I awoke with a start, the disgusting stench and stickiness a telltale sign of cold sweat. Reminds me of my brief phase of getting night terrors in my teenage years. Not an experience I would like to repeat, if possible. The headache slammed into me considerably worse than any hangover I had ever experienced, causing me to have to swallow a surge of bile before I threw up over myself.

"Easy... Easy now." A man's voice whispered to me, dabbing a towel on my head, forcing me back down into a laying position.

"You're injured. And it's quite bad, at that. I'll fix you up, no worries, but for now you need to rest." The man seemed concerned enough, so I did as he said. I relaxed my insanely sore muscles and melted into the bed. The supine position alleviated my headache a little bit, to my relief. The half dream, half hallucinogenic trip flooded into my memory. The demon hands, the portal, the impromptu skydiving, the slaying of the gargantuan monstrosity. I couldn't help but smile. That was seriously fun. Where on earth could you have that type of experience? Impossible.

Damn it.

I failed. I fucking failed.

"Failed? Failed at what?" Oh, seems as though I said that out loud. Well, given the circumstances, I'm sure there's not much he doesnt know. He's probably just asking to make conversation, to make sure I don't slip back into unconsciousness.

"Failed at taking my own life. Doctor." I spat the last word. It wasn't as though I disliked this man, but asking such an obvious question to someone recovering from a humongous overdose, what other answer did he expect.

"Oh. I see. I see. I apologise for asking such a question. Though let it be known, I am no Doctor, just a humble field medic." The man seemed to take my retort in stride, and thankfully didn't seem to blame me too much for snapping at him. I was getting real sick of his method of speech though, So grandiose, who does he think he is?

"How long have I been here?"

"You've been under my care for just shy of a month, kiddo. But worry not, I've taken care of you day and night during that time." I felt him smile at the last part. I didn't see it, my eyes were still adjusting to the light of the room. But I felt it. Somehow.

"One month, huh. I'm curious, has anyone come to see me?" I couldn't help myself. My curiosity got the better of me. I wonder if any of my so call friends have stopped by and left some flowers. Knowing them, they'd have forgone that for writing a 'meaningful' social media status, 'wishing' for my speedy recovery, instead.

"Has anyone come to see you? You mean...?"

"My friends. My estranged aunt twice removed. Any of them. Have any of them come?"

The 'field medic', whatever that meant, was quiet for a long time after I answered his question. I'm surprised I managed to survive at all with this man looking after me.

"I'm... I'm sorry. You were the only survivor we found. The rest were long dead before we arrived. My deepest condolences."

The rest? What on earth was he talking about now? I grabbed the towel from my head, swiping his arm out of the way in order to get a look at this doctor-turned-prankster. My eyes adjusted to the light of the room and I blinked a few times, to clear away the floaters.

The room...

This is not what I expected. I definitely wasn't in a hospital. Unless it was a hospital in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. But I lived in a city. The room reminded me of a lower tech version of the log cabin's I used to look at buying. Before I realised I was never in my life going to be able to afford them, that is. Everything in the room was carved from wood. From the door, to the bed, the nightstand, the house itself.

"Where... Where am I?"

"You are in this ones humble abode, located in the village of Angelsrun, on the outskirts of the Fendlip provence. It is a long travel from where you were originally, but I thought the distance would do you good. Was I wrong?"

Village? Angelsrun? Fendlip? What in the fuck have I gotten myself into. This man is insane. A psycho. I've been kidnapped by a psychopath. Life never fails to amaze me with the twists it has planned. Truly.

"Who are you?" Maybe I could get a name from the psychopath, to give to police when I managed to escape this insane situation. Or more likely, I could scratch it down somewhere for the police to find after he cuts my head off. Would anyone even notice I'm gone? I did quit my job after all.

"Field Medic Orwell, at your service." The man stood from his stool, smiling deeply and bowing at the waist.

"Orwell... That is your last name? You don't happen to have a first name do you?" Who knows, maybe I could get lucky.

"Oh no no, unlikely. I am not of high birth. Why do you ask? Are you?" High birth? My head is spinning. Is there a classification beyond psychopath? This man might qualify.

"No."

"I see. No worries. We can't all be Royal-born now can we?" Orwell chuckled heartily at his own so-called joke, a jarring scene if there ever was one.

The man quietened down, though his smile stayed plastered on his face. He seemed to be an average size man, though he was built considerably well, especially for a Doctor, sorry, Field Medic, excuse me. He had a short mop of pitch black hair, similar to what you would see on a military recruit who had let his buzzcut grow for a tad too long. He looked handsome enough, but his face was littered with scars. I don't know what I expected from my would-be murderer but whether the scars were self inflicted or not, they told of a great amount of pain and suffering.

"HEAR YE, HEAR YE. DEATH COMES A CALLIN'. THE HEART PLUNDERING DEVIL OF FENDLIP IS HERE. BRING OUT YOUR WOMEN, CHILDREN, AND BRONZE, AND WHO KNOWS? MAYBE I'LL LET SOME OF YOU LIVE. HAHAHAHA" A shout echoed through the walls of the cabin, compounding my already mind-splitting headache. What now? Could life possibly throw me any more curveballs? I've been kidnapped by a scarred psychopath, and now we're being plundered by bandits? Fuck it. Couldn't get much stranger than this.

"I apologise. I wasn't able to get your name until now. Would you give me the honour?" The psycho didn't seem to hear the commotion outside, only clasping his hands together and moving closer to my bed. I'm not giving this man my real name. Nope.

"... Aralmann. The names Aralmann."

"Splendid. A beautiful name. A little morbid, but to each their own. Well, Aralmann, there seems to be a small commotion happening outside, so do forgive my absence for a short while. Lie down, and rest well." The leather-armour cloaked man made smoothly for the door, not bothering to shut it behind him. His dedication to his role was impressive, that being said, I'm not letting this chance to escape go. I wanna die, but I don't wanna be tortured before I go. Nope.

I arched myself up from the bed, shuffling towards the edge, each movement sending shots of pain across my back and into my limbs, causing uncanny spasms. The bed was strangely high off the ground, and I had to use the stool as a stepping stone to get to the floor. Why would a bed be so high up? And why am I so concerned with a psychopath's bed height preferences? I made for the door, and rejoiced to find it slightly open. At least I'm not in a dungeon. Count your blessings, eh? The sunlight assaulted my eyes. Brighter than I'd ever experienced it, causing my headache to return in full force. I tried to walk but my foot slipped on a rock, and I plummeted to the ground, exasperating my already injured condition. I willed myself to get up, but no matter what I tried, my arms couldn't lift my weight from the floor. They just slipped under the pressure and weakly lay by my side. I slumped up against the wall of the cabin, resigned to my fate when the leather bound Hannibal Lecter found me trying to escape.

My eyes gradually adjusted to the light, the incoming scenery leaving my jaw hanging open. We were actually in a village. A genuine village mind you, not a modern day 'village'. There were women and children pottering about, a few men sporting leather garments, all with their shirts peeled off, each impressively built compared to the average man I knew. They ushered the children indoors, a mix of stone huts and wood cabins. The entire village was carpeted in a luscious and well kept green grass, and the walls were large and thick wooden spikes, as wide as tree trunks, giving the villagers a wide berth. A few houses connected to a small farm area, and I noticed a few herbs and plants growing in their fields. The villagers, contrary to what you'd believe, didn't seem too bothered about the sputtering of bandits pouring in from the entrance gates.

"DID YE NOT HEAR MY CALLIN'? AND TO THINK I WAS SO GENEROUS. RENALD, GO AN GRAB ME SOME WOMEN. AM HANKERIN FOR A-"

"SILENCE!" Orwell roared, flattening the bellow of the bandit leader, making me flinch in pain at the added stress of the headache. He stood at the front of the gathered villagers, though they didn't seem bothered enough to take any sort of formation.

"Ye see, usually, I'd offer ye a paltry sum, tell ye to get on yer merry little way, and see yer off with a smile on me face." Orwell spoke, hunched over as though his back was in pain. His entire accent, tone, and posture had done a 180. When he was talking to me he sounded like a pompous twat, hellbent on abusing an encyclopedia to make himself seem smart. But now? There was something about his accent that sent the hairs on the back of my neck to tingling. My body was pumping adrenaline throughout, telling me in no uncertain terms to forget about my injuries, and make for the hills.

"But naw, curse the gods, fer today's yer unlucky day. Ye see, I've got a patient in me abode, and he's been through a lot. Yer impotent screechin' is the last thing he needs to hear. So I'm gonna gut ye. Nice and quick mind ye. Not wantin' more screams now are we?" Orwell motioned to an older woman amongst the villagers, and she spoke a single word to those gathered, ushering them all inside, similar to the children.

"Ha.. Haha... Hahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHHAA" The bandit leader erupted in laughter, his men following soon after. Orwell laughed with them. He disappeared. The laughter was cut off as quickly as it had begun. Orwell stood in the midst of the bandits, the leader staring him down with manic eyes, holding tightly onto the entrails flowing freely from his stomach.

"You-" The bandit leader started, but his head spluttered against the grass with a wet thud before the word was finished, his body following soon after.

"Naw. I told ye now, didn't I? No more noise." Orwell held his finger up to his lips, shushing the remaining wide-eyed bandits. One of them screamed. It didn't last long. More bandits screamed. More bandits were silenced. For good. I could barely see his movements. And as far as I could tell, he had no sword, so how was he slicing them so easily?

"tis' like teachin' math to a bloomin' goat, this is."

It wasn't long before a single bandit remained, flat on his ass with both hands madly covering his mouth. An ever-widening puddle flowed from between his legs. He made a small whimper, which elicited a tut from Orwell.

"Naw. Listen closely now, would ye? Ye see, I like to think me and the bandits round 'ere have something of a workin' relationship. They walk away with whatever pittance I decide to give em', and I don't hang their guts from me gates like dead pigs. Now, you lot..." Orwell pointed weakly to the mass of limbless and headless corpses. "yer big city bandits, forced out into the countryside by Nuwa knows who. So I don't expect ye to understand. Ye think ye have struggled? Ye haven't tasted real struggle. Now go run off, and tell whichever mother-suckin bandit group you decide to leech off of who lives here, ye?"

The bandit started to speak, before once again grasping furiously for his mouth, deciding to nod madly instead.

"Ye look like me chickens eatin' grain. Now run off 'fore I change me mind, aye?"

The bandit scampered to his feet, falling a good few times before he gained traction, and sped off out of the gate as if Orwell was chasing him down. The shirtless men that had remained behind wasted no time in pilfering the dead bandits corpses, and hoisting them up onto a nearby cart. A few of them swapped words with Orwell, and he replied in kind, grasping the shoulders of the large tanned men, laughing along with them amicably.

So. A few things. I was wrong about this being in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Never in my life have I heard of such a thing as this happening on Earth. I could imagine a group of hippies making a farming village to live off of the land from, but a group of bandits? They'd go to the police, not gut them and pilfer their corpses. Nobody even seemed to mind. The kids are back to running around the village screaming and playing for fuck sake. A kid just stole a coat from a headless bandit and is now pretending to be one, as his friends play the heroic adventurers slaying him. I-...

Wait... Does that mean... Did I really slay a demon? What the fuck is happening right now. I'm gonna throw up. Don't tell me the portal was real too... I- I... I brought my hands to my face. They were shaking, not to mention hurting like hell, my fall clearly adding a few more injuries to my roster. But no, that didn't concern me right now. They were small. Like children small. I had child hands. I am a child. A child.

It... It could be worse?

I could be an old man. Right? I mean it's not like my formative years were the worst years of my life, and probably definitely laid the foundation of the trauma that culminated in me attempting to take my own life. Right?

Well, at least I was right about one thing. Orwell is definitely. Definitely, a psychopath.

So... Progress?