The Tale of Sir Rusty, Chapter 1: On new Beginnings [STORY]

*drip...*

*drip...*

*dri-*
AHH-Huhhhhhhhh.... HAHhhhh...
*gasp*

*drip...*


Soft dripping. The only thing he could hear was right was soft dripping.
His eyes were closed, and he was laid spread-eagle on what had to be a tile floor, judging from the cold and hard feeling of the ridges he tentatively ran his left hand over.

As if naturally, the first thing the man asked himself was
What time is it?
This was naturally followed by the question
Do I have to get up today?
But finally hit a snag when his mind wandered on a question no one wants to have to ask
Waitaminnute... what do I do?

It then dawned on the man that he had no idea who he was, where he was, or even what he had done the day before. The only immutable facts in his life right now were that there was some sort of liquid dripping near him, a possibly tiled floor underneath him, a slight throbbing pain in his chest and a lot of nothing in his vision because his eyes refused to open.

Well, thought the man, this won't do at all!

So after a few minutes of moving various limbs, clenching his fingers to make sure his hands were working, he tried to open his eyes again. Still, no matter how strongly he tried to part his eyelids they stubbornly remained shut. Then a small pain erupted between his eyes and he knew he was forcing a muscle he shouldn't.
Oh... wait... I'm clenching them.

As soon as the thought cleared his mind, his eyelids split open, a bright light piercing his pupils and forcing him to close them once again.

Reluctantly, the man willed his eyes open long enough for them to adjust to the light. Low-light, some glare. He was indoors, and the half-crumbled ceiling above him was protecting him from sunlight and whatever rain had produced puddle responsible for the dripping. Judging from the blue tint of the light, he could guess that it was either sunrise or sunset. The coolness of the air around him and the tiled floor implied the first condition more likely. Slowly, he propped himself up with his arms, and a dull thump echoed as a small weight seemed to lift from his chest.

Looking down, he noticed a book on the floor. No doubt it had been placed on his breast as he had been sleeping. The clothes he had been sleeping in were plain cotton, a rough but durable weave that should last even with continuous use. Then again, he wasn't even sure if he had been sleeping, or in a drug-induced coma, judging by the slight dizziness. Back to the book, had his attention span always been this short? Christ, and there he was going again. If he could pay attention to anything for more than a second, maybe he could sort out this entire mess... Right. The book.

Lifting it by the slipping two of his fingers between the hard, leather-bound book's bottom and the floor tiling, he pulled it back onto his stomach as he lifted his chest to a sitting position. Which is when he noticed the foreign object fused to his chest right above his heart.

Wait. What?

It looked like three teardrops had been carved into a fork on his skin, and some sort of semi-transparent material, probably metallic judging by the cold feeling, had been inlaid and left to heal... A short while ago. A single filament of blood escaped from the largest teardrop, the one in the middle, and descended to trace the contour of his abdominals to finally soak into his cotton pants. A few seconds later, a soft hiss came from the foreign objects on his chest and he suddenly felt relaxed, as he observed the middle teardrop bubble and shift, right before an overwhelming fatigue hit him. All he could see before the darkness at the edges of his vision converged was the tiled floor rapidly approaching his face.

The man groggily opened his eyes for a second time, now. He felt slightly dehydrated, a little itchy and a whole lot less awake than the last time.
Tell-tale signs of being drugged. I wasn't moved, though... and since the angle of shadows hasn't changed much I've either slept an entire day or no time has passed. Since I've got this headache, I'm going to guess I slept like an angel.

He picked himself up, took in his surroundings again. The room he was in must have been a library or office at some point. What walls weren't demolished or crumbled were covered in empty bookshelves, cracked and musty from the effects of weather. A lone desk sat against one wall where a large mahogany door stood ajar, the lack of light from the other side meant that there was more to the building he was in than this single room. The previous dripping had turned into a steady trickle, and from the giant hole in the roof a single stream of water ran down through identical holes through what had to be every story of the building under this one.

1...2...3...4...5... I must be standing in one heck of a mansion or a really tall building.

The stream fell far past the point where darkness prevented him from seeing deeper, and he couldn't hear the bottom so it had to be really far down. A pang of pain in his head reminded him to stay hydrated, and the man cupped his hands, cutting the stream and creating a small pool he could sip the clear water from. Carefully, he took a first taste.

Hey. This is really refreshing. This rainwater is really, really clean!

A few gulps of life-giving water later, the man walked back to the desk in the corner. Running his fingers along the top, he opened every drawer with his other hand, finding nothing at all inside. Someone must have cleaned out the desk, no doubt when whatever had caused the hole in the ceiling had happened. Returning to pick up the book again, he then hopped on top of the desk and put his back against the wall, letting his legs dangle off the end of the desk as he finally began reading.

Well... it's my best chance at figuring out who I am, and how I got here. Here goes nothing!

The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote of La Mancha
By Miguel de Cervantes,
Original title: El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha

The tale of a deluded man, lost in the world of Chivalry contained within books, at odds with the world and it's inhabitants. His visions, both imaginary and outrageous, enable him to relive past eras of glory until his eventual demise. A staple of classic Spanish literature, Don Quixote is one of the most important pieces of writing from it's era, and is sure to inspire many generations to come.

The preface left the man sitting, the bitter taste in his mouth prompting him to smack his lips lightly while he wet his thumb and flicked the page. He knew this book. He knew it's pages. Why didn't it have anything in it, then? Why didn't it have signs of use, notes... Anything to remind him who he was? He would keep on reading, and when he was done reading, he would go looking for clues. He needed to know who he was. He needed to know what had happened to him.

Hours pass.
The sun sets - the room becomes completely dark except for the starlight filtering through the hole in the ceiling.

Halfway done. Starting to get hungry...
Where am I, anyways?
Have I fallen into a hole and think it a room in a desecrated manor?
Am I even sane at this point?
My senses could be deluding me. I could be anywhere.
Better pinch myself.
FFFF- okay. If this is a dream, it's damn realistic.

His mind in turmoil, the man lay down on his side and went to sleep. The growling in his stomach would have to wait until tomorrow morning, since the building would be impossible to navigate in the dark. No dreams visited him in his sleep, his uneasy mind robbing him of the restfulness one would have gained in slumber.

-We can't just wait for him to realize what's happened. The stupidity of this fool, it'll take forever!
-Silence, Wrath. He needs his rest, let him sleep.
-Look, it doesn't even matter right now. Either way, we need to find the catalyst or he's not going to last.
-Good point. We should split up and look for it. Everything depends on it's recovery.
-Yes. We go in the cardinal directions. Regroup when one of us- he's waking up. Look lively.

The man opened his eyes gingerly. His stomach felt like a hole had burned through his chest and was eating itself, and his eyes were slightly fuzzy as he wiped the morning dew from his face. In front of him sat fourteen knights. Each in different armor of various colors and styles, they were spread around the room, every one of their gazes locked directly on him.

Oh great, thought the man, I've gone completely nutty.
"So...", the man looked around, at the fourteen men sitting in a half-circle around him, "I'd love to introduce myself, but I think I've hit myself on the head. Couldn't tell you if I wanted to."
He was immediately interrupted by the youngest-looking one of the fourteen. The youth didn't look older than fifteen and was clad in a dark metal European breastplate and matching shoulder plates and greaves. Spikes lined his neck, wrists, shoulders, knees, ankles and the tip of his feet. The young man seemed to swell in size before he spoke, until smoke came from his eyes and mouth. The smoke receded, and the young man spoke now, his sharpened teeth making gnashing motions with each word:
"Yeah, you don't know who ya' are. Tell us something new, genius."
The youth was cut off by the knight sitting next to him, a middle-aged plain-looking individual who was wearing nothing but a chain-mail hauberk and a sugar loaf style helmet.
"You really can't expect him to remember yet, Wrath. Let him wake up, and he'll remember when he's ready."
The knight across the semi-circle from the last man to speak answered.
"I'm with Patience on this one, gentlemen." His armor was in a state of disrepair, the metal dull and unpolished, the chain-mail breaking and with rings missing in certain areas. "We should just sit here until he knows who we are. Else he might wander off and hurt himself."
The next knight to answer was an armored samurai, and he slammed the scabbard, sword still sheathed inside, against the tiled floor before speaking.
"No! We should be looking for ways to survive right now, gathering resources, securing an area. To sit around and do nothing like Sloth proposes is madness!"

The man without a name then raised his hand, a sly grin playing across his face.
"Wait. None of you are real, are you? Fourteen knights dressed in different garb, and so far each of you is named after a cardinal sin or virtue?"
His arm fell, first to wipe what was left of the morning dew off his knees then to support his weight as he stood.
"This is all a figment of my imagination. That, or I am going completely insane."

At that comment, Wrath's eyes sparked with fire and smoke smelling of brimstone spewed from his mouth. The youth's mouth opened with a yell and he jumped across the room to land a solid blow to the man's cheek. The thirteen others immediately reacted, converging to hold down the younger knight and to help the confused and now dazed person up.

Fuck, that smarts.