"I'm so sorry..." The healer says in a low voice. Not that she truly feels sorry, at least not in the sense that she feels guilty, but it simply feels like the proper thing to say given the situation. "Everything was going well. There was an abundant stock of food, just like the scouts said, but then..." she pauses, swallowing, her throat and mouth dry. "A dark lord appeared. I said we should run, but Amon and the others insisted that we fight it, and, well..." she pauses once more, waiting for someone, anyone to speak up, to intervene, to take over so she wouldn't need to continue explaining. Of course this doesn't happen. "It was strong. Way too strong. It killed the others. All of them. Only I survived."
Of course she doesn't explain what had happened after that. Even if she wished to, it would have proven quite difficult, seeing as how she can barely make sense of it to herself, let alone describe it to others. She raises her head, wincing as the piercing green light appears before her. The pink is visible in the peripheral of her vision, and even without turning her head, she's acutely aware of the blue pillar directly behind her. Looking down helps escape the piercing light to a certain degree, leaving her to wish she never had to raise it. Still, she has to face the others. While she feels no real connection to them, she owes them at least that much.
They all stand about her, gathered into a crowd, the entire citizenry of the village. The elder stands at the forefront, not an official position but he is simply the oldest citizen, who the people have come to depend on for guidance, perhaps a bit too heavily. He wears a concerned expression, but that's hardly new. The stressful position of needing to manage all of these mice lends to more problematic moments than joyous ones. Still, his brow is furrowed even more than usual, and that's hardly a small feat. While he stands in front of the crowd, he still keeps his distance and looks to the survivor with dark, distrustful eyes.
The village is a small one, both in physical size and numbers. Unfortunately, as is often the case with mouse communities these days, the ratio between the two values isn't exactly an even one. Even a small number of mice in a smaller space leads to a multitude of problems, in this case both finding and storing food. In the best of circumstances, this is only a minor problem, but with winter coming they need to hoard as much as they can possibly gather, no matter the risk. Within the wall of the massive Maker's structure, the community is built vertically, moving up within it through assorted cracks and holes, wood at all sides along with the occasional rubber wires which they know better than to try biting through (well, they do now). It is usually dark, often cold and damp, and an absolute paradise compared to the outside world where gigantic monsters of all manner roam free, looking to devour virtually anything smaller than themselves. Some forty mice live here, far more young than old, especially now that three of their strongest warriors have perished.
"Who-who are you? And how do you know of Amon?" he asks. He stands guarded, as though ready to strike or flee, even if not physically fit to effectively accomplish either task. He isn't the only one, either. The other mice, her friends-well, her neighbors anyways, look to her as though she were a stranger. Worse than a stranger, in truth. Rather than simple skepticism in their eyes, there is outright fear.
"Huh? You know me. You sent me to join the others as a healer, just in case they ran into trouble." she says, confused by his blank and distrustful look. "I'm-I mean my name is..." she pauses, trailing off. Why can't she remember? It's true, names are hardly the most important thing, and if you're an unsocial person, you'll rarely hear your own spoken aloud (really, even if social you won't too often. The best thing about names is how easy they make it to gossip about others behind their back), but it's not the sort of thing that one forgets. Ever. She tries to concentrate, knowing it's in her head somewhere, and that once she finds it, it will be the most simple and obvious thing in the world, that's she'll laugh at the fact that such a thing could ever be forgotten. She finds nothing, aside from a renewed throbbing in her skull.
"We would never trust a stranger with our precious healing potions, and if Amon, Orick and Hannah truly met their ends..." he trembles at the words, not even wishing to consider them to be true, "A healer would never escape unscathed from a foe who could defeat those three. I don't know what you are, or where you came from but we won't be deceived by your lies!" he barks, his voice bearing a threatening edge to it, but his fear is palpable. Neither he nor anyone else dares approach.
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Even as she's trying to make sense of his words, namely the 'what you are' part, a small feminine voice is heard in the crowd. "Mommy, what's wrong with her eyes?"
"Huh?" the cream colored healer asks to nobody in particular, reaching up to touch her face, having no idea what she honestly expected to find by doing so. Of course there's nothing immediately apparent, beyond the same cold numbness which has yet to pass. As she turns her gaze from one mouse to the next, the tension within the narrow pathway only grows, none daring to meet her gaze, yet everyone else can't seem to stop staring at her face.
"Leave this place at once!" the elder shouts. He does a decent enough job of sounding commanding, but it still comes off as more of a plea than an order. This is followed by similar grumblings within the crowd, crude weapons raised. None of them have any intention of attacking or even approaching her for that matter, but there's a desperation in their eyes like cornered animals who will clearly lash out if given no other alternative.
"I--I..." she says, backing away a couple of steps. What is there to say? She can't argue her case since she can't even understand the situation herself. Similarly, as the anxiety of the crowd grows, it becomes more and more likely they will act against her, and even if she could come up with a halfway coherent thought, this isn't the sort of situation which can be resolved with mere words. As she steps back towards the village exit, a few of the stronger adult mice are emboldened, moving forward. Not enough to close the distance but maintaining it, plastic knives and wooden sticks in their paws, a frightened yet determined expression in their eyes. The healer turns and runs. For the briefest period she feels she is being chased, but that's just her imagination. She quickly escapes to the outside world, where none dare to follow.
The rain, little more than a fine mist earlier this evening has grown steadily stronger. Even when she arrived at the village she was soaked to the skin, not that she remembers much of the trip, being in a daze ever since the ill-fated battle. By now, it was downright torrential. Heavy beads of rain, half the size of her head slam against her, even those which strike the earth nearby splashing up enough to send droplets flying over her head. Such a storm may not be lethal, but it's the sort which will even send Makers fleeing for shelter, let alone a tiny creature who feels each drop as though it were a miniature hammer. Along the other side of the narrow alley, a heavy river flows from the building gutter, deep and quick enough to sweep any rodent off of their feet. Rationally, the lone mouse is in need of shelter, but there is one thing which she requires even more.
The steady fall of water doesn't cease. It soaks her fur, runs down her face and blurs her vision but still she has to look. At her feet is a large puddle, the surface endlessly rippling as more droplets fall into it, overflowing it. Between the distorted surface and her water-logged eyes she can barely make out the image within, but even as cold as she is, as achy as the heavy impacts of the rain make her body, she refuses to look away until she has found what she seeks. After some time, maybe only seconds, maybe minutes, who can say, finally she is granted a moment of visual clarity. The rippling water set just right, her eyes just clear enough, with just enough light spilling in from the passing headlights of one of the Maker's strange machines to grant her just what she both desires and fears.
It's just for a moment, but that is enough. She manages to get a clear look at her own face. It is thin, shivering from the cold, completely soaked and pitiful looking. Her whiskers droop, her thin, off-white fur looking almost translucent, small nose twitching, round ears drawn back to keep the water from flowing within. Then she sees it. Upon her forehead, right between her eyes, there is a black and red marking on her skin. Not a scar or any sort of damage. Even from looking she can tell that it is smooth, just a strange discoloration, intense at the center and slowly fading as it leaks out like cracks in a window-pane before disappearing entirely, replaced with the naturally colored coat. Worse than that are her eyes. They were originally a soft pink, and while the pink remains they are now is a bright and intense color, ringed by blood-red and at the center of each is a single long, black, oval pupil. The style of eyes she could never hope to mistake: those of one of the lords of darkness.
She puts her paw over her mouth, feeling as though she is going to vomit, but the sensation quickly passes. Falling backwards onto her rump, into the shallow puddle, all that can do is chuckle to herself. It's easier than trying to make sense of things, after all. She doesn't even think about her eyes and the strange mark on her face, that's too far out of her element. Instead as she sits in the pouring rain, softly laughing to nobody, the only thing her mind can focus on is her name, or the complete lack there of. Of all the useless things to forget, she thinks to herself, her chuckling stopping at once, looking down into the heavily distorted image in the puddle once more. She rests her head between her knees, simply watching the black pool, mind devoid of all thought.