on until the sounds of her grief were lost in the creaking of the trees and the scuff of his boots upon the ground. He could find no more answers here.

end

Creighton: Male Human Rog2/Swb3; CR 5; Medium-Size Humanoid; HD 2d6+3d10+10; hp 32+1d10+1d6; Init +3 (+3 Dex); Spd 30 ft. (6 squares); AC 17, touch 13, flat-footed 13; Base Atk +4; Grp +5; Atk +9 melee (1d6+1+3, rapier); Full Atk: +7 melee (1d6+1+3, rapier) and +6 melee (1d6+3, shortsword), or +7 ranged (1d8+1, mighty composite longbow +1); SA Insightful strike +3, sneak attack +1d6; SQ Evasion, grace +1, trapfinding; AL LN; SV Fort +5, Ref +8, Will +2; Str 13, Dex 16, Con 14, Int 16, Wis 13, Cha 15.
        Skills and Feats: Balance +15, Bluff +10, Climb +8, Diplomacy +14, Disguise +11, Escape Artist +13, Gather Information +7, Intimidate +9, Jump +11, Sense Motive +9, Tumble +13; Agile, Two-Weapon Defense, Two-Weapon Fighting, Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus.
        Languages: Speak Common, plus 2 extra languages TBD.
        Possessions: Backpack (2 gp), bedroll (1 sp), belt pouch x2 (2 gp), bottle of fine wine (10 gp), brooch of gold and lapis (50 gp), bullseye lantern (12 gp), caltrops x2 (2 gp), candle x5 (5 cp), courtier's outfit (30 gp), crowbar (2 gp), disguise kit (50 gp), flint & steel (1 gp), grappling hook (1 gp), leather gloves (5 sp), map case (1 gp), mess kit (6 sp), money belt (4 gp), sack x2 (2 sp), silk rope x50 feet (10 gp), small steel mirror (10 gp), smuggler's boots (10 gp), soap x1 pound (5 sp), oil flask x5 (5 sp), trail rations x7 days (35 sp), traveler's outfit (free), various items of clothing (50 gp), waterskin (1 gp), whetstone (2 cp), winter blanket (5 sp), wool cloak (5 sp).
        Animals & Tack: Bit & bridle (2 gp), light horse (75 gp), riding saddle (10 gp), saddlebags (4 gp).
        Arms & Armor: Arrows x20 (1 gp), dagger (2 gp), masterwork cold iron rapier (340 gp), masterwork short sword (310 gp), masterwork studded leather armor (175 gp), mighty composite longbow +1 (200 gp).
        Arcane & Magical Items: Oil of magic weapon x2 (100 gp), potion of cure light wounds x5 (250 gp).
        Remaining Wealth: 74 gp, 18 sp, 23 cp.

Quote: "If I were you, sir, I'd take my hands off of the lady. That is, unless you'd rather I take your hands off altogether."
Description: Creighton is a little on the short side, standing just above 5'9" tall. He's lean, athletic, and flexible. His hair is brown and immaculately trimmed, as are his beard and moustache, and his eyes are brown and flecked with hazel.
        He's a handsome fellow, and he knows it, but he doesn't attempt to flaunt it. He is especially respectful of women, honoring their wishes and offering them assistance at every opportunity. This is due, primarily, to a sense of chivalry, and not because he is interested in furthering any sort of carnal agenda. He will never refrain from defending a woman's honor, and is not afraid of dueling in order to settle a score.
        There is a black tattoo of a seven-pointed star on his left palm, and Creighton keeps this covered with a pair of black leather gloves. He dresses well, and keeps a good number of clothes on hand for just about any occasion. He prefers to wear blue clothing, accentuating his outfits with black and gold.
Background: Creighton is a mystery, even to himself. Nearly a year ago, he awoke in the woods to the east of West Haven with no memory. Taken in by a kind widow, he was nursed back to health. The question of his origin continued to plague him, so he set out into the world to seek an answer to his mystery. He has yet to find any conclusive evidence, and feels that he may eventually find what he seeks in the east.
Allies: None.
Enemies: Though he doesn't know who they are, Creighton is sure that he has enemies. He had been wounded prior to losing his memories, and he carries the scars to this day. The folk who had attempted to take his life continue to remain unknown to him.
Tactics: Creighton prefers to fight in a quick and sophisticated manner. He has no idea where he learned to wage war, but he is a capable combatant who is as comfortable with a weapon in each hand as he is with his rapier in one. He is an expert at feinting, parrying, and defense, and will attempt to lure his opponent into a false sense of security before impaling them with a well-aimed strike.