It had taken Raziel a few days of long, unending rest until he was coherant once more after his arrival in the Red Dragon Inn. The kindness of strangers had bourne him through it all, as various regulars of the Inn's pub had seen to it that he be relatively clothed, and given a room to sleep in.

It had been a dark, dreamless sleep he had awoken from, healing and restorative rather then simple sleep. Raziel had emerged from the comforting arms of this black pool of unconsciousness to awaken groggily in an unfamiliar place, quite unsure of how he had gotten there. He rose from the sheets twisted about his unclothed frame, and slowly sat up, bare feet resting on the cold, rough wooden floorboards as his gaze swept the small, cozy room.

He stood slowly, letting the sheets slip off of him, and walked about the room, touching all the objects in it in fascination - he knew these things but did not know what they were for, it was as if he'd seen pictures of these objects somewhere but never experienced them in life itself. A chest of drawers, a pitcher for holding water, the curtains, a glass - all filled him with wonder. Then his eye caught something that gave him pause.

Whether it was movement or the sparkle of reflected light that caught his eye, Raziel's attention was suddenly drawn to the small oval mirror attached to the far wall. He walked over slowly, entraced, staring at the image that peered back at him with awe-filled grey eyes. He came nearly nose-to-nose with the mirror before he stopped, gazing at his reflection in a sense of confusion and astonishment. He knew at once it was his own reflection, he could see the mimicked movements - but he did not know the face which gazed back at him. It was as if it were him, but not him, his own person clothed in another flesh. He watched himself tilt his head to the right, and had to look away, sick with fear and confusion. How could he not recognize himself, why was the face in the mirror that of a stranger? He could very nearly see in his minds eye what he knew he should look like...but everytime the picture was recalled to his thoughts it blurred and faded, blotted out by a radiant light that blinded his memory, leaving the image little more then hazed lines.

Dazed, he wandered back to the bed and lifted a sheet from it. Wrapping himself about with it like one would a shroud he made his way downstairs towards the dull clank of tankards and dishes and the muted sound of conversation coming from the early afternoon crowd, which promptly turned into a hushed silence at his arrival on the lower stairs.

He paused, glancing around, eyes wide in sudden fright, pale hair mussed and standing on end in places, stiff with the remnaints of his own blood, and slightly matted from his long sleep. He looked rather like a slightly deranged ghost, wrapped in the wrinked besheet he held closely to his leanly muscular frame. It was a warmly gentle voice and a vaugly familiar voice that kept him from darting back up the stairs to the solitude of his room.

Keaton had once again taken pity upon the poor soul and come to his rescue. Outfitting him in a rich, dark blue woolen cloak borrowed from the lost and found, Keaton took Raziel out of the Inn and into the market places, patiently explaining things, answering questions the young man had about anything and everything, and eventually getting him into a pair of second-hand trousers, a worn but clean linen tunic, and a soft pair of boots.

Leaving him in the market with a small purse full of gold, Keaton had taken his leave and gone back about his own business eventually, assured that the lost and confused young man would surely find his own way. For a long time Raziel had stood in the center of the bustling market place, gazing at the small purse of coins in his hand and glancing about himself at the colors, sights, sounds and smells of the merchant's stalls all about himself.

Gathering his borrowed cloak about him against the chill early winter breeze, Raziel began to walk. All that evening deep into the night he walked, exploring the streets, listneing to the strange language he somehow understood - learning its intricacies slowly, and observing the odd mix of people all about him.

He did not return to the Inn that next morning, nor even the morning after that, instead spending his time in the streets, speaking with people, reading any scrap of paper he could get his hands on, for it gave him strange comfort, the reading and the seeing of written words - it felt more natural to him then the breath that filled his lungs and it came ot him even more naturally then did the understanding of all the languages he heard spoken.

He had spent all the coin Keaton had given him that first day, on foolish things, the way a child might spend money. Finally it was hunger that drove him back to the Inn, hunger and weariness, for it had been nearly half a week and he had not ate nor slept soundly, crouched in the deserted stoops of shops and wrapped in his cloak as the heavy rumble of wheels passed by on the streets. It was back to the Inn his weary feet took him that exceptionally cold evening.

(to be continued)