— • — Sunday, at noon — • —
Third Person's POV
"So he hadn't woken up yet." Albert's voice, gravelly despite his relative youth, cut through the quiet of his hut. He didn't miss the implied question in the guard's stance. Years of rigid dedication had aged him beyond his years; a simple, routine job with no surprises was all he'd ever wanted. And thank the heavens, it kept him far from the hateful monsters beyond the borders. Coward? Perhaps. He frankly didn't care.
"No, sir. Not a peep. His injuries have only just healed, though. Could be a few more hours."
Albert tapped a finger on the single sheet of paper on his desk, its official stamp a stark contrast to the rough wooden surface.
Albert: "At least that was how he looked before this... stranger arrived."
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Report: Found Person – Case ID: Branlow-1997-001
Date of Incident: Thursday, 7th of the 11th Month, 1997
Time: Approximately 6:00 PM
Location: North Zone, Branlow Village – In front of Garon's (Human) Blacksmith Shop
Summary: A young, unidentified male was found unconscious with a severe head injury. Healer Elias arrived promptly and, utilising healing magic, closed the wound. The subject has remained comatose for three days.
Eyewitness Account (Garon, Blacksmith): Claimed the subject was obstructing his shop entrance, mistook him for a supplicant. Stated he "gently" attempted to rouse the subject before impatience led to a strike with his crutch.
Village Inquiry: No villagers recognised the subject. No name, family, or acquaintances. The subject's clothing is unfamiliar to any known regional styles.
Action Required: Subject to be thoroughly questioned upon regaining consciousness regarding identity and origin.
Status: Stray.
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Albert: "Alright. You're dismissed."
"Yes, sir!" The guard snapped a quick salute and departed, the door clicking shut behind him. Albert leaned back, a sigh escaping, heavy with the weight of the last few days. He surveyed his office – not luxurious, not shabby. Clean, maintained, functional. Piles of reports, identity papers, and other official documents threatened to overwhelm the shelves. A new building, he mused for the hundredth time, was sorely needed. But requesting it from the Sheriff was pointless, and paying himself was out of the question. Guarding was simple, not lucrative.
A sudden, eager voice startled him, interrupting his train of thought "I'm here, sir! I've come to answer your call!"
Elrik, a gangly youth in simple clothes, burst through the door, saluting with an almost comical zeal. He wasn't a guard, but he loved to play the part.
"Ah, yes," Albert said, handing Elrik a thin, sealed envelope. "Deliver this to the Sheriff. As quickly as possible."
Elrik: "Yes, sir! Mission accepted! I'll ensure its swift completion!"
Elrik's smile was wide, his pride palpable at being assigned such an important 'mission'
Albert watched him, a fleeting wish for his lost youth, for strong limbs unburdened by aches.
Albert: "It's more a favour than a mission... but it still matters. You may leave."
"Excused!" Elrik wheeled around and clattered out, leaving the door ajar as usual. He ran towards his tied horse, curiosity already gnawing at him.
Elrik: 'An important envelope... must be vital information.'
His inner virtues and demons wrestled.
Elrik: 'A quick glance wouldn't hurt... No! Sir Albert trusts me! As a future knight, I won't fail!' He paused, then slowly lifted the envelope, focusing on the few words next to the three-headed dragon seal. He wasn't fluent, but he knew basic letters.
He paused, struggling.
Elrik: '..Q...C...St...ray...? Stray!' Elrik's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding mixed with surprise.
— • — Some hours later — • —
Alan's POV
Drowning.
That's the only word for it. Not physically, but... every sensation, every thought, felt waterlogged.
My limbs were leaden, my eyes refused to open, or maybe it was just absolute darkness?
The sickening gurgle in my lungs, the crushing weight on my chest – it was real. So real, it shoved aside the insistent throb in my head.
Then, slowly, the pain receded. The suffocation eased. A profound lightness settled over me.
Light, so light...
"Gasp!!"
I shot upright, clutching my chest, which screamed in protest. Sweat slicked my body. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. My breathing was ragged, my skin feverish.
"Wha... where am I?" The question was a strained whisper.
Memories, sharp and disorienting, flooded back: the tree, the medieval street, the old man, the stick. I was somewhere new. Somewhere else.
My eyes struggled to focus. Two immediate discoveries: my upper body was bare, and my glasses were gone. No wonder everything was rendered in horribly low graphics. The blur beyond half a meter made distinguishing anything impossible. I tried to stand, but my legs buckled. I sank back onto the stiff, wool-stuffed bed, which felt as stiff as stone.
Breathing and pulse were normalising, but I was still a wreck. Confusion reigned. I was in a stone hut. Dirt floor, stone walls, rough wooden columns. The roof, thatched. Someone must have carried me here after the...Tsk. Beaten by a granny with a stick. Not my finest moment. Definitely not letting that one go, but that's for another time.
But why no head pain? A blow like that should have me prepped for brain surgery. More importantly, where the hell am I? Stone huts, knights, blacksmiths... classic medieval features.
Let's think... three hypotheses.
1. Time travel.
Logically, impossible, it flies in the face of the laws of physics, so it's bullshit.
2. Dreaming.
But the pain was too real, my brain isn't that good at simulation.
3. Ants
Tiny, organised ants from the garden have invaded my brain and are now feasting on my neurons, causing glorious hallucinations and persistent headaches.
More logical, satisfies my scientific conscience.
But it was all too real.
I put my hands behind my head, staring at the thatched ceiling. Aside from numb fingers and feet, my body felt mostly functional. The cold began to bite. I fumbled for the blanket I'd kicked off earlier and pulled it tight.
Even if i freeze to death, winter is better.
Footsteps. Outside. I froze. Pretend to sleep? Confront? Was I food? Those medieval cannibalism articles flashed through my mind. Two seconds later, confrontation won. One person, by the sound of it. If unarmed, I could take him.
The door creaked open. An old man, maybe forty-five, stepped in
"@#$، )*&^( " His voice was joyful, but utterly unintelligible.
He closed the door, a welcome relief from the blizzard's shrieking wind. He pulled a chair closer, his features coming into blurry view: medium height, neat beard, combed brown hair with streaks of white. A heavy coat, a black cotton shirt, white gloves, and a leather bag. He looked... respectable.
"()&*^%^" He spoke again, in that same alien tongue.
I searched my mind, twenty languages deep, but found nothing. Not even a glimmer of recognition.
"Um... well, I don't understand what you're saying..."
A hint of understanding flickered across his face. He turned to his bag, rummaging. Moments later, he held out a small, familiar object in his fist.
"My glasses! Finally!!"
Somehow, unbroken again.
My lips stretched into a genuine smile. The world snapped into focus. Details returned. The texture of the stone wall, the subtle patterns in the dirt floor. My surroundings. A profound comfort washed over me.
The man looked pleased, maybe even proud. He pointed to his mouth three times, then pointed at me. Is he signalling hunger? Am I really that desperate?
Grrrr. My stomach, betraying me.
Seriously? At this time?
A faint chuckle escaped the man. He stood, bag in hand, and headed for the door. He opened it, turned, and gave a quick, unintelligible farewell. Then he was gone.
"Well, now what?" The hut felt empty, dead, boring. Like a museum no one visited.
Grrrr
I hoped he would return quickly. Thought of sleeping to kill time, but sleep refused to come. I put on my glasses again, and the blurry ocean of my vision transformed into a clear, detailed landscape. I needed to protect these things. My lifeline.
My shirt hung on the opposite wall. I stood, a slight dizziness still lingering, and pulled it on. Even inside, the storm raged outside. Was it safe out there? I could starve if the old man didn't come back. Doctor, I guessed, judging by his attire. But how did he heal me? Medieval medicine was not this advanced. And how much time was I sleeping?
And I wasn't fully cured. Dizziness, a headache, and that strange, hazy light in the air. Hallucinations, probably. I sank back onto the uncomfortable bed, pulled the blanket tight, and closed my eyes.
— • — Meanwhile, outside — • —
Third Person's POV
Outside the cottage, the snowstorm raged at its peak. Snow tore sideways through the air, whipped by howling winds that bit through layers of fur and flesh. The ground vanished beneath a rising tide of white, erasing paths, footprints, and hope alike. Visibility shrank to mere feet—beyond that, only ghostly shapes shifting like phantoms in a snow globe shaken by a god's fury.
The old man, Elias, stumbled towards a small, nearby house, pounding on the door.
"Oh, dear Elias! Quickly, come in! Where have you been in this weather?" His wife's voice, a mix of surprise and sharp annoyance, greeted him.
"Haha, hello," Elias managed, shrugging off his coat as he entered, making a beeline for the fireplace. He groaned softly as he settled onto the sofa, luxuriating in the sudden warmth. Then, the piercing eyes. He remembered. His wife, passing behind him, had a frown etched on her face.
He walked inside, and his wife closed the door tightly. He then headed directly to the sofa on his right, next to the fireplace, in search of warmth. He lay down and a soft groan escaped him, enjoying the comfort and warmth of his home.
"Ah... the patient first, you see... hahaha." He scratched the back of his head, his nervous laugh doing nothing to soften her expression as she continued to her room. "Well, I've never been the best at apologising."
He tossed more logs onto the fire. The cold was brutal. He couldn't help but reflect on the past two days. First, the urgent summons: a young man on the brink of death in Branlow. He'd paid a steep price for the quick journey, his cart nearly tumbling down a mountain road during a monster attack. Pure luck had saved them. And then, an hour of focused healing magic on the boy, closing a grievous head wound.
From their brief interaction, he found the young man suspiciously not fluent in Ulmerian, and his clothes were unlike anything Elias had ever seen.
'Not that that is my business.' Elias mused. 'That is Albert's job — the guard captain or whatever title he'd given himself.'
And speaking of which, he'd told Albert he'd report anything suspicious.
Elias: 'I suppose I'll tell him tomorrow... Wait, I feel like I've forgotten something... No, just tired, I guess.'
— • — An hour later, Alan's hut — • —
Alan's POV
I stared at the wooden ceiling, my stomach protesting louder than the blizzard outside.
Sleep eventually came, empty and cold.