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The ground is cold as ice.


To the touch, he would’ve thought it ice, but even his somewhat-blurry vision knows earth when he sees it.


Does he know it?


What does he know?




His fingers curl and his eyes shut tight, nails pulling up dirt and the world doesn’t seem to stop spinning around him.

Whether it’s been a few seconds or hours, he can’t tell. The man’s eyes are shut so tight he’s seeing spots, and he doesn’t dare open them until the world stops revolving and the tightness in his stomach fades.

A tentative peek reveals the same ground beneath him as before, and information slowly starts to pour into his head. Quiet insects chirping and buzzing, the slight rustle of the wind in the trees. His heart pounding in his chest. The back of his mind is yelling at him and his surroundings are completely unfamiliar.

Was that him? 


It must be.

It's not like it could be anybody else. 


He’s sitting in some sort of clearing, the sun just barely peeking over some large, grassy hills in the distance illuminates the mist-covered ground he’s seated upon. The first thing he notices is that he’s absolutely covered in ash. The second thing he notices is that the icy ground is a blessing on his warm skin. It’s soothing, like he’s nursing a burn that blankets his whole body, despite nothing visibly being wrong with it. What little he can see through the ash that coats it, anyway.


As much as his body is begging him not to, Leifur makes an attempt to stand. It fails miserably, and he’s back on the ground with a scraped knee with a quiet grunt. Something rustles and suddenly there’s a shadow casting itself over him.


Does he dare?


Leifur warily looks up towards the figure, whose face is mostly obstructed by a bizarre-looking headdress.

Foggy recollection tells him the animal is some sort of deer, with ornate antlers to match. What little they can see of said face is covered in tattoos, and wearing a warm smile.

The headdress is lowered, revealing itself to be the hood of a furry cape, and the individual grins. It’s a man, much to his surprise, and not some God wanting to end his very short-lived existance.

His hair is long and in thin braids that frame his face. He’s tall, Leifur can tell that much even from the ground, but there’s a pleasant feeling about his appearance that doesn’t suggest malicious intent. Familiarity buzzes in the back of his mind, but Leifur can’t place it.


There’s an outstretched hand being offered to him by the stranger in front of his face.


He takes it.