A day had passed since Teldryn’s emergence from the catacombs of Sothd’ra, the city in which he had somehow found himself. He was renting a cheap bunk in a poorer corner of the city, and was downstairs enjoying a mug of cheap wine. Oddly enough, he could not pin-down exactly where he had passed-out unconscious. The city was well-known, and he, being a well-travelled sort, had heard of the Holy Sand-Fortress of Sothd’ra — everyone had, for not twenty years ago the city was almost completely destroyed.
The combined armies of the Western vagabonds besieged the city, and it was only Aethred, the Dawn King, who managed to repel the invaders. However, the battle was one which left a lasting impact on Sothd’ra as the city’s entire priestesshood was defiled and then brutally murdered, and with no blood-successors to carry on the priestess’ traditions, the city lost its teychus, its essence, its divinely-ordained luck. It had fallen out of good graces with the Creator and was doomed to destruction one way or another.
It occurred to Teldryn that his waking up in Sothd’ra was better than otherwise, however. At least for now the city still had walls. The uncivilised West these days was not somewhere one would want to be found unconscious by the wrong people. What actually troubled him more than his waking in a cursed city was actually what one of the burrialmen said… something about a “village temple.” Teldryn could not remember where he exactly passed unconscious, and the nearest temple outside of Sothd’ra was a few miles north into the desert, at least according to a map he “procured” from a local barterer. There was a blank space in his memory between a small coastal hamlet he was passing through and this supposed temple he had woke up in. Yet, if he passed-out at the temple, how did he arrive in Sothd’ra? Questions, questions, questions. His gut told him to follow that word, though; “Temple.”
Something stirred in the back of his mind at the sound of the word, “Tem-“… “-ple”… he quietly repeated to himself again and again, only for his lulling to be interrupted by a deep, coarse voice calling his name.
“Teldryn you little git!” called the voice — familiar as it was to him, Teldryn could not put a face to it. “Oi!” Looking through the crowd of people who had gathered for their evening drinks at the inn, he spotted a tall oxman wearing a chain and leather cuirass walking towards him. “Hengest!” Teldryn blurted out, a mouthful of wine spat-out to say it. “What by the Heavens are you here for, old friend?” “I’d ask you the bloody same, Tel! You’re a wanted man!”
“That can’t be good…” Teldryn thought to himself.