Washed Ashore

Cold... always cold, all cold, everything cold.

A bright light breaks Milton Wilde out of his reverie. He opened his eyes. The sun. Warm, bright, comforting. It must be daytime, he thinks, raising a hand to cut out the sun's glare. He pulls himself into a sitting position. In front of him stretches an expanse of water. His legs are still submerged. He stares blankly at them for a while, before standing up. The water laps against his ankles, icy cold, yet somehow comforting. He stands, gazing out over the lake, for a minute or so before turning and walking to land. After a few steps, he pauses, unsure of himself. Where am I? he questions himself. Where am I?

Milton frowns, turning to Judas. "Student?" he says, confusion pushing his words. "Is this a school of some sort? I can't recall..." A thunderstorm, creaking wood, a flying bucket. "I can't recall anything like that."

Gifted... The word passed through Milton's head, accompanied by varied images. A man, draped in gold cloth, calling him son; a priest, giving an invocation to God to protect our lord, our king, and our families; a soldier, light blade in hand, teaching his to fight; a seaside tavern, himself alongside friends, all drinking a fiery brew; a small restaurant, with a beautiful woman named Tess and an unwritten poem between them; a ruined city, a temple filled with frescoes, and a stone door within; a shop, filled with scrolls and magic; a thunderstorm on a creaking ship. "Gifted..." The word escapes Milton's lips. Meeting Judas' eyes, he speaks again. "Gifted in what manner? Gifted in mind, in body, in soul? Gifted in talent? Gifted with magic?"

Milton nods slowly, feigning understanding. He extends his hand to Judas. "Well, thank you, it was nice meeting you... I'm sorry, but I don't believe I caught your name."

Milton smiles. "I'm Milton Wilde," he says. Why does that name, Anderson, seem familiar? Seeing Amy, his eyes light up. "Yes, fair dame," he says to her, "I am indeed new to this establishment."