First First
Worst thing is, it doesn't hurt. If it hurt he would be able to find his way through the pain and think about this rationally. He'd be able to get angry, to lash out. But it doesn't. It's just… unnerving, like the mild inconvenience a wet leaf stuck under your heel would be, when he'd expected more like a bed of burning white thorns slowly piercing his flesh. It's over almost as quickly as it started. One second he's in broad daylight, in the bustling center of the city, the next he's in a large, dimly lit, damp room of unknown proportions. They're watching him, murmuring secrets in hushed undertones. They wear robes, grey, white, black, some have their hood up, others not. One of them, an unhooded woman with fiery red hair walks up to him. That's when he realizes he's naked, naked and missing all of his possessions. Unarmed too. A shiver runs through his spine. Not that they're threatening, the look in her eyes is more one of skeptical wonder than of a desire to hurt. Then she speaks. Her voice is strong and clear but he cannot understand a word she says. The tongue resembles something akin to german, or perhaps russian? He can't really say, it's not one he speaks. It's simultaneously raspy and soft, the words are long, and he gets absolutely none of it other than the intent behind the questioning tone. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, the strange realisation that with enough practice he could pick it up somehow hits him.
She must see the focus lines on his face because she frowns too, so do the others - those without hoods at least. Half have sat down, mainly those clad in white, the others are assisting them or have run off to fetch things. He can hear them whisper again, but it's too low for him to catch anything. Would he even understand? He tries to speak. It doesn't work, his throat is itchy and burning, as if he'd swallowed a whole bottle of acid with needles. He coughs a bit, almost retches, and the redhead leans toward him. He tries to cover himself as best as he can but the look in her eyes tells him there's no real need for that. With a quick and practiced move of her wrist and a single word, one of the black clad men brings a coat and gently places it on his shoulders. The shivers die down a bit but he still feels weak and woozy, and he gets the feeling it's not simply because of the low temperature of the room.
Torches are lit along the moist stone walls, some furniture is visible here and there, but mostly the room is filled with shadowy space and columns. Engravings everywhere, on the columns, on the ground - he notices he's laying in the middle of some sort of runic circle, somehow burnt into the stone floor. A man enters the room and seems to address them all. They straighten and nod, most of them leave, to go do what is a good question. The woman places a hand on his shoulder, he feels her grip firm but gentle. He turns to look at her and she speaks once more, her words flow like oil on a slanted sheet of metal through one ear and out the other. He tries to make her understand he doesn't comprehend a word but with what feels like a burnt throat it's not easy. She gets the message somehow, or perhaps she already got it but had to get things out anyway, perhaps the message was in her tone? It wasn't aggressive or threatening, so that's at least one piece of good news… Then she points at herself, placing her palm on her chest.
"Voïenssa."
That's how he'd spell it if he had to take a fucking guess. But he doesn't have the mind for it at the moment, so he just keeps it in the back of his mind. It must be her name, or at least a way to refer to her. She does the same thing a second time.
"Voïenssa."
This time she pats her chest, it wobbles and echoes with a soft thud. Then she offers her palm to him, open and inviting. Either he's supposed to grip it, or she wants to know his. Not feeling up to moving in anyway he chooses to go with his name. In his elation he must have forgotten about the state of his throat and/or, mostly 'and' though, not have realized the shape his body was in. The cold inside his stomach, the shivers, the world that keeps wobbling in front of him. He feels the cramp far too late and only has the time to push her back far enough for the burnt liquid to spill from his guts all over the floor and not over her coat or her shoes. Good job, mate! You managed to miss both, what a hero you are… Is all he managed to think before he falls over, only narrowly avoiding falling face first into his own vomit thanks to trembling arms he threw to the ground.
Ah. There it is. The pain of the aftermath brings his mind into overdrive and clears everything else away, allowing him to think properly for the first time since the light struck him. A place that is not the street in broad daylight, strange people in strange clothes, chanting and runes, a language he swears he's never heard before, and a deeply foreboding feeling that everything has just gone to shit. Oh he's heard stories about this before, read most of them too! Yep, that must be it! Just his luck, he's somehow been isekaied.
---
PREVIOUSLY | NEXTLY
A Hero’s Retirement
