The village fell silent the moment he stepped from the mist.
Dozens of heads turned, voices dropping to hushed whispers. Mothers pulled their children close, eyes wide beneath blindfolds of woven cloth. Men stiffened, gripping tools that were not quite weapons but could become them if pressed.
He froze at the edge of the dirt road, the massive tree at the center of the village looming behind them like a guardian watching.
"…Right," he muttered under his breath. "Fantastic first impression. Definitely not the monster in the horror movie, nope, not me."
The whispers carried on anyway. Low, fearful, like the buzzing of flies.
He lifted his hands slowly, palms open, trying to show he wasn't dangerous. "Hey. I'm not—"
The moment his hands rose, the villagers recoiled as if he'd drawn a blade. Several stumbled backward. A child cried.
Thoryn blinked. "…Really? This?"
The murmurs grew louder. Harsh. Sharp. Though he couldn't understand every word, the intent was clear enough: fear turning to hostility.
One of the men bent down, fingers closing around a rock. He straightened, arm cocked back.
"Oh, come on—"
The stone whistled through the air.
Thoryn flinched, bracing for the impact—
And then a voice cut through the murmurs.
"Hold, ye fools. Wilt thou cast stones upon a child?"
The rock halted mid-arc, the man's arm seized by a firm, weathered hand. A woman stood there, middle-aged, robed in flowing cloth the color of deep earth. A blindfold covered her eyes, yet her bearing radiated authority that silenced the crowd.
The man stammered. "But… his skin, his fire—he is not—"
"Peace," the woman said, her tone sharper now. "Hast thou forgotten? The Grandmother's roots judge true. And I say this boy bears no malice. Wouldst thou strike down an innocent for fear of shadows?"
The villagers shifted uneasily, but none spoke.
Thoryn, still standing awkwardly with his hands raised, let out a sharp exhale. Internally, he screamed: Oi, who are you calling a child?!
Out loud, though, he said nothing. He couldn't exactly argue when he looked down and saw the stubby limbs of his new body.
The woman stepped forward, releasing the man's arm. Her blindfolded gaze turned toward Thoryn.
"Thou art strange of form, aye. Yet so are many things the earth doth birth. If the Grandmother's tree hath not cast thee away, neither shall we. Thou shalt remain."
The villagers murmured again, this time less sharp, more uncertain. Fear lingered in their posture, but none dared defy her.
Thoryn's thoughts, however, were less reverent. Why is everyone here talking like they stepped out of a Shakespeare play? Do I need to bust out a 'forsooth' just to fit in?
The woman raised her hand once more, quieting the whispers. "Enough. Return to thy labors. This child shall not be cast adrift."
Slowly, the crowd dispersed. Glances still darted toward him, wary and distrustful, but no stones flew. The air loosened, tension fading like a storm retreating over hills.
And Thoryn, hands still out like an idiot, lowered them at last. He exhaled.
"…Well. That went great," he muttered, sarcasm dripping.
The woman tilted her head, as though she could hear him anyway. "Thy path lies yet unwritten, boy. See that thou walk it true."
He blinked. Then grimaced. Yep. Definitely Shakespeare.
But despite himself, relief trickled in. He wasn't welcome, not really. But he wasn't cast out, either. For now, that was enough.
The woman, robed and blindfolded, gestured with a hand. "Come, child. Follow."
Thoryn hesitated, glancing back at the villagers still eyeing him with suspicion, but decided following the one person who hadn't tried to stone him was probably the smartest move he had. He fell into step behind her, the dirt road crunching under his bare feet.
They walked in silence for a time. The village was small, nestled among riotous flowers and twisted trees, the air heavy with a strange perfume. The silence pressed too hard against his thoughts, and eventually he blurted:
"…Where exactly is this place?"
The woman slowed, tilting her head slightly as though to look down at him through the blindfold. Her voice was even, but edged. "Thy tongue is strange of shape. The sound most undignified, coarse, barbaric to thine elders' ears."
Thoryn blinked. Internally, he yelled: Oi, you're the one sounding like you're auditioning for a medieval Shakespeare festival, not me!
His eyebrow twitched, but he forced himself to stay quiet. Picking fights with the only ally he had seemed… unwise.
The woman turned forward again, walking with measured grace. "Thou art in the Hinterland, within Scaduview. Here the Shamans dwell, though their number waneth with the passing of cruel ages."
The words fell like lead in his mind. Hinterland. Scaduview. None of it matched anything he knew. No country. No city. Not even some obscure backwater town he'd forgotten from geography class.
Panic pressed against his ribs, hot and suffocating. I don't know these names. I don't know this world.
He swallowed hard, forcing his face still. Outwardly, he kept his steps even, his expression as neutral as possible. Inwardly, his thoughts spiraled like wildfire.
They rounded a curve in the road, and Thoryn nearly tripped over his own feet.
Before them stood a statue—or no, not a statue, but something entwined with a tree. A woman's form, carved of stone or perhaps petrified flesh, her hair flowing into the branches that curled around her like a shroud. Flowers bloomed at her base, their colors brilliant against the somber figure.
The sight rooted him in place. He had seen strange things already—antlered beasts, glowing flowers—but this… this was something wholly alien. A shrine. A warning. Both?
He wanted to gawk, to demand an explanation, but the woman pressed on without pause, her steps leading them directly toward it.
At the base of the tree-woman, a group of women and young girls knelt. All the elder women wore blindfolds like the one guiding him, their robes a uniform grey. The children, smaller and thinner, wore simpler versions, plain robe-dresses of muted color. Their heads were bowed in prayer, hands resting on the soil.
Just as Thoryn opened his mouth to whisper a question, the woman beside him spoke:
"Marika."
One of the girls perked up immediately. She was of a height similar to Thoryn, perhaps a little shorter, her frame delicate but steady. She wore a greyish robe-dress, plain but neat. Her pale hair, unusual in the crowd, caught the light as she gave one final bow toward the tree before rising gracefully to her feet.
She walked toward them, steps light but purposeful, curiosity flickering in her features.
The blindfolded woman spoke again, her tone calm but commanding. "This child is strange of form, yet shall dwell amongst us. He knoweth not his name."
Thoryn opened his mouth automatically to correct her—then froze.
Nothing came. His mind blanked. His name, the simplest anchor to himself, was gone. He grasped at it desperately, but the harder he reached, the emptier it felt.
Panic flared again, sharp and bitter. He nearly spiraled, breath quickening—until he bit it back. Not now. Later. You can break down later.
He forced a shaky breath through his nose. "Thoryn," he said quickly. "My name… is Thoryn."
Internally, he added with a mental grimace: And yes, I watched The Hobbit. I liked the dwarf. Don't judge me.
The woman nodded once, satisfied, and turned her blindfolded gaze to the girl. "Marika. Thou shalt guide Thoryn. Show him the village, and where he may rest this night."
The girl, Marika, inclined her head in obedience.
The woman then turned back to Thoryn. "See that thou walk true, Thoryn. For the Grandmother's roots watch ever."
And without another word, she pivoted and walked away, her robes trailing behind her, vanishing into the flowers as though she'd never been there at all.
Thoryn blinked after her, dumbfounded. "…She just—? Out of nowhere? Seriously?"
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, before turning to his new apparent guide.
Marika regarded him with quiet curiosity, her pale brows furrowed just slightly, her head tilted as if trying to puzzle out exactly what he was.
"…Well," Thoryn muttered. "Guess it's just you and me then."
The girl said nothing at first. Only continued to study him, as though weighing a stone in her hand.
And for the first time since his death, Thoryn realized he was being measured.
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A/N: Soooo... I think you all know where I'm going with this right?
So, what you guy's think so far, any feedback would be appreciated.