The thing that’s strangest about what she said is that you don’t have a head injury. Admittedly, your head doesn’t hurt, but you definitely felt it when that slicer hit you.
Makes you wonder about something else. You roll up your sleeve. You’ve had a scar just under your elbow for a few years.
And it’s gone. Not a trace of it.
“The hells,” you mutter quietly. Then you look back at Swallow.
“We aren’t big on carrying identification around in the Marshguards, so I can’t offer any direct proof. But your wizard can probably figure out if I’ve had a spell cast on me. That’s the best I’ve got.”
“Wouldn’t prove you weren’t brought here willingly by magic,” she points out.
“I thought you were just here to find out who the hell I was,” you say, a little frustrated. “Well, I’ve told you. And I don’t see how someone who goes by Swallow has any room to pick on me for being named after a bird.”
“It’s a nickname for me.”
“Well, it is for me too. It’s just that where I come from, there’s no difference between a nickname and a real one.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Swallow says. She shows a hint of a smirk. “Why don’t you tell me where that nickname comes from, then? And why make it all fancy instead of just calling yourself Crow?”
Well, that’s easy enough. It’s because you were a courier…
Wait a minute. You’re seventeen years in the past. You’re pretty sure messenger crows aren’t in widespread use yet. How are you going to explain this without making her even more suspicious of your story?