Memories came, washing into his consciousness like corpses on the shore. His stomach heaved, so he lay still again.
That was something, though neither were his own.
He wondered where he was, and cracked open an eye.
He'd stumbled, campfire to campfire, drinking everything he could lay hands on, wishing to drive all the thoughts from his head, until he'd succeeded, blacking out. The sounds of the camp slowly entered Prokles' consciousness, reaching into his wine-addled brain, and dragged him back to wakefulness.
