His slumber was short-lived, consciousness returning through a haze of blurry colors and harsh whispers. How many people were around him? If he tried focusing for more than a couple of seconds, his head would ache and his eyes would reflexively close. What was he even doing lying down? He tried to remember what had happened before he had awoken, but that made his head hurt as well. The people around him, of which there was an unknown quantity, suddenly stopped gesturing and talking, their bodies turned towards him.

  “He’s awake. You’re awake, aren’t you, Outlander?” said one of the crowd around him, definitively female in pitch, though now that he had the origin of the source, he realized that she either had 2 twins, or there were significantly fewer people in the room than he thought.

  He attempted to speak, but he only managed to give a few body-wracking coughs in response. He closed his eyes again, throat dry and parched. Never before had he felt so thoroughly exhausted. What happened to him? He remembered leaving for the gas station. But for what purpose?

  “Sit him up, Egan. He probably needs something to drink. He did get thrown quite a ways,” said the woman.

  “Why’ve I gotta be the one takin’ care o’ the strays?” complained a new voice, probably belonging to Egan.

  “Just do what I say.”

  He heard the shuffling of feet and low, unintelligible grumbling before hands grabbed him from under his armpits, pulling him up and placing him against something solid. He opened his eyes again weakly, straining to see what was happening. A woman was kneeling in front of him, holding a bowl of something, presumably water, staring into his eyes intensely. She was gorgeous, the type of woman he himself would never have seen himself interacting with. Her hair was crimson interlaced with orange, and her eyes a hard green. She bore slight scars in various places around her face, but strangely enough, it only enhanced her beauty instead of detracting from it. She was dressed in a green leather jerkin with a belt containing various trinkets and weapons, a red cape surrounding her.

  She studied him shrewdly, leaning forward so that their noses almost touched, poking him in the cheek for good measure, which solicited a weak grunt from him.

  She nodded her head, then proffered the bowl before his lips, “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

  He obeyed, though he eyed it doubtfully for a moment. It wasn’t Voss or Fiji, but at that moment it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He coughed a little as it went down, and she clapped him lightly on the back. His vision finally started to acclimate, and she sat quietly, still observing him as he looked around at his surroundings. He was in a cave den, the walls lit dimly by torches. Around him were crates and chests, some of them open and baring their contents for him to see, others locked tightly. He noted that several crates contained weapons, with some holding rations. Most likely this was some sort of impromptu headquarters for them to operate out of. Were they bandits? He doubted that, they didn’t give off that vibe, but why were they so heavily armed?

  The man that had approached him before came into view, appearing as if from the shadows. But it wasn’t a man. He had to admit that to himself now.

  It was an elf.

  “Welcome to our home, Etelendi. I know it is not much, but it’s kept us safe for the last few weeks,” said the elf, and the woman looked back at him, and judging from the look he gave her, they were in disagreement about something.

  She turned back to him, eyes intense, placing the bowl on the ground. “You are an Outlander, aren’t you? Your clothes, the way you carry yourself—I know it’s true.”

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  “Selara,” the elf said disapprovingly, “he needs rest. He’s in no condition for this.”

  “I don’t care what condition he’s in,” she said, standing up, fists balled at her side, “we need an edge, and if he’s what I think he is, then he’s it.”

  The man—or boy, he should have said, named Egan sat off to his side, shaking his head and looking at Zach with a look of pity, “Hope you don’t mind yellin’. You’re goin’ to hear a lot of it soon.”

  “If he is, then that is his journey to take. It is left to those wiser than we to decide.”

  “You’re just scared, Herun,” said Selara, her voice low and heated, “Scared of failing again. But you don’t need to be. It wasn’t your fault that that monster--” she broke off, faltering as the elf’s face darkened, and a hush fell over the room. She stood there for a moment, then tsked her teeth and stormed off to a corner of the room, picking up a stave and leaving in a huff. Zach realized he hadn’t taken a breath since she stopped talking, and let out a loud exhalation, breaking the silence. The elf scrubbed a hand through his golden hair and then briefly swept his face, then sighed and put on a welcoming smile for him.

  “Egan, go fetch some firewood. I would like to speak with our guest here for a moment.”

  “But I just brought some in this mornin’!” he complained, but still he went, leaving them alone in the dimly lit den.

  The elf stooped to pick up the bowl, offering it to him, but he shook his head and said, “No thank you,” and then winced at the sound of his own voice. His head was still killing him. The elf gave a brief raise of his eyebrows in surprise before saying, “So he speaks. Tell me Etelendi, what is your name?”

  In RPGs he usually would choose the charismatic option, saying something like, “You’d have to take me out to dinner first,” but he doubted he could pull that off here. “Zach,” he croaked, throat still raw, gulping hard. “Zachary. Just Zachary.”

  The elf nodded as if expecting the answer, though he could not have known his name. “I see. I am called Pevarin, in your tongue. Judging by the looks you have given my ears, I take it you are not accustomed to my kind?”

  He almost laughed. Not accustomed? Elves were his race of choice in most games where they were playable. Not that he cared about cosmetics all that much, but they tended to look the best in endgame gear in most games. And they usually had broken abilities. “No, I—well, I’ve just never met one,” he said, his voice starting to return bit by bit.

  He smiled broadly, “Then I am honored to be the first one you’ve encountered.” The elf seemed genuine in his sentiment. That was strange but made him smile awkwardly in return. He wasn’t used to people being happy to meet him. Most gave him looks of disgust whenever he shuffled out of his house smelling of sweat and cologne, dressed like a bum.

  “The woman, S-Selara?” he said, “She called you Herun. I thought that was your name. Is that an elven word for something?”

  “Pronounce the beginning consonant a little more strongly, but not terrible for your first attempt. It means ‘master’, or ‘teacher’ might be more accurate. As her Herun, I should apologize to you personally for any injuries you have sustained. She never did learn restraint, no matter how hard I tried.”

  He remembered it clearly now, the memory flowing back to him. “Did she kill that...what was that thing?”

  “A Shadowstalker,” he said grimly, quickly saying something in Elven before making some kind of gesture. Maybe it was some sort of prayer to ward off evil or something. “And no, she did not. But we did manage to wound it enough to send it back to its master squealing. It will take more than mere Flame magic and a few scratches to kill the Hounds of the Dark.”

  That did not sound comforting. Obviously, what had attacked them was a rare creature, and the way he said, “it’s master” meant that someone had sent it after them. But why?

  “Why was it there? What's so special about where you found me?”

  The elf hesitated, studying him as if deciding on whether or not to explain, then said slowly, “Zachary, where do you think you are right now?”

  He couldn’t respond right away. How could he? He had suspected this whole time but was hoping that it was a dream. No, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t lie to himself. Something in him had wanted it to be true. He wanted all this to be real. But part of him was terrified too, terrified that it was as real as it seemed.

  “I’m...this isn’t my world, is it?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

  The elf simply shook his head.

  “Then,” he said, trying to control his breathing, feeling a panic attack coming, “where the fuck am I?”

  His slumber was short-lived, consciousness returning through a haze of blurry colors and harsh whispers. How many people were around him? If he tried focusing for more than a couple of seconds, his head would ache and his eyes would reflexively close. What was he even doing lying down? He tried to remember what had happened before he had awoken, but that made his head hurt as well. The people around him, of which there was an unknown quantity, suddenly stopped gesturing and talking, their bodies turned toward him.

  “He’s awake. You’re awake, aren’t you, Outlander?” said one of the crowds around him, definitively female in pitch, though now that he had the origin of the source, he realized that she either had 2 twins, or there were significantly fewer people in the room than he thought.

  He attempted to speak, but he only managed to give a few body-wracking coughs in response. He closed his eyes again, throat dry and parched. Never before had he felt so thoroughly exhausted. What happened to him? He remembered leaving for the gas station. But for what purpose?

  “Sit him up, Egan. He probably needs something to drink. He did get thrown quite a ways,” said the woman.

  “Why do I always have to take care of the strays?” complained a new voice, probably belonging to Egan.

  “Just do what I say.”

  He heard the shuffling of feet and low, unintelligible grumbling before hands grabbed him from under his armpits, pulling him up and placing him against something solid. He opened his eyes again weakly, straining to see what was happening. A woman was kneeling in front of him, holding a bowl of something, presumably water, staring into his eyes intensely. She was gorgeous, the type of woman he himself would never have seen himself interacting with. Her hair was crimson interlaced with orange, and her eyes a hard green. She bore slight scars in various places around her face, but strangely enough, it only enhanced her beauty instead of detracting from it. She was dressed in a green leather jerkin with a belt containing various trinkets and weapons, a red cape surrounding her.

  She studied him shrewdly, leaning forward so that their noses almost touched, poking him in the cheek for good measure, which solicited a weak grunt from him.

  She nodded her head, then proffered the bowl before his lips, “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

  He obeyed, though he eyed it doubtfully for a moment. It wasn’t Voss or Fiji, but at that moment it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He coughed a little as it went down, and she clapped him lightly on the back. His vision finally started to acclimate, and she sat quietly, still observing him as he looked around at his surroundings. He was in a cave den, the walls lit dimly by torches. Around him were crates and chests, some of them open and baring their contents for him to see, others locked tightly. He noted that several crates contained weapons, with some holding rations. Most likely this was some sort of impromptu headquarters for them to operate out of. Were they bandits? He doubted that, they didn’t give off that vibe, but why were they so heavily armed?

  The man that had approached him before came into view, appearing as if from the shadows. But it wasn’t a man. He had to admit that to himself now.

  It was an elf.

  “Welcome to our home, Etelendi. I know it is not much, but it’s kept us safe for the last few weeks,” said the elf, and the woman looked back at him, and judging from the look he gave her, they were in disagreement about something.

  She turned back to him, eyes intense, placing the bowl on the ground. “You are an Outlander, aren’t you? Your clothes, the way you carry yourself—I know it’s true.”

  “Selara,” the elf said disapprovingly, “he needs rest. He’s in no condition for this.”

  “I don’t care what condition he’s in,” she said, standing up, fists balled at her side, “we need an edge, and if he’s what I think he is, then he’s it.”

  The man—or boy, he should have said, named Egan sat off to his side, shaking his head and looking at Zach with pity, “Hope you don’t mind yelling. You’re going to hear a right lot of it soon.”

  “If he is, then that is his journey to take. It is left to those wiser than we to decide.”

  “You’re just scared, Herun,” said Selara, her voice low and heated, “Scared of failing again. But you don’t need to be. It wasn’t your fault that that monster--” she broke off, faltering as the elf’s face darkened, and a hush fell over the room. She stood there for a moment, then tsked her teeth and stormed off to a corner of the room, picking up a stave and leaving in a huff. Zach realized he hadn’t taken a breath since she stopped talking, and let out a loud exhalation, breaking the silence. The elf scrubbed a hand through his golden hair and then briefly swept his face, then sighed and put on a strained, welcoming smile for him.

  “Egan, go fetch some firewood. I would like to speak with our guest here for a moment.”

  “But I just brought some in this morning’. Look, there’s some right there,” he said, pointing. Zach followed his hand, and indeed, there was the offending wood. Pevarin stared at the boy.

  “Alright alright. Poor Egan. Nobody ever lets him listen in on important conversations. Poor, poor Egan,” he lamented sullenly, leaving all the same.

  The elf stooped to pick up the bowl, offering it to him, but he shook his head and said, “No thank you,” and then winced at the sound of his own voice. His head was still killing him.

  The elf gave a brief raise of his eyebrows in surprise before saying, “So he speaks. Tell me Etelendi, what is your name?”

  In RPGs he usually would choose the charismatic option, saying something like, “You’d have to take me out to dinner first,” but he doubted he could pull that off here. “Zach,” he croaked, throat still raw, gulping hard. “Zachary. Just Zachary.”

  The elf nodded as if expecting the answer, though he could not have known his name. “I see. I am called Pevarin, in your tongue. I must admit,” he said, pausing, “you don’t seem particularly alarmed by my ears.”

  He wasn’t sure how to say, “Yeah, you know, I kind of watch Lord of the Rings once a month, read The Silmarillion for fun, and probably jacked off to an incalculable amount of elven rule 34.”, so he settled with, “Yeah.”

  An awkward silence lapsed, and normally he would have been inundated with cringe, but the extreme physical duress overwhelmed his crippling social anxiety. “Tell me Zachary, what do you remember doing before you arrived here?”

  He had been about to raid, that was right. Fuck. He supposed missing out on a reset of gear w/a*s the least of his worries, but a not-insignificant part of him was already mourning the loot that would not be his. “I was...I was leaving my house. I was about to go to the gas station.” He /realized as soon as he said it that the immediate response to such a statement, would be, “And what is a gas station?”, but the elf didn’t comment on it.

  Pevarin watched him, an air of sympathy about him, but there was something else. It was the way he watched Zachary. He maintained distance. Like...like he was wary? Reproachful. Zach frowned. What could he be wary of?

  “You came through a Gateway, Zachary,” he said slowly. Now the air was different. Not quite comforting, but...but deliberate. Neutral. Calm. He wanted Zach to stay calm.

  “Gateway?” he found himself asking, oddly distant. It was his head. Had to be. God, he felt like something was just beating his head to the pulsing of his heart. “To where?”

  “The Gateway you arrived in had been active for some time, though nothing of import had been found projected from it. We arrived here only just narrowly, harried by the Shadowstalker at the last.” He whispered something, make a quick gesture of prayer. “It was well that it was I who met you upon your arrival in its stead. Your visit would have been brief, and violent.”

  “Where,” he said, struggling to rise, though he knew he couldn’t. His body refused to acquiesce to his demands, and his elven host made no move to restrain him. He panted from the exertion, settling back. “Where the fuck is this place? What is this place?”

  “Zachary, you are freshly wounded. We have done what healing we could, given what we have, but the blow you took has left you unwell. You must remain of even mind.”

  Even mind? He knew what this was. This was insane. He read about things like this, he watched them—played them. This wasn’t real. But he knew he was foolish for thinking that. It smelled real. It felt real. Things made sense in a way it wouldn’t if it was a figment of his imagination. He wasn’t smart enough to hallucinate something like this. But how he could he just accept it?

  “That thing—Shadowstalker?” He hadn’t had much of a look at it, only that terrible maw. How could something so big move so fast? “I guess that girl killed it? Selara, right?”

  Pevarin shook his head, “Killed it? No, Etelendi, not nearly. She wounded it, and we were lucky enough to manage that. The creature left itself exposed in its hunger, otherwise we would not have fared so well.”

  He could run from it all he wanted to, but it didn’t change facts. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back and inhaling deeply. He could taste the earthen musk of the place. Oh, it was real. How it could be so, he had no clue. Some part of him had always dreamed of this. Had always wanted this. Hell, he was excited, but another part of him screamed in protest. The sensible side. The side that remembered that thing, that Shadowstalker. How helpless he had felt in the woods, with nothing but shadows and whispers to comfort him.

  “This place,” he said, opening his eyes, looking into the elf’s, “I’m not on Earth, not in my world anymore.”

  The elf simply shook his head.

  His mother. His family. Would they wake up, frantic, wondering where he was? Years from now, at his headstone, would they mourn him? Mourn the boy who had vanished and never returned? He had to get back. Whatever it took, he had to get back.

  “Then,” he said, almost to himself, trying to keep his heart from beating any faster, steadying his breath, “where the fuck am I?”