He pushed up from the darkness and the only thoughts his aching head could form were simple ones.

So cold.

Everythin' hurts.

The second realization trod close upon the heels of the first. He hissed softly and opened one eye. The world around him was the white and somber gray of winter. A shiver shook him and he winced at the pain, then became aware of a steady rush of noise in the background.

The rocks 'neath him were icy and unyielding, and his body screamed in protest as he pushed himself slowly to a sitting position. Puzzled, he realized that his left hand was bare, the palm and fingers laced with cuts and numb with cold. His right hand had fared better, it was protected by a well-fitting, supple kidskin glove. Yet, even that had several rends in the expensive leather.

The constant sound he had noted was from a swift flowing, dark river that was just beyond his booted feet. The shore and shallower edge of the stream, all bordered in clear ice.

Had he come from the river? It seemed so, his clothes sodden thru, ice coating the straggling strands of his shoulder-length hair. For some reason the water had not kept him, but cast him upon the rocky shore.

His belt carried a scabbard, but no sword, and he reached for a parrying dagger that was no longer there. Both were gone, lost or taken. His belt pouch yielded a flint- stone, and several silver coins.

The wind ghosted up the forested river canyon, whispering thru the firs and setting him to shivering again. He noted the rime of frost upon his chain mail and leathers; the pale plume his very breath made in the frigid air.

I need a fire.

How easy it would be, to lie back on his stony bed and let the coming snow lay a lethal blanket soft upon him. The thought came unbidden and unwelcome and forced him to gather his legs beneath him and fight his way to his feet.

Later he would remember little of clawing his way up the red clay bank and into the shelter of the forest. The pine needles there were dry yet, and he scraped them into a small pile and managed to strike a bright spark there, hands shaking as they held the flint.

A thread of white smoke spooled from that single glowing ember and a fragile tongue of flame soon followed. He fed his fire, twig by twig, then larger sticks. Soon he held his half-numb palms to it in silent supplication and felt the pain as feeling slowly returned to his battered hands.

The fire was warmth, indeed twas life itself out here. He let it's warmth seep into the heart of him as he tried to puzzle things out. He knew he must hae' had a horse, perhaps companions. His garb held a few clues, his brigandine was well fitted and finely crafted, his boots and breeches of soft sueded leather. Chainmail, and a gray arming doublet provided no sigil he could readily see. He had found a half dozen bright gold coins tucked inside a hidden inner- pocket in his heavy leather armoring.

The fire provided warmth and would keep the wild things at bay, and soon he caught himself nodding off even as he sat. His body hurt, ached, even to the marrow of his bones, and his head throbbed from a goose egg sized knot above and behind his right ear.

He threw more wood upon the glowing coals and leaned back against the tree. Letting himself rest just for a bit. The gold threw him; if only he could remember. Questions played in his thoughts even as he drowsed.

Am I brigand or bright-sword, good or bad? Where am I? Nae' who am I?