A/N: His my name is Sakra and I haven't uploaded anything to this site in like six years. Why am I doing this again now. I have no idea. Because I felt like it, I guess.
Anyway I hope you enjoy this fucking adventure, have fun
She woke up with nothing but a sword, a tome, and a body that ached like the seven hells.
After a moment of rubbing her eyes and muttering obscenities to herself, she pushed herself up and glanced around where she had fallen. Her body screamed with each movement, and her head pounded harder than a festival drum, but she managed to push past the pain to observe her environment. A field? Now what on earth was she doing there?
... Where was she supposed to be?
... Who even was she?
She suddenly sprung to her feet, legs quaking, and set off to follow a path nearby. She had to find a town. Something, anything, any semblance of civilization out in that expanse of grass. Being alone, with little surrounding cover, and gods-damn amnesia caused her heart to thump as hard as her head. Amnesia didn't seem to get rid of the idea that "being exposed outside makes for an easy target."
Thumbing the pages of her Thunder tome, she walked. Walked and thought. She was an adult; certainly someone in a nearby town would know who she was or what happened to her or why her body felt like it had just been through a taffy puller. A name, at least. She needed to know her own name.
Her appearance didn't seem like something that would go unnoticed. Dressed in some black-and-purple cloak and with short, wispy, dull blue hair that fell in her face, she didn't exactly seem like the average villager. Or did she? No, no, something in her gut told her that she looked quite abnormal.
Especially with that six-eyed mark on her right hand. Must be a story behind that one.
The second she started hearing screaming, she broke out into a sprint, spotting columns of smoke rising into the air just moments later. Seeing the black clouds billowing into the air stabbed her heart with raw, unadulterated fear-but there were clearly people in trouble. She needed to help them!
When she finally approached the burning town, she immediately wanted to take that sword and bash her skull in with it.
Brigands. Of course it was brigands. Her rush of sudden loathing tipped her off that that was far from the first time she had met brigands. And, as she raised her tome, far from the first time she's killed brigands.
Holding her spell tome in one hand, she approached the group hounding a couple travelling caravans.
"Excuse me, gentlemen." Her curt voice cut through the screams of the poor merchant being held by his collar, and the group of brigands turned their heads towards her. The merchant took the distraction and wriggled his way free of the fighter holding him.
A man dressed in loose robes-she recognized him as a dark mage-approached her, some predatory grin on his face that could make milk turn. "An' jus' what do we 'ave 'ere?"
She merely blinked at him. "I advise that you all leave."
"An' what are ya gonna do if we don't, ah?" The dark mage reached into his robe and began to pull out a purple tome, but before he could even get it out into the open, a crack of lighting struck him straight through the chest. He flew back, leaving only a few charred fabric fragments and the stench of burning flesh.
She staggered back, fingers flecked with static. The glowing rings around her disappeared as the spell's power finally died down. That was too strong for a simple Thunder spell. It should have merely singed his hair, maybe blown him back a bit, just a tough show to tell them "get out or else."
But she killed him with one hit.
Just how strong was she?
That question was answered when the brigands finally got over their shock and drew their weapons. All at once, numbers, strengths, weaknesses, and far too much other information bombarded her at once, and yet it felt strangely normal.
One was a simple mercenary, strong attack and agility but weak magic resistance. A cast of Thunder, and he dropped like a rock. A fighter, great attack, average defense, weak magic resistance. He went down as easily as the first. An archer, strong attack, weak defense, and an inability to attack anything at close range.
A silver blade ran straight through him, and he collapsed in a crimson heap.
The man before her emanated authority, with a billowing cape, rippling muscles, and stark cobalt hair. He expertly spun the sword in his hand before stabbing it into the ground.
"You all right?" he asked. She could hear, close by, the screams of a man being stabbed, and only after a heavy flump did she bow slightly.
"Yes, thanks." The man looked familiar to her. They must have met somewhere, right? Surely he would know something about her forgotten memories! "Excuse me, but have we met before?"
The man raised an eyebrow as a blonde girl with fan-like pigtails rushed up next to him. "Sorry, but I don't believe I've ever seen you before."
The hope inside her chest deflated like a popped bag. "Oh. Forgive me, then."
"Milord, the brigand leader is up ahead." An imposing man, whose shining armor matched his horse's, rode up next to the blonde. The blue-haired man turned to him and nodded.
"Right. We'll take him down."
He turned back to her, yanking his sword out of the ground. "You look like you can hold your own. Could we ask for your help in dealing with the rest of these brigands?"
She held her tome with both hands, a sudden burst of memory surfacing in her mind, and smiled at the man.
"But of course. My name is Joanne. And I'm afraid that's all I am capable of telling you. I seem to have forgotten everything else. A pleasure to meet you."