“What is the World you ask? Many theories have been thrown around; some say it is a bridge, yet others say it is the great equalizer, some…a guide. I say It is all of those things, it bridges peoples through language…imagine if I did not understand my fellow sentient beings; It would be utter pandemonium I say, a bedlam! …”- Avnar, High Priest of the Church of Thea.

The youth was shocked to the point of numbness. Or he was out of it because he didn’t have a frame of reference of what to feel about events that had no bearing on him. Either way, they could have been dead for decades or centuries, not that he could tell.

As for the matter of the strange equipment, his mind was ineffectually trying to refute their existence by drawing from things that were familiar to him. Such a recollection was at the very least unencumbered by the unwelcome plus one of pain whenever he attempted wading through the disjointed echoes of his memories.

‘I hope these are not props,' were his mutterings as he nudged the remains of a wooden shield with his knife. The moldy wooden part crumbled from rot. However, the edges of worked metal remained sturdy to which he asserted that they were not just knock off replicas. He knew what was authentic and not just someone’s enthusiastic attempt to ape gear from a Ren Fair and chalked it up to his elusive memories.

Caught up in his exploration, his nonexistent situational awareness led the unwitting youth to trespass some sort of boundary, like a klutz, springing a trap. A sensation of having crossed into somewhere he wasn't supposed to be washed over him as an unseen entity probed him and considered him an unwelcome intruder.

His skin tingled as a niggling feeling rose at the nape of his neck, this time even more palpable than the first time. If his fleeting experience was anything to go by then he was in an indeterminable amount of danger.

He suddenly found muscles locked up as the breath hitched in his lungs. Even though the air was nippy, his hands became clammy with perspiration. And that dogged smell of ozone pervaded the air he breathed to the point of searing his nostrils. The atmosphere had somehow gained a tangible weight as if someone had dialed up the gravity to twenty.

The pressure on his shoulders forced him to drop on all fours as his joints screamed from the effort of keeping him on his feet. From the corner of his eyes, a huge serpentine silhouette moved, with a rustle. The fear of the unknown that sank its tenacious claws into his heart was so excruciatingly glacial he felt it would stop from shock.

And try as he might, he could not get his neck to turn around—movement was restricted by an invisible straight-jacket that locked his body in place

“Hmm,... another scurrying thief,” said a sonorous voice whose timbre shook his bones. The words uttered possessed a tangible gravitas to them as if they could take on a physical shape. For the human, the voice came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time; an impossibility given the acoustics of the place therein.

Every single word moved the hot prickly air against his back, causing the hairs at the back of his neck to stand. It is not from a great foreboding, rather, the air itself seemed to hiss with electrostatic discharge. His jaws ground against his teeth as the pressure continued to weigh on his psyche.

“Mmrgh…”

“What do you have to say for yourself?” The voice took on a different cadence, in a sultry sort of way, promising danger as the speaker drew nearer. “Go on then; throw your spells, draw your sword so we can get this over with. I haven’t had a meal in quite some time.”

The subject of the veiled threat was still trying to get their lips unhinged. He feared that he was going to die before he even got a word out. But worse came as he felt the sensation of someone or something, invading his mind. His splitting headache chose that inopportune moment to come back full force until he was sure that he’d be weeping blood from all the orifices his head possessed.

“Hmm, I sometimes forget that beings of your stature cannot withstand my aura.” The speaker said as if it was a matter of fact. The nonchalance with which he was being regarded threw his dignity by the wayside. “ There, you should now be able to speak.”

“My apologies lady,” he hissed through his teeth as his breath came in harsh gasps. His eyes were squeezed tight as his mind latched onto improbable scenarios and shunted them out just as quickly. And the only explanation he could wring from his traitor of a brain was that he had finally succumbed to brain bleed and was running on the vestiges of his sanity.

“ I didn't mean to offend you I was just looking around and just happened to stumble into your residence. I swear I just took a wrong turn somewhere. I don’t even know where here is.”

“Verily, it is the truth you speak.” they paused. Relief hit him like an ice cold press, soothing the smarting migraine pulsing between his brows. As if doing so would stop his head from going the way of an overripe cantaloupe. Just as he thought he’d gotten in the clear, another question forced them back on their toes. “ But pray tell, why is your mind so muddled?”

Cogs and gears spun in his mind. He felt like he’d been doing all the time he’d been awake thus far. From waking up, staving off the cold, running from danger…trying to make sense of his surroundings. And now he was being grilled by an all-powerful entity that could just read his mind like a book.

His nerves were past the point of fraying. He despaired that, if one more question was thrown his way in exchange for his life he would rather choose a quick end. His head was already hell bent on killing him so why bother? But the human condition was such that even running on the fumes of fickle endurance, he still wanted to live, thus his plea.

“Uhm, could you please let me go? Please?.”

There was a pregnant pause as the speaker sunk into contemplation. With a huff that blew strong enough to plaster hair to his scalp, they sighed.

“Where would you go son of man? Beyond these walls, wyverns haunt the skies, ” A brief interlude reigned to let the words sink in. “ Fang and claw you have neither, nor any form of steel that could be called a weapon. Tell me, if you wanted to die so badly, why do you ask that I spare you?”

The speaker was so close he could feel their breath with the entirety of his body. He wagered that if they were so inclined, they could use him as finger food. After all, he was still of a mind to remember that they mentioned being put off from their meal.

“If I may say so myself, I just escaped by the skin of my teeth.” He swallowed, opening his eyes a peep to see if he was still on a trip. Fearing that the spell would break, he forced out the rest of his words. In the face of a stranger, he felt that they were too audacious and demanding even. Why would they help him? Worse, someone who just happened to stumble into their residence.

'Nothing ventured, nothing gained' he thought as he stuttered,

“— I would appreciate your assistance if you could just point me in the right direction ma'am. Away from you know, anything that wants to eat me for lunch?”

There was a raucous laughter so loud that, were he not in his ethereal restraints or transfixation of terror, he’d have fallen on his behind.

“Surely you jest?” They said, as the laughter died down. The tremors rocking the ground beneath his feet abated. “ I do recall saying your chances of survival were pathetic did I not?”

"What a strange human. “ they sighed. “ Then again, there is no way you would have made it all the way to this cave past a weyr of wyverns. Must have been a [Teleport] spell—No that cannot be it. I sense no residual Locus mana on you. Tell me, how is this so?”

Wyverns, teleportation spells, locus mana. And they called him a strange human. The man’s mind finally gave up the ghost. This train of thought, already running on a cupful of steam, came to a grinding halt. The gaps in his memories aggravated his already pathetic situation. Truly, he was a prisoner of his own mind.

Perhaps he was in a sort of hallucination? But then the sore joints and migraine were as real as an ache could get. Lucid dreams were also out of the question. Be as it may, even without the aforementioned, he was no fool.

With that nerve-wracking exchange with a dangerous entity, he pieced together that, no, it was not a figment of his imagination. Because, why else would his mind conjure things were already in the realm of fantasy to create an elaborate form of torture? The bottom line was one thing and one thing alone; that wherever here was, he was not in Kansas anymore.

The feeling of defeat was a bitter pill to swallow. The young man let his shoulders slouch as the luxury of slumping on the ground was simply too onerous a task. In an ironic turn of events, he was grateful that his unseen restraints buoyed him up, even as his muscles burned from standing in place for too long.

It was not for long however as his would-be captor released his binds and his face planted to the ground with a yelp. And he stayed there. Several thousand heartbeats, he stayed like that; unmoving as though a corpse. He’d despaired and now, he waited for the entity that had yet to show themselves, gobble him up from the edges where the light did not reach because that is what serpentine tails the size of a minivan begat.

" You carry inscrutable artefacts on you,”

‘Leave me be… or eat me. No more!’ he groaned, wanting to goad them to get it over with.

‘They are not of dwarven make, are they ?’

‘Death by a slew of questions…’

“ And your language sounds outlandish. I have been to many places in this continent and even I—” they faltered. That was the first time, in all their exchange, that they felt unsure. That elicited a quirked eyebrow from the man.

Interested, the prostrate being righted himself with the crook of his elbows and sat folding his legs underneath him. He grimaced at the cold assault on his rear. But he listened, the situation non-sequitur from a few breaths ago.

“ I have traveled to many lands yet I cannot place your dialect. Did a new civilization emerge?” He imagined them shaking their head in disbelief. “ That cannot be—I haven’t been gone for half a century. Perchance you can tell me of your origins?”

‘Oh? Suddenly I’ve been upgraded from a snack to entertainment? Or am I just entertainment and snacks?’ he let out a furtive snort, befuddled by his own appalling sense of humor. ‘Fine then, I’ll bite, ' he mused as he looked at his possessions. ‘Maybe you’ll be interested enough to show yourself,’ another thought, his curiosity piqued about his host’s predisposition to hiding in the darkness.

With the barest illumination, he kept an eye out for his unseen acquaintance while he rifled through his luggage. He took out his clothes and sundries, cataloging every single thing for something that would jump at his attention.

Perhaps, he kept a journal or something on his person. To be honest, even he was doubtful that he had the foresight to keep such a thing. He just needed something, anything―of course, how could he forget? His identification, he must've had an ID in there somewhere. At least he could recall that much

So he looked still-wet trouser and remembered it was not on his person. In the presence of what he assumed was a female audience, he blushed all the way to his ears. He cleared his throat to stymie his embarrassment as he wholeheartedly gave himself to the task at hand. There was an unmistakable attempt to muffle an amused chuckle from his host and he felt his cheeks burn in shame.

Finally, he found his wallet in the aviator's jacket breast pocket . With unsteady fingers, he opened the card section, and pried out the first card he saw. Looking back at him, was a young man with sun tanned skin, auburn hair and sky blue eyes. He had above average looks; his chin was not too strong and neither were his cheeks too chubby. His masculine eyelashes were full yet they did not detract from his charms.

He could tell at a glance that he was of mixed heritage. Besides the portrait of his face was his name, Arthur W. O'Reilly. His birthday should have been the day before, meaning he just turned twenty four years of age. Though he could not recall much, he knew his nickname too. At least that counted for something.

“Arthur, my name is Arthur,” the young man said. A tear welling up in the corner of his eye was quickly blinked away before the dam could burst. Arthur was lost in a strange land with cat-axolotl creatures and an unknown host that wanted to have and eat him. On the other hand his host had yet to make up their mind whether they wanted him for dinner or not.

As if reading his mind, a sudden weight leaned against his back. Through the only article of modest clothing on his upper half, he felt an outline that spoke of feminine features.

A soft chin settled on his shoulders while a lithe arm, ending in clawed hands wrapped around his throat. The disconnect between delicacy and violence was so confusing as if the being behind him had shrunk and worn another personality.

“Tell me young Arthur…will you grovel on your knees? Give up without resistance? Or will you fight to stay on this mortal coil? claws continued to tighten around his throat. “Think quickly.”

The sultry voice was a little subdued, but the speaker was the same. It gave the feeling of courting danger and the aura inherent in every single word brought forth gravitas of an entity so far beyond him

Arthur gulped audibly as his mortality was put on the spot. The bloodlust, tinged with the fury of a storm, prickled on his skin as his mind went a mile a minute. The youth did not want to die.

“I want to live,” he croaked, barely managing to let the words through his constricted throat. A lifetime passed in a palpitation of Arthur’s heartbeat.

“Hrm,” his would-be executioner hummed in that otherworldly voice of hers. “ A wise choice.” Then the clawed hand released his throat.

Arthur let out another breath as he was torn between crying and laughing in catharsis from the sudden development. He smothered the sob lodged in his throat as he steeled his feelings; he owed himself that much.

Despite his curiosity, he didn’t dare turn around to see whoever was encroaching on his personal space. Perhaps a goddess of myth had taken on a corporeal form and turning around would simply earn him a smiting of lightning? He gulped audibly. Besides, there was something to be said about people shifting forms and that―he just didn’t see that every day.

“My, my? Won’t you turn around?” the woman said, seeming to take umbrage. “ I didn’t take you for a prude seeing you run here in your underclothes.”

“Er, I can explain” rasped Arthur as he looked for a dry pair of trousers to hide his indignity.

“Hmm, you truly are peculiar,” they added, picking one of his long sleeved shirts as Arthur frantically tried to look elsewhere. At nothing, a whole bunch of dark nothingness.

“It is done,” they cooed. “ The weaving on this garment is rather exquisite. Pity it is unenchanted material. You can turn around you goody-goody.” she chortled. Arthur heard the snap of a finger and light bloomed around him.

As his vision adjusted, the darkness peeled away as if by magic and the veil lifted. Finally Arthur did turn around― hesitantly. For all his imagination, he was not prepared to have his common sense thrown out the window.

That was no goddess let alone a deity―but he was going to need even bigger windows to throw stuff. The silhouette from earlier was a being so titanic he had to crane his neck and shuffle backwards. No, a couple paces back and then some. Only then could he see the top of their head.

And this was despite the fact that said being was resting its gigantic snout on its front claws, laying on its haunches like a slumbering mountain. Majestic wings the size of a billboard were furled to either side of it; extended, he expected them to reach the roof of the cave. It even bore repeating that this part of the cave was even bigger for the sake of its occupant. If his memory could be relied upon, the cavern was easily the size of an aircraft hangar.

What caught his eye was not the sheer size of the creature but its resplendent scales, overlapping from head to tail like legionaries’ tower shields. They were a shade of silver with blue and gold accents towards the edges and easily as wide as he was tall from head to toe.

The highlight was the branching horns the size of a street-light and reminiscent of deer antlers. They were a metallic silver that took on an iridescent tinge, sometimes blue and sometimes gold like magnificent filigrees on a marble sculpture. He blinked―and blinked again. “ Ah—” he mumbled, perhaps he’d hit his head too hard.