Nothing. It had been what greeted Joel when he was cast aside, tumbling off the bridge and into the valley below. Nothing save what he had lost, plummeting down and slapping wetly onto his marred armor. He wasn't sure who they were, nor did he care. All he knew was that they had bested him, storming the estate's plateau and raiding the compound as he plummeted below. The only thing awaiting him at the bottom was trash, refuse, and the bodies of his fallen brethren. He had fought the longest, certainly, cutting down a handful on his own before someone of a caliber beyond grunt chose to end the charade of hope that Joel was performing on the bridge. Battered and broken, Joel had laid there, not conscious to do anything on his own. All he that he could do was embrace the numbness engulfing him as death crept up for him. Unfortunately, the defeated and dishonored knight would not be granted peace. He had woken in a hut, barely big enough for one to live in, but not due to size.<br/><br/>A hermit had been sitting next to a crude fireplace, idly carving into stone with a knife. The blade was gliding as if the stone was butter, but that was not what Joel noticed. What he lost had been replaced, an eerie construct of bone, stone, and metal attached to his shoulder. The hermit spoke in disjointed phrases but the gist was passed across: Joel was a fallen knight, arisen through magic and made whole through a new form of magic called technology. The arm moved with Joel's thoughts, as a normal limb, and those he was physically whole, the trauma of his loss and the magic to bring him back always takes something in return. Names were not paired with the blurry faces in his mind, and once again, the numb feeling of nothingness crept into his thoughts.<br/><br/>Once the hermit permitted him to leave, Joel simply wandered. His body still obeyed him completely. There was no loss of function. But even the fallen knight noticed his movements would seem disjointed and sluggish in appearance alone. To him, it felt natural. And, after weeks of wandering in circles, Joel found that it certainly was natural. Bandits had accosted him along the road, demanding the remains of his possessions. His blade moved normally, his footwork was normal. But he could tell from the screams of the frightened bandits that it was not normal. Whatever was left of the man who fell from the bridge had been left in that valley with the trash.....<br/><br/><hr class="bbc-hr"/><br/>Now, Joel simply wandered. In the weeks that he followed his aimless path, Joel had not reached more than a few miles away from the hermit's shack. He had returned once when he had discovered an... interesting effect of his new right arm. But aside from that, his wandering had led no where fast. Mercenaries attacked him, out of fear he was some monster. Bandits struck in hopes of pillaging his weapon, armor, and any coin in a nonexistent pouch. Commoners on the road were the only ones to not show hostility to the man. But with his honor stripped from him, some of these unlucky souls were nothing but targets for their rations, miscellaneous pieces of trade that they carried, or more... nefarious needs.<br/><br/>Today was a day in which Joel felt numb. There was nothing special about this day in particular. The sky was overcast, but no rain spilled to the ground. The sun was hidden, despite the general assumption of noon. It was simply a day of nothing for Joel. These kinds of days came and went like the breeze. Some days he would feel fine. Other days, it was as if he was lying in the valley once more. His sense of touch would be nearly gone. His steps would cause him to stumble, and his eyes would beg for sleep, no matter how long he had slept the night before. Thus, Joel did not make it far from where he had started the day. A grove had entered his path, and thus the nothingness filling him forced his march to a halt. To a passerby, it would almost look at if he was asleep or dead. He was pressed against a tree, one leg splayed out as if it was dropped to where he sat, while the other was bent, the sole of his feet still on the ground. Across the raised knee, the accursed prosthetic he was 'gifted' rested like the arm of a marionette, thus being the only thing that gave away the limb under his armor was not natural. His hooded head rested against the false arm, thus completing the illusion of rest or sleep. But past this appearance, his sword was drawn, resting largely in between his outstretched leg and the ground and thus nearly completely hidden from view.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="1606" data-username="@Iniquity" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/1606/">@Iniquity</a>