He had come a long way through chill water.
It took him minutes squatting on the flagstones of the dungeon to grow warm. His ability to think coherently returned as he altered his shape to one more suitable.
He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at having outwitted his pursuers. Now it was time to work out what had happened to him.
His mind had been damaged in some way. The rightness of that thought tolled within him like a vast bell.
Who could have done this?
Perhaps he had done it himself. Perhaps he had willed forgetfulness. Perhaps he had committed some heinous deed that he could not live with. Perhaps he been imprisoned so long within that awful coffin he could no longer bear the memories of what it had been like outside.
He did not feel that immediate ringing sense of rightness. Nor had he expected to. His instincts told him that his kind were not prone to self-harm.
