The only thing she remembers is blood, not even her own name.
Waking up in a strange house in a 'far-off' land, Arturia Pendragon cannot remember a single thing of her past life, luckily she is found just in time to be able to keep on living. With...
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She stood alone over the makeshift grave that she had created for her friend as she mumbled incoherent words under her breath about her friendship and admiration for him. She had managed to cover him with the shelter that they had made earlier because she knew it was impossible for her to dig a grave whilst she was injured. It was hard for her to admit that he was gone, but she bit her lower lip and wiped her tears away; she needed to move on.
There were no flowers to lay on his grave, but she ripped a part of her blue tunic and tied a pair of sticks into a cross, "Now you can wear my colours for eternity." She had ripped another part of her tunic earlier and wrapped it around his hand so that he would not perish alone and she ripped a part of his and wrapped it around her own wrist, "I am here for you," she mumbled sweetly and gulped.
Arturia closed her eyes as she looked up at the sky, "I forgive you..." she whispered up to the air before turning on her heel and collecting her companion's discarded sword. She sheathed the weapon and limped towards the two horses that had been tied to a tree some meters away. She looked back at the camp and sighed, she would leave everything as it was.
She mounted Lancelot's steed in silence past the pain in her left thigh and right arm then patted his head, making the horse that she rode follow empty beside them. Arturia planned to sell the Irish horse and get some money to stay in the village for a while before she collected herself and rode off to Camelot without a single stop.
Arturia had made sure to change her attire because she knew that no innkeeper would accept her with a blood soaked and ripped tunic. She discarded it by the river and placed on a new pine green dress before heading back for the village that they had been in earlier.
Upon reaching the small English hamlet, she offered the stable the horse for five hundred silver coins; it was practically free for such money, and the store clerk had accepted the offer, of course with a little bargaining. She was glad that he had taken the steed off her hands and she hurried to the inn with her late friend's horse.
She passed by a mirror on her way to the inn and she could see the bruises on her neck and the blood in her arm staining through dark green dress. She was in a lot of pain, but she endured it; taking two black hairs from her horse to stitch the injuries later.
She entered the inn and looked about the rowdy place, there was still a lot of confusion in her mind and she thought about why her friend had wanted to kill her in the first place. She knew that it would have never been him to come up with such a brutal plan, and whatever Lancelot and Helga knew, was now buried with them as well.
She ran a hand through her hair roughly—her left hand because she did not want to cause her right any further pain, "A bottle of your strongest liquor." She stated as she settled about ten coins on the table.
The bartender looked upon her with a skeptic look, "No harsh drinks for little ladies," he laughed.
"Give me the bottle," she glared at him and put five more coins on the table—enough to buy two bottles of Irish Whisky.
