Chapter 1: Stranded in Rohan
John Stark's eyes snapped open, the gritty rasp of dry grass scraping his cheek like coarse sandpaper dragged across raw skin, jolting him into a world that felt both alien and suffocatingly real. His skull throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, as if someone had clanged a church bell inside his head and left the echo to reverberate endlessly.
He lay sprawled on the ground, the faded blue of his hoodie a stark contrast against the endless golden expanse of Rohan's plains, the fabric clinging to his frame with an unfamiliar weight. A rhythmic thump-thump-thump pulsed through the earth, vibrating up through his palms as he pressed them into the soil, a sound too primal to be machinery, too resonant to ignore—a herd of horses, he realized, their hooves pounding a warlike cadence.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking rapidly to clear the fog clouding his vision, and the world unfurled before him—vast, rolling plains stretching beneath a pale, dawn-kissed sky, the air crisp with the scent of wildflowers and the distant promise of rain. In the distance, a column of riders emerged, their mail and leather glinting faintly in the early light, spears raised like jagged teeth against the purple-hued hills. Okay, not a dream. Also, definitely not Kansas, he thought, his mind racing to catch up with the surreal reality, a phantom hum buzzing faintly in the marrow of his bones, subtle yet persistent, hinting at something unseen lurking within him.
His jeans were torn at the knee, the denim stiff with caked dirt, and his sneakers—once a practical choice for a lazy Saturday—now seemed laughably inadequate against the rugged terrain. He staggered to his feet, brushing grass from his palms, the rough texture leaving faint red marks that stung with each movement. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm, a wild drumbeat of panic he struggled to suppress as he took in the scene—horses snorting, riders shouting in a tongue he didn't recognize, the clink of metal a stark contrast to the natural symphony of the plains. The hum intensified for a moment, then faded, leaving him isolated in his confusion, the only sign of something beyond his understanding.
He turned slowly, scanning the horizon for any landmark, any clue, but the plains offered nothing but rolling waves of gold and the occasional scraggly bush trembling in the breeze. His stomach churned, a sour taste rising in his throat as fragmented memories flickered—his last night on Earth, the glow of a computer screen casting shadows on his face, the hum of a fan, then… nothing. A hospital bed flashed briefly, white walls closing in, the antiseptic sting in his nose, a flatline beep piercing the silence, but it vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him grasping at shadows. He shook his head, trying to focus, and noticed a faint trail of trampled grass leading toward a cluster of structures in the distance. A village. Maybe someone there can tell me what's going on, he mused, his scarred hands flexing nervously as he took his first tentative step.
The path to the village was uneven, his sneakers slipping on the hard-packed dirt, each step a jarring reminder of his disorientation. The transition from the open plains to the tight cluster of thatch-roofed huts was disorienting, the air thickening with the muddy sweetness of dew-soaked straw and the sharp tang of horse sweat wafting from a nearby stable. Villagers froze mid-task, their roughspun wool and leather garments a stark contrast to his bright hoodie and torn jeans, their eyes locking onto him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy aroma of livestock, a strange comfort amidst the tension. This is a full-contact Ren-faire, but everyone's taking it way too seriously, he thought, swallowing hard against the dryness clawing at his throat.
His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a wild drumbeat of panic he struggled to suppress. He rubbed his scarred hands together, a nervous tic he hadn't noticed before, the rough skin catching on itself as he searched their faces for any sign of recognition or understanding. A tall, weathered man with a spear stepped forward, his narrowed eyes glinting with distrust, his beard streaked with gray like the weathered wood of a fence post.
"What business do you have here, outsider?"
"And what manner of foul clothes are those?"
John forced a grin, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret, hoping to diffuse the tension with a bit of humor.
"Honestly, man, this is not the Renaissance fair I signed up for."
He straightened quickly, the absurdity of his words hanging in the air, hoping it would pass as eccentricity. The man's face remained a mask of suspicion, his grip tightening on the spear, but a woman nearby, clutching a child to her chest, whispered softly, her voice trembling with uncertainty.
"A wanderer?"
"Come from the north?"
The misunderstanding offered a fragile shield, and John seized it, nodding faintly as he scanned for a place to regroup. The faint hum in his skull pulsed stronger, a silent promise of something yet to come, but he kept his expression neutral, masking the alien sensation with a casual shrug. The villagers murmured among themselves, their voices a low hum of speculation, and he edged toward a nearby hut, its thatched roof sagging slightly, as if it had weathered too many storms.
The air shifted abruptly, the gentle woodsmoke and hay scent torn apart by a raw, musky stench of unwashed beast and metallic blood. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the village, a sound so primal it sent a shiver racing down John's spine, raising the hairs on his neck. A woman shrieked, her voice slicing through the tension, and his head whipped toward the plains where three massive wolves emerged from the tree line, their gaunt frames moving with liquid speed. Their yellow eyes glinted with hungry intelligence, teeth bared in snarls that promised death, the ground trembling beneath their paws.
Holy—those are Direwolves! Okay, this is a bad Skyrim mod. A really, really bad one, he thought, his breath catching in his throat. The spearman lunged forward, barking a cry in a language John couldn't decipher, his voice rough with urgency. John was already moving, snatching a thick fence post from a nearby structure, the wood splintering slightly under his grip, its weight a sudden anchor in the chaos. The largest wolf charged, a black blur of muscle and fury, its growl deepening into a roar of rage.
He swung the post with all his might, the wood connecting with a sickening thwack against the beast's side, the impact jolting up his arms like a shockwave. The wolf barely flinched, its yellow eyes narrowing as it lunged again, its maw a dark, wet cavern of snapping teeth. This is fine. I'm going to die. I'm going to die to a damn wolf pack in a place I don't even know, he panicked inwardly. The post was ripped from his grasp, the force sending him stumbling backward, his sneakers skidding on the dirt.
Pain exploded in his left arm, a white-hot sear that erased all thought, blood hot and slick as it spilled down his sleeve, staining the blue fabric a deep crimson. The world tilted violently, the village spinning into a blur of smoke and shouts, the wolf's weight crushing his chest as its ragged breath filled his lungs with feral stink. He hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs, and darkness claimed him, a crystalline pop echoing behind his eyes like a snapped wire.
[SYSTEM: Death Registered: Cause - Wolf Bite. Stat Gained: +1 Stamina. Respawn in 1 hour. Welcome to the grind, rookie.]
John gasped awake, cold air flooding his lungs with a metallic tang, his body sprawled in a muddy ditch a dozen yards from the village edge. His left arm ached with a deep, bruising pain, but the wound was gone, replaced by a faint scar that pulsed with phantom tightness, the skin smooth yet tender. He sat up, eyes wide, and a screen of pure light materialized before him—crystalline, etched with glowing Tengwar runes, pulsing with an ethereal starlight glow that cast faint shadows on the grass. I'm really losing it. The trauma's given me a full-blown psychotic break, he muttered, rubbing his arm as if to confirm its reality.
The shimmering text shifted, cold and efficient.
[Stamina: 11/12. Don't die again, genius.]
A warm surge of energy coursed through him, the +1 Stamina hitting like a shot of adrenaline, sharpening his senses, but a hospital memory flashed—white walls, antiseptic sting, a flatline beep—stabbing at his chest with a visceral pang. He masked his awe by pressing a hand to his head, pretending to check for injury, his scarred fingers trembling slightly as he traced the scar's edge. Great, I've got a snarky Siri in my head, he thought, dusting off his jeans to hide the HUD's presence, the fabric clinging to his legs with damp mud.
He willed the interface away, the thought of 'turn off' snapping it shut with a faint shimmer, leaving only the hum as a lingering echo. Death isn't the end. It's the difficulty setting, he realized, a grim resolve hardening within him, tempered by the flicker of a gamer's instinct. The villagers milled about, oblivious to his resurrection, their voices a distant murmur as they tended to the aftermath, and he knew he had to keep this secret—witchcraft or worse awaited if they knew. He climbed out of the ditch, the new Stamina lending a spring to his step, though fear knotted his gut, a cold weight he couldn't shake.
He paused, picking up a small, carved horse from the ground, its wood smooth from countless hands, the grain worn to a satin finish. The firelight from a nearby hearth danced on its curves, and he turned it over in his fingers, the texture grounding him amidst the chaos. A child's giggle drifted from the village edge, chasing a stray chicken, and he felt a pang of homesickness—the memory of a lazy Sunday morning with coffee and a book tugging at his heart, the scent of roasted beans a ghost in his mind. For a moment, the weight of his new reality lifted, replaced by a fleeting calm, and he tucked the carving into his pocket before resuming his walk toward the village lights.
As he approached, woodsmoke beckoned like a siren's call, and he caught snippets of conversation floating on the breeze.
"...gone from the village, thank the Valar..."
"...the shieldmaiden, Éowyn, she drove them off..."
"...her blade is the truest defense..."
Éowyn. The name rang like a quest marker in his mind, a beacon in the chaos. He smirked, cynical but intrigued, the scar on his arm a silent testament to his new reality. All right, Rohan. Phase one: Don't die to a wolf. Phase two: Meet the hot warrior princess. Let's do this, he resolved, his steps growing steadier as he moved toward the glow.
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