"Great. We can talk more about it later, over supper. For now, why don't you rest a bit, and try to gather your thoughts," Berrodin said. He gestured towards an old oak wardrobe. "If you wish to change, you'll find some clothes in there that should fit. They belonged to my son."
"He won't mind?" Cyrus asked.
"Honestly, I doubt he remembers they're here," Berrodin said. He made his way to the door. "Feel free to take what you want."
With that, the old man slipped out, shutting the door behind him. As his footsteps faded, Cyrus popped open the wardrobe. A layer of dust rested on the stacks of tunics and trousers inside. After brushing them clean, Cyrus sifted through the clothes until he settled on a dark grey tunic and black trousers.
The straw cot crinkled as he sat back down. Outside, a dark cover of clouds flowed down from the mountains, the rumble of thunder echoing off the peaks.
'It looks like quite the storm is approaching,' Cyrus thought. He rubbed the amulet, feeling a sense of calm from the cool metal.
…
A light patter of rain tapped against the window as evening came to pass. Cyrus watched the drops run down the glass, before puddling together on the sill.
He pulled his gaze away as Berrodin knocked on his door, before pushing it open.
"It's growing late, and I was thinking about heading to the tavern for supper. Would you care to join me?"
"A bit of food would be nice," Cyrus said. As he climbed to his feet, Berrodin studied him.
"The clothes look good on you. I'm glad they fit. Though you'll need a cloak. One moment," Berrodin said. He disappeared down the hall, before returning with a dark green cloak made from wool.
"Here. This one should work."
Cyrus slipped the cloak over his shoulders, and fastened it with a miniature bronze hammer.
"This is quite nice," Cyrus said, studying the clasp.
Berrodin smiled, his eyes growing distant. "It was a gift from my late wife, long ago. She often bought me things like this."
The old man cleared his throat. "But enough about that. It's getting late, and the tavern is sure to be crowded."
Berrodin led the way through the house, nimbly stepping around baskets and bushels of different herbs. The living room itself was stocked from the floor to the ceiling, with a cot pushed up to the wall, and a basket of stained rags beside it.
"Please forgive the mess. I haven't had much time to clean up ever since the fishermen brought you here. You were in quite the state when you got here."
"From what I can tell, you did a good job tending my wounds," Cyrus said. He pulled his cloak tighter, and raised the hood as Berrodin opened the door.
The cold rain stung his cheeks as they stepped outside, and the wind ruffled his hair. Berrodin snapped the door shut, before gesturing down the road.
"This way."
As they slipped around the forming puddles, Cyrus noticed an old hut beside the house. A crack of lightning revealed a cracked forge, and rusted anvil, covered in a layer of soot.
"Is that yours?" Cyrus asked.
Berrodin glanced at the hut. "It is, but I haven't used it for a long time. To tell you the truth, I hardly remember how it feels to hold a hammer anymore."
They turned down a side road, before coming to a stop before a spacious building. The windows glowed with a brilliant golden hue, and the clamor of people could be heard through the walls.
Cyrus followed Berrodin through the tavern's door, and was met by the mouth-watering aroma of beef and fresh loaves. Inside, the tables were packed as the villagers piled in, shouting over one another for food and drink. A few glanced in their direction, before turning back to their tables.
'I didn't expect it to be this busy,' Cyrus thought, pulling back his hood. He stepped to the side as a group of men came barging in behind them. A few muttered apologies as they swept past, before making their way to the crackling fireplace.
"Come on. Let's get away from the door before we're trampled," Berrodin said. He guided them to a sleek counter along the far back wall, careful not to bump into anyone.
A lean man waited for them, wiping up a puddle of spilled mead. He glanced up with a smile, and slipped the rag into his belt loop.
"Berrodin. It's good to see you again." The man glanced at Cyrus. "I take it you are the one they found lost at sea? The name is Morlen."
"Cyrus." He nodded to a few men sitting further down the bar.
Morlen scratched his chin. "Cyrus, huh? I haven't heard that name before. Sounds northernish… Hmm, did you come from Railvyn?"
"I'm afraid I don't know. My name is all I can remember," Cyrus said.
"A bit of memory loss, huh?" Morlen asked. He frowned. "That must be tough. I've always wondered what it'd be like to lose my memories. Was it strange to wake up in an unfamiliar place?"
"Enough of your questions, Morlen," Berrodin said. "We're hungry, and don't have time for your badgering."
Berrodin glanced around the room, then gestured towards a booth in the corner, beneath a circle glass window. "We'll take two mugs of mead, and some food. We'll be sitting over there."
Morlen arched his brow, then nodded. "Very well. I'll have Gaila bring it out to you. Just let her know if you need anything else."
"Thank you," Berrodin said. He guided Cyrus away from the counter, and muttered beneath his breath. "I apologize for that. Morlen is a good man, but once you get him started there's no knowing when he'll stop."
"Do you think he was right? Could I be from the north?" Cyrus asked.
"It's possible. There are a total of thirteen human kingdoms, four of which are north to us. Berrodin said. He slid into the booth, and Cyrus settled on the opposite side. "You have Faldersel, Cilthrin, Delrein, and finally Railvyn. Do any of those places sound familiar?"
Cyrus thought about it, before shaking his head. "I'm afraid not."
Berrodin furrowed his brow. "Well, there's still time to remember. I wouldn't worry about it just yet."