Prussian waves lapped rhythmically against the dense sand, the tune steady and familiar sound of the coastline. A small crab scurried from the waters edge as it was chased up shore, the tidal change being signified by a new line of seashell bits and debris being left along the subtle plane.

It was midnight in Moltev'ji.

A few large rocks littered the landscape, coasting water breaking against them at high speeds. Some large lengths of seaweed, stalks rubbery and abundant, were being abandoned on the beach by the tides retreat. They created what looked like harpoons along the sand in the moonlight, with prey long since lost back to the sea.

It would seem to be another night as any, were it not for the torchlight being held steady near the water, two sets of eyes locked on the same sight.

The slumped body of a man was pushed up further than the tide could do alone, red trailing from under his body and streaking seaward. He was faced down. Shoulders of intense width, showing years of sword swinging and hard labor, held the intimidation of a practiced swordsman or blacksmith. His skin was coated in sand and littered with scars. It seemed that he was relatively tan by a combination of heritage and the sun. He was clothed only in a pair of worn trousers and no shoes as well, adding little information while leaving him more vulnerable.

With a wild mane of dark hair that stretched down to cover most of his torso from the chill of the night, he looked completely unnatural to the seascape.

The castaway was as enigmatic as he was large, and that combination made approaching him a cautious endeavor. Though, with no movement, he didn't look particularly alive which lowered the risk.

And so the two approached.

Upon reaching him, with his prone form remaining stock still, the torchlight illuminated some new startling information; his right arm was missing above the elbow, the source of his bleed. That cut his threat level down drastically, and in fact lent more weight to the idea this was a corpse instead of a man.

After several beats of silence, a thin hand reached out, slipping under the man's chin and pressing to find a pulse, albeit with little hope. Yet when it confirmed the suspicion that this was, in fact, a living being, there was no celebration. Instead, the fingers pressed again, almost a little harder to double check, and-

The discernable tattoo of a heartbeat.

"Well. Shit."

The hand fell away, and instead two arms looped under the unconscious man's armpits, his savior groaning in exertion as he began to heft him up the coast. The torch wielding companion followed.

-

"Samson."

There was the sound of metal, somewhere. It was tinkling together so quietly it was closer to birds chirping. Was that sound on the breeze? Was he outside?

It seemed to be getting louder, so not birds then. Perhaps it was the clattering of chains, being dragged against stone. Or... many pieces of coin clinking down the walls of a well. Seemed like a lot of coin for one person to lose, though.

It would almost be peaceful, if it didn't keep getting incrementally louder.

"Stop-! Wa- Samson!"

A warmth, somewhat uncomfortable, started deep in his chest at the distant warped wailing.

The warmth quickly bloomed into a more intense heat, and the clanking of metal quickened. It was like horses galloping a short distance off, an intent and intensity that felt so... familiar.

"Samson!" The call was desperate, and seemingly from another lifetime, but clearer. It felt aimed at him. Far away, yet pointed. Who was calling to him? Where were they calling from? "Sams-"

The voice faded out again while the waves got louder, a groggy mind becoming aware of multiple little things, the sound falling away in the waking world. Sand was crusted around his mouth and nose, his throat ashen. His heartbeat rocked his entire body with an electric pulse, trying to rouse him. His body flinched with each sluggish pump it gave in his non-lucid state.

The darkness he was apparently in pulsed darker for a moment, taking the discomfort from his burning chest. He wanted to fade back into the comfort of unconsciousness, the peace pulling him back towards it and suddenly-

A bone-chilling, earth shattering roar ripped Samson from the darkness and into the moonlight, square in the waking world once more.

His body bolted into a sitting position instinctually, though Samson yelped and crumbled within the same beat. The man's disciplined stature wilted inwards as pain seared through his weary form. It was coming from his right arm now, no longer his heart. The intensity of the roar had him scared, though; barely wasting a moment to snap back to reality, he looked around wildly for the source. His left hand swung to his right shoulder to grip it, allotting pressure to hopefully stave off the discomfort as he tried to sit up straight again. His guard was up now, and he was beyond aware that he was in no condition to defend himself.

Yet, after a moment of looking, he seemed to be posted next to a small campfire on the edge of a wooded area, the sea casting out in front of him several leagues off, and...

Completely empty of threats, the only living creatures being a few seabirds in the distance.

It was the brink of dawn, if the splinters of sunlight just peeking above the waterline were any indication. The moon was light laden and lulled heavily just above the tree line, seemingly too bright for the time of the morning but familiar and comforting none the less.

Familiar, but he didn't seem to recognize much else.

Where was he?

With eyes still wide and a dry throat clicking as he swallowed, Samson- Samson?

My name is Samson. His brain repeated this fact, and he momentarily found himself thankful for that. He was Samson.

... That may be as far as he knew, however.

Looking around at the seemingly empty coastline and forested area next to him, Samson paused. What else did he know?

Gods, what do I know? Blinking a few times, an odd type of panic began to well up in him as the question brought a total lack of any answer forward internally. A glance up at the stars, and he felt a pit bloom in the center of his stomach. They all looked jumbled, a stranger of a sky smiling down at him under the guise of a familiar moon. Yet, did he know the stars, well enough to recognize them? Why else would I look at them if I didn't?

Oh gods, he didn't remember much of anything at all.

His growing panic led to a rising heartbeat, beginning to make the tendons in his neck feel too tight. He squeezed his eyes shut. Where am I? Samson's left hand shifted downwards to grip his right upper bicep; the action was half to self soothe, half to take stock. Pain was lacing up through his neck and down his right arm, his fingers beginning to prod for the source of the discomfort. It felt like his skin was too warm against his fingertips, near feverish. A jump in his pulse brought shooting pain to his elbow, and when he went to cradle it, his hand met no skin and instead and slapped his torso gently.

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Samson opened his eyes in surprise, and looked down.

The castaway's near entire right arm was missing, the cut happening mid bicep and being tied off neatly with some sort of bandaging and careful, clean knotting.

A bark of a startled yell left him. The seabirds in the distance fluttered their wings before taking flight in response.

His hand swiped again, as if expecting to find his right arm suddenly taking up the space, but again was met with a whoosh of air as it passed through where his elbow should be residing. Doing it again, he got the same response.

No idea where he was, obviously poor in health, and down his arm.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods-

Panic oozed into dread, breath puffing out at a rabbits pace. While the slow process of understanding his situation made his skull rattle, the loud rustling of leaves close by got Samson looking up once more, weak frame steeling and mind honing in on the moment. The roar. He tried to shuffle anywhere, away from the campfire and the situation he found himself in, but failed; with an attempt to crawl backwards, he counted on a dominant hand that he no longer had, crying out yet again as his right shoulder jarred against the soft sand with a fat thud.

He could only watch as two figures scrambled through the edging of the forest, both heads swiveling for a threat. They had not been so far off, to have heard his surprised outcry, or perhaps they heard the roar as well? Upon breaching into the campsite far enough to see Samson awake, both people stopped still in their tracks, observing him as just as he was observing them. They painted a picture of differences; one was a tall dark woman, white hair dreaded into long, dense locks that were pulled back into a thick bundle down her back. She wore a cloak that was heavily layered of multiple rich and vibrant colors, little jewels and gems glittering where they hung on the joinings of different materials. In comparison, her companion was nearly a full head shorter than her, a tan man with a cloak shrouding most of his person and seemingly well worn and more simplistic. The only bit really visible in the firelight was the fact that of his two eyes staring at Samson in bewilderment, only one was actually trained on him. The other was unnaturally white and glassy, surrounded by a pale starburst of scar tissue and painting a picture instantly of a half blind man.

Interestingly, he was holding a bow with an arrow quivered, though it was pointed groundward as the three people on the beach looked at each other.

This is their fire.

No one moved, for a moment. Samson was slumped against the ground, similar to how he had been when they'd found him, with breathing shallow like a scared animal as his gaze flicked rapidly between them.

Did they take my arm?

Another beat of silence, and the man said something in a language that Samson could not place nor understand. It was a full sentence, and it was repeated after he failed to respond to it the first time. The words didn't... sound aggressive, which was a start. They didn't seem angry at him, or like they were about to rush him. In fact, they were both seeming to give him space, not stepping forward at the lack of a verbal response.

Perhaps not the source of his missing arm, then.

Instead, they both seemed as cautious as he was. A beat of silence, and another passed, before Samson began to shift just a little. The pressure of his bodyweight on his newly severed appendage was too much, and the edges of his vision pulsed once as he used his hand to push away from the ground and sit up. The grit of sand in his trousers caused skin abrasions as he sat up, but it was negligible compared to his primary discomforts.

"Who-" For having been waterlogged, Samson's throat was dry. A hacking cough, with his throat clicking as he swallowed painfully, and he tried again. "Who are you?"

Now the suspense began bleeding out slowly for a reason unknown. The man and woman both lofted their eyebrows at the same time, looking between each other and back to Samson with surprise. Perhaps the language difference? Perhaps they didn't expect him to be awake? Perhaps they expected him to never wake up?

But his arm was bandaged. Comparative to the rest of him as well, it seemed to be the cleanest addition to his person, trousers heavily stained from oceanic debris and hair tangled with it too.

There had been an intent to save him, then.

"Where am I?" He tried again, this time it coming out just as gravelly but more of a plea. They both just continued to stare, and so did he.

Then, the woman seemed to perk up a mere moment, reaching up to unclasp her cloak and allowing it to drape more heavily over one shoulder. It revealed a figure layered in various pouches and leather armor, a leather strapped belt around both her hip and thigh and five or so leather pouches visible as she unclipped their flaps and rifled through them. Her companion continued to stare at Samson, though the tension in the bow and arrow was slowly lessening, measured and cautious. The first noise he heard from them was a click of the tongue, the woman proudly holding up a small pendant and wiggling it once.

It didn't look familiar, but she was approaching Samson now with it still lofted, and he found himself frozen in place. "Please-" He started, feeling somewhat pitiful as he raised his hand to ward her off. She seemingly took no mind, continuing her short trek around the fire and over to where he lay fallen.

Upon her approaching, he flinched and closed his eyes, holding his hand up as a flimsy barrier. Her feet padded to a halt in front of him, and it was silent for a moment. Then, the cold chain draped between the fingers of his splayed hand, the weight of the necklace barely registering until the man far away spoke again.

"You're awake, it seems. I didn't know if you'd make it." His accent gave a soft wane and lilt to the words, and Samson actually understood them this time. It surprised him, enough to open his eyes again to look at the man, who was now closer. He kept approaching. "It has been a long time since I have had to use any of my medical skills to such an extent."

In Samson's periphery, the woman moved, causing him to look over at her. She seemed to have a barely there smile at play, looking between him and the necklace once or twice before nodding. Turning back to her companion, she instead took to pointing at Samson directly, and the stranger nodded, "Yes, Den'il, I do see that it is working." He looked at Samson, his eye critical. "You can understand me, yes?"

"Yes," Samson said, though it sounded.... warbled, in his own ears slightly. "How?"

"A common translator charm," the man offered, "You would be surprised at how often they come in use." A pause. "Maybe not too surprised, considering."

"Who are you?" Samson asked sharply, now becoming aware that his voice was being changed into a language he had never heard before. He may think these people could not be a danger, but he had no way of knowing, considering the blank spaces in his head and history.

"Vega," he introduced shortly, before pointing at the woman. "Den'il." Vega looked at Samson with a small tip of his head.

He didn't return the question, and Samson took the opportunity to ask, "Where am I?"

A deep inhale, and Vega seemed to consider that question for a mere moment before shrugging. "That depends." Finally coming to a standstill next to the fire, he began to toe off his shoes. His bow and arrow clattered to the ground with a dull noise, their quality seeming sturdy but hardly coveted. Vega held a weariness on his shoulders of a man who had a poor nights sleep, for starters, and didn't cut too imposing a figure as he padded around in his socks. His gaze stayed steady with Samson as he plopped to sit down, cloak blooming around him and settling against the airflow it produced while he stuck his toes near the edge of the fire's warm glow, "Where did you come from?"

"Uh-" Did it depend? Where am I from? Samson paused, and looked between them both again. The woman still hadn't spoken, and was standing over Samson's prone form with a silent stoicism. Looking between Samson and her, Vega gave a little sigh.

"Den'il, please." At Vega's words, Den'il looked over to him and gave a quick motion with her hands. "He is fine, look at him; talking yet unable to hurt a darner. Rest." For a moment, she stood still again, but then finally seemed to lose some of her resolve, stepping back and heading to crowd near the fire. Samson watched her go with confusion, and Vega watched him in turn. When she plopped to sit down, Den'il stretched her back, it making a few loud cracks before she allowed her shoulders to hunch.

She also looked tired.

Did they stay up to help me? They don't know me.

"So?" Samson looked back up to Vega, who was looking at him inquisitively as he spoke again, "Where? Where did you come from?"

The silence of no conversation was quickly taken over by the natural tunes of the dawn. Far off birds called each other home, while crickets chirped a sirens call of a safe haven in the dark of the forest. Samson, for some reason, felt shame at his lack of an answer. Instead, his eyes began to well up, this hellscape of a situation beginning to sink deeper into his mind. Injured, helpless, and disoriented. "I don't know," he answered honestly, finally looking away from both of them and looking down at himself.

His one hand was large, squarer around the tips of his fingers and well honed from a lifetime of use. He was covered in many a small scar, all healed over from a time period he could not recall. His arm was tanned and freckled many harvests over, and his trousers looked to be woven from a sturdy type of thread to be as durable as they were. Good quality, it seemed.

Nothing came to mind.

Nothing rang a bell.

Near the fire, Vega gave an affirming hum like he'd expected that answer, but lazily asked, "And allow me venture a wild guess; no name either?"

"Samson."

Both Den'il and Vega stopped in the middle of stripping off their heavier armor, gazes locking with each other before both looking over at Samson with open astonishment.

They had obviously not expected that.

Both of them stared at Samson, taking in his currently sad state. Standing, he'd have to be eye to eye with any horse, but he looked young and pained with his sea tangled hair and limp sided injury. But the resolve in his eyes was evident, watery as they were, and he repeated it again with conviction, "My name is Samson."