Amnestria eyed Rando, waiting.

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that,” Rando confided, sipping his tea. “Before we ran, he was impressive. You all were. But I’ve seen impressive warriors before. I was prepared for impressive – I’d heard he was a Berserker. But after he sent us off again... we could still hear the battle from a mile away. I can’t even imagine the pure... ferocity required to not only hold his own, but to actually do real damage to such a force of nature.”

Amnestria smiled. Pure ferocity. That fit Oskar.

“I think I heard him telling you that he was thrown across the clearing? Multiple times, I assume, judging by the state of him – and the clearing – when we returned.” Rando eyed the shattered trees around them, and Amnestria peered at Oskar, noticing multiple splinters still snagged in his hair and the fur of his mantle.

Amnestria could see the tense hesitation in Rando’s body language. Surely he wasn’t afraid of Oskar? Well, maybe he was. It wouldn’t be without good reason, after all. Oskar did just take down an ancient dragon almost entirely by himself...

“Well, we’ve all had decades of practice,” Amnestria smelled burning, and hastily shook the skillet, cringing as she saw the nearly black undersides of the potatoes tumbling about the pan. She sighed, resigned to her fate as a terrible cook. Oskar kept his eyes on what he was doing. Smart boy. “We’ve been fighting a war, man. Constant practice makes a person good at what they do.”

“I still don’t understand how a lovely elven maiden such as yourself was pulled into the dwarven wars.” Rando glanced quickly away at her sharp look. “I mean, I can understand the others – they live there. But you?”

Amnestria gave him another hard look, before turning back to the pan. “You want our history? Fine. Oskar’s a friend. I met him when he was training with my father. I met him again years later, met Marent, and we all got together to go adventuring. Eventually, we saved Orgumir’s life, and he became our patron.”

“You saved Prince Orgumir’s life? When was this, I-”

“We worked for him for years,” Amnestria continued, barreling over Rando’s interjections. “Eventually though, the frequency of the incursions from Thanum spiked. Orgumir sent us to the front lines to try to investigate what was going on.”

Rando sat silently as Amnestria paused for breath, waiting. Good, he was learning.

“We never did figure it out. The intelligence reports we’ve been getting lately tell us that they’ve been increasing their raids, taking more and more slaves every season. The things we saw...well, after seeing what those monsters are capable of, there was no way I could just walk away and go back to killing owlbears and tracking down family heirlooms.”

“So you fight.” Rando nodded thoughtfully. “I can respect that.”

“You’re just lucky you caught us on leave,” Amnestria replied, relaxing slightly. “Otherwise, there’s no way we could have helped you. So yes, we’ve not only been adventuring for years, we’ve been engaged in battle – sometimes on a daily basis for months at a time – since this whole blasted thing started. So yes. Constant practice.”

Rando smiled humorlessly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Constant practice doesn’t make chains burst from your flesh and cover your body like a second suit of armor. That wasn’t any spell I’ve ever heard of – and trust me, I’ve studied spells. So again, I ask: what the hell is he?”

Amnestria sighed, watching Oskar finish the last of the hotcakes. He had placed a large bowl in the coals a moment ago, and now inverted it over the stack of cakes. The heated bowl should keep the cakes at least somewhat warm while they waited for Marent. Oskar always refused to take a single bite until Marent finished his prayers and could join them. He wouldn’t let anyone else eat either.

He now moved around the fire, crouching to pour them more tea. She almost protested when she saw him gritting his teeth in pain, but held off, realizing that he’d probably view his pain as less important than her half-frozen state. She took the tea with a smile of gratitude, receiving a grave nod in return. She watched him continue working; pouring more water into the kettle, adding more wood to the fire, and taking over the halfway burnt, halfway raw pan of potatoes while Amnestria huddled in her cocoon, warming her hands on her mug and sipping slowly. She waited until he turned away before answering.

“He gained the ability to rage about twenty years ago. Twenty-five? He was a run of the mill sorcerer back then, got in a bad spot, and was severely injured. Raging was all that kept him alive. We all took a year off for him to recuperate, and I went home. Spent some time with my family. Marent took care of him. So I eventually came back, and when I saw Oskar again, he’d gained about 50 pounds of pure muscle and was carrying a hammer around. I barely recognized him. I assume Marent was tired of seeing him practically helpless, and took advantage of his newly discovered talent to convince him to start training.”

Amnestria glanced at the tent her two friends shared – murmured prayers still emanated through the thick canvas, though the dwarf should be finishing soon. “The chains, the resistance to cold, all the other things he can do, we think it has something to do with him being a Sorcerer first. He still casts spells, but nowhere near as powerfully as a normal Sorcerer.”

“Wait,” Rando had been listening intently to Amnestria’s explanation, and his eyes widened suddenly. “I’ve heard stories of something like this. Fierce warriors descended from some powerful source, like dragons, demons, or angels, that do battle with both sword and magic. There’s a theory that some Sorcerers – those born with magic, as opposed to Arcanists who train and study to gain the ability to cast-”

“Yes I know, my father’s a Sorcerer, I know the difference.” Amnestria rolled her eyes in impatience. “Get on with it.

“Yes, my apologies.” Rando seemed to remember the tea in his hand, and drank half of it quickly, grimacing at the taste. Their honey was frozen solid in the jar, so they drank it bitter. It didn’t matter to Amnestria – the warmth was all that she cared about. “The theory is that those with natural talent may be descended from some mystical lineage, and that the lineage fuels their power. They’re granted special spells and abilities, and sometimes the influence of that distant relation can have physical effects as the caster grows in power. Have you ever seen a powerful Sorcerer suddenly pop out wings and breathe fire?”

“What” Amnestria was startled. People could do that?

“Breathe fire,” Rando repeated. He swallowed, eyes tracking sightlessly back and forth as he worked through various thoughts and memories. Amnestria wondered if he had seen such a Sorcerer. Rando didn’t wait for her to answer. “That Sorcerer most likely has a Draconic lineage. Or they’re really good at illusion magic. So perhaps Oskar has a mystical lineage that somehow began to manifest when he learned to fight. I wonder if it would have shown itself if he’d remained a simple spellcaster… Do you have any idea what his Bloodline might be?”

“No,” Amnestria shook her head. “We never really discussed it-”

“It doesna matter to him,” Marent’s voice broke into their conversation, seemingly unconcerned with their gossip about his oblivious husband. He was crouching in the entrance to the tent, watching them with a raised brow. “He’s aware that there’s some influence there, but honestly, what’s th' point to knowin’ details? He knows what he can do, and does it well. th' rest is moot.”

“Well, I can understand that.” Rando seemed impatient. “But just imagine the untapped potential! There are possibly hidden talents that he’s capable of, but has no knowledge of. Imagine how much more powerful he could be if he understood his lineage fully-”

Marent held up a hand, silencing Rando. “Lad, I can see yer eagerness t' dig into his past and ferret out th' hidden secrets. Let me make it easy. He’s an orphan. No idea who his parents were, no idea where they were from, and no idea what his own name even was. There’s no trail t' follow, no grannies t' interview for hidden family secrets, no attics t' pilfer for old journals – nothing.”

“There’s always a trail,” Rando waved a hand unconcernedly. “There has to be something. It might be difficult, but I’m positive that with enough time and dedication that I’ll be able to piece together the hidden bits of his past.”

Amnestria rolled her eyes, and though Marent showed no expression at all, she could sense the impatience behind his blank face.

“Where would you begin?” Marent asked, settling more comfortably on his heels.

“Oh, well.” Rando remembered his tea, and took a healthy gulp. “First I’ll need to interview Oskar, glean every detail of his past that he remembers. Secondly, I’ll follow his memories back to his place of origin – even if it’s just a hometown or region that he remembers – and interview people there. Someone always knows, even if it’s just that the baker’s brother’s family was killed by orcs, their house burned. The baby was never found, they assume he perished in the fire or was taken by the -”

Marent broke in. “Except Oskar doesna remember anythin’. He was found on the road. His parents – the dwarves who raised him – are merchants. They were verra familiar wi’ everyone in every nearby town. They checked. Nobody was missin’ a baby. Nobody was missin’ at all. Nobody remembered travelers wi’ a baby. They kept checking through the years, especially when the lad grew old enough to start askin’ questions, wanting to know where he’d come from. Never found anything. So.” Marent raised a brow. “What’s your next step.”

Rando looked befuddled. “Well. Um. I suppose I’ll travel a bit further. I examine maps, check to see what that road connects, and start with the cities on either end. His family was traveling FROM somewhere TO somewhere, obviously. It’ll just take some time.”

“Aye then.” Marent stood and moved fully out of the tent, letting the flap fall behind him, dismissing the conversation. “Interview multiple large cities full o’ people t’ see if anyone remembers a baby forty-eight years ago. Ye’ll do what you feel best.”

Oskar seemed to sense Marent’s emergence, finishing with his chores and standing as the shorter man approached. Marent laid his hands on Oskar’s chest, one at the side, one nearer to the sternum. Amnestria supposed he’d noted the location of the breaks last night.

“Deep breath now lad, and hold it-” Oskar watched Marent’s mouth carefully as the dwarf spoke, and complied. It had to hurt like hell, and he grimaced, closing his eyes. Amnestria had tried to learn some doctoring from Marent, to at least help with minor injuries on the battlefield. She knew that broken bones needed to be stabilized before a healing spell was applied, and she guessed that between the wrappings Marent had applied last night, and the pressure from the deep breath, the ribs were as stable as they could be.

Blue light pulsed from underneath Marent’s hands as he whispered the words of the spell, eyes closed and seeming to concentrate. He was probably directing the healing energy, targeting just the breaks, and ignoring the bruises, scrapes, contusions, and various other minor injuries Oskar had collected last night. He could just cast the spell on Oskar’s body as a whole, and his general state of health would improve as if he’d rested for days with attentive nursing. Nothing would be all the way better, but depending on the injuries a person had sustained (or the number of healing spells left to a caster) sometimes that was the better option.

She knew that Marent would use every spell at his disposal on Oskar if her friend would allow it, but Oskar was a pragmatist, and had made his wishes very clear on the matter in the past: Most severely injured first, and only stabilized unless someone is needed immediately. If so, heal them as much as they need. Then everyone else. Marent would be seeing to her and Rando next, before healing Oskar’s more minor injuries. If he knew what was good for him.

Oskar breathed out in a rush as the agony faded from his chest, and then immediately took another, deeper breath, without pain this time. He opened his eyes and bent his head as Marent reached up to cover his ears with cupped hands, and the blue glow that emerged from his palms was barely visible in the strong light of the morning. As the glow faded, Oskar glanced up at the sudden surge of Amnestria’s voice.

“-smashed himself in his balls with his own hammer!” Amnestria had turned to Rando and started mid-sentence, speaking in a confidential tone. “You’ve never heard Oskar squeal, but it sounded like someone had stepped on a kitten. He – oh hi Oskar, can you hear again?” Amnestria flashed a brilliant smile at Oskar, while Rando’s face lost all color and he appeared on the verge of running. Oskar tilted his head, considering.

“I canna say as how I recall that incident, lass. Was it before or after you managed to shoot yourself in the foot that one time, fall over, and smack yourself in the face wi’ your own bow?” Amnestria stuck her tongue out at Oskar, face reddening. She actually had shot herself in the foot. And fallen over. And smacked herself. But it had only happened once, and it was a long time ago. She’d hoped everyone had forgotten about that.

Oskar had placed a hand gravely on Marent’s shoulder and nodded in gratitude for the healing, his stiff reserve preventing him from physically displaying any emotion in public. Marent inclined his head in return. Amnestria noticed their eyes locked for a moment, and imagined the welter of silent marital conversation happening.

Silly dwarves, Amnestria thought in amusement. They were all like that, hiding their emotions behind stony expressions, even as they cracked jokes. Most people thought all dwarves were standoffish and reserved, but she’d traveled with her two companions for years, and had seen them drop their guard every now and then. They could convey volumes of information with a glance, a raised brow, or a few short words. Dwarves were all very reserved in public, but in private, with family, they would emote as well as any other race.

They were adorable together – when they thought she wasn’t looking.