Deep breath, eyes open...

Go ahead and blink. There's always time to blink.

Check: is there danger?

Parry saw a ceiling, which meant he was indoors. Sunlight through a window meant shelter. Everything was in focus, so he wasn't an infant.

Reincarnating at birth is a nightmare of helplessness, boredom, and worst of all, fragmented thinking. Dozens--hundreds?--of times Parry started from infancy, desperately holding to whatever thoughts might help him survive years later. There were advantages, a few precious and even powerful ones, but that babbling, helpless life was a kind of solitary confinement, and that way lay madness.

Madness won't help you. The Mumbling Magic is versatile, but weak. Stay sane, it's the best option.

The room had some luxuries. Not a canopy bed, but more than a straw pallet, and he wasn't rooming with farm animals. Glass in the window, but petit glazing, no panes. Candles, not glow stones. A chair, a desk...literacy? He couldn't see more from here.

Alone, then, no immediate danger, but also glorious, precious time to himself. He had to understand his situation immediately; it could all change in an instant.

How many times were you assassinated in your first hour? Remember that time you hatched, tumbled from the eggshell, and were consumed instantly by a fern marten?

Young arms, clean hands, few callouses. No scars from chains, so unlikely to be a slave.

There's racial slavery in Flotsam, in the Quinpool Republic and...and... Think! Remember all you can. I can't wait to destroy this world. Peesha! There's elven slavery in Peesha.

He moved everything. Legs, head, core, arms, shoulders, encountering no pain, no restriction. He sat up, comfortable sheets...linen?...slipping down. Male, early teen, fit, healthy? He couldn't assume health, he could have any of a thousand ailments or limitations, hidden, waiting to betray him.

Assume nothing, check everything. He gave himself a moment to close his eyes and affirm his most basic truth:

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The Creator is your enemy. The world they made is your battleground and the source of your weaponry. Your tools are your wits, your memories and whatever clues you left yourself from thousands of previous lives. Master every power, arm yourself with every relic, every spell, every scrap of knowledge to reach the end. Destroy the Creator.

And he was a right bastard at the end, this time. Pissed at me for messing with his precious system.

Parry permitted himself a smile. Getting a rise out of his tormentor? Worth it, no matter what fiendish revenge would come due.

He stood up, glanced around for a mirror? No such luck. Right to the desk. Yes! quills, a sharpening knife, ink, parchment, sand, and a few sheets with writing...

Parry held his breath. Would he know the language? Would he be literate? There's no greater limit to a new human life than illiteracy. He recognized few scattered notes in several hands, listing medicinal herbs and a formula for a poultice, weights and costs tallied on the right. He could read.

The relief it nearly knocked him down.

You have the language and you can read and write. You're not an infant or a toddler. You're not sick (don't assume! you don't feel sick, that's all you know), your limbs work, your mind is clear. Not wealthy, but you're able to spend the night in a clean, dry, safe room. Enough education to recognize numbers and make sums. Hand callouses could be from farming, but might be from weapons training.

A mirror would tell a lot, but there was only the bed, chair, desk, a small wardrobe--better check that.

There were clothes hung neatly, boots with buckles, slack hosiery, a uniform? No uniform. Shirts, two of them. Two! Another step up in wealth. Leather belt, with loops for pouches and possibly a knife. Sword? Depending on the sword: a rapier, or epee might fit a little loop like that. The clothes were clean, but not just-laundered.

Parry buried his face in the shirts, indulged in a deep breath. Pine sap soap.

He listened for a moment at the door, hearing nothing; it had no lock or mechanism he could see. At the window--more like a collection of warped and distorted circles of glass leaded together and puttied into the wall--he saw slanted sunlight spilling over what seemed to be a field, maybe with goats (sheep?), a rail fence, a tree near a stile? Hard to tell, and this window did not open.

He sat on the chair, hugged his knees under the nightshirt, arms around his shins.

Check again, what do you know for sure?

Human, male, somewhere between twelve and fourteen years old. Healthy and fit, physical enough to handle some manual labor. Educated enough to read and write, at least simple lists. Unlikely to be in a city, but at least in a settled community.

Was this his room? There was nothing personal about it, nothing that spoke of a young boy growing up, not even a chest or a small library. No toys. No basin or ewer--which means someone brings them in, like a servant or nurse?

He shook his head. No, this wasn't his room. Too spacious, too clean, that list of herbs and medicines? It's a healing room of some kind, perhaps recovery. No lock on the door means no privacy, someone could come in while he slept, uninvited, to monitor his health or change the sheets. That's not something anyone his age would accept. He did not live here.

Parry gave himself a tiny smile. He was thinking clearly. Logically. That was almost as much of a relief as literacy. So many lives he had to struggle with low or even animal intelligence, fighting against brute, concrete thinking, requiring heavy effort to make simple observations.

When your wits are working, you know the Creator screwed with your memory. Nothing is free. What can you remember? Do an inventory of your memories, from this life and everything from before, and check your stats!

He didn't get a chance, the door swung open.