In the haze of exhaustion from my previous life—crushed under endless overtime in a soulless corporate grind—I died. Then, impossibly, I awoke again, my soul reborn with every memory of that modern world intact. This new existence unfolded in a medieval fantasy realm of ancient forests, gleaming magic, and lurking horrors.
I was born in a quiet village nestled between rolling green hills and a dense, whispering woodland, where the air always carried the scent of fresh hay, woodsmoke from thatched rooftops, and the faint earthy tang of livestock. My parents were both adventurers—brave, laughing souls who often returned home with tales of distant ruins, glittering treasures, and narrow escapes. My father's deep, rumbling voice would fill our modest timber cottage as he described slaying goblins under starlit skies, while my mother's gentle hands, calloused from sword grips, braided my hair and hummed old elven lullabies. Their armor hung on the wall, polished and gleaming, filling the room with the metallic bite of steel and oiled leather.
But when I was just twelve, tragedy struck. A horde of monstrous creatures—twisted wolves with glowing red eyes and razor fangs, led by a hulking ogre whose roars shook the earth—raided the village outskirts. My parents, ever the protectors, rode out to meet them. I remember the chaos vividly: the acrid stench of burning thatch, the screams echoing through the night, the wet thud of claws rending flesh. They never returned. Their bloodied cloaks were all that the survivors brought back, stained dark and reeking of iron.
For a full year, grief consumed me. I barely ate, the simple bread and stew tasting like ash in my mouth. Nights were the worst—curled under rough wool blankets in our now-silent home, sobbing into the pillow that still faintly smelled of my mother's herbal soaps. The village folk offered pitying glances and occasional handouts, but no one took me in; my parents had been orphans themselves, with no extended family to claim me.
Yet I survived. They had left behind modest assets: a small herd of goats whose milk I learned to churn into cheese with a sharp, tangy bite; a patch of herb garden bursting with mint and rosemary scents; a hidden chest of gold coins from their adventuring days, cool and heavy in my young hands. I tended the fields alone, feeling the sun's warm kiss on my skin and the ache in my muscles from swinging a hoe. I hunted rabbits in the woods, the snap of twigs underfoot and the thrill of an arrow's twang becoming familiar comforts.
Eight long years passed in quiet solitude. The village grew accustomed to the orphan boy who became a capable young man, bartering goods at the market amid the chatter of merchants and the sizzle of roasting meats. Now, at twenty-five, I am fully grown—Elaric Voss—strong from labor, sharp from necessity, and burning with the knowledge of two lifetimes. The world beyond the village calls, its dangers and wonders waiting.
Elaric Voss trudged along the familiar dirt path toward the forest's edge, the late afternoon sun filtering through the canopy in golden shafts that warmed his broad shoulders. The air was thick with the rich, loamy scent of damp earth and wildflowers, mingled with the sharp, resinous tang of pine needles crunching under his worn leather boots. He carried a woven reed basket slung over one arm, its rough texture familiar against his calloused fingers, intent on gathering the silvery moonleaf herbs that grew deeper in the shaded glade—prized for their healing properties and the faint, minty aroma they released when crushed.
As he reached the forest's fringe, where ancient oaks stood sentinel with bark rough and moss-covered, he knelt amid a carpet of soft ferns. The leaves whispered in the gentle breeze, brushing against his knees as he gently plucked the delicate stems, their cool, velvety surfaces releasing that invigorating herbal fragrance into the air. One by one, he placed them into the basket, the soft rustle of foliage a soothing rhythm to his methodical work.
Then, a faint rustle broke the tranquility—not the wind, but something deliberate, accompanied by a soft, liquid trickle echoing from the nearby bushes. Curiosity prickled at him like the thorns of wild roses. Heart quickening with a mix of caution and intrigue, he carefully set the basket down on a bed of fallen leaves, the faint crunch barely audible. Moving with the silent grace honed from years of solitary hunting, he crept toward the sound, parting thick branches that scratched lightly at his tunic and released bursts of earthy sap.
Peeking through the dense foliage, his breath caught in his throat. There, in a small clearing bathed in dappled sunlight, was a woman—Liora Thorne, a 35-year-old widow from the village outskirts, whose tragic tale was whispered in hushed tones. Her husband and two young children had perished years ago in a brutal monster attack, leaving her to dwell alone in a secluded cottage, her once-vibrant beauty now edged with quiet sorrow. She had squatted low behind the bushes for privacy, her simple linen skirt hiked up around her full, curving hips, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her thighs.
Elaric's eyes widened, frozen in place as he watched in secret. Her pink pussy was fully exposed to his gaze—glistening slightly in the warm light, the delicate folds parted just enough to reveal the swollen hood of her clit, peeking shyly like a pearl nestled in soft, flushed petals. A golden stream arced gracefully from her, pattering softly against the dry leaves below with a rhythmic, intimate hiss that seemed to echo in his ears. The musky, feminine scent of her arousal faintly reached him on the breeze, mingling with the sharp tang of urine and the wild forest air, sending an electric jolt straight to his groin.
His cock twitched involuntarily beneath his trousers, hardening rapidly against the rough fabric, a bead of warm pre-cum oozing from the tip to soak into his undergarments. Heat flooded his body, cheeks burning as forbidden desire coiled tight in his core—he knew he should look away, but the sight of her mature, voluptuous form, the way her heavy breasts strained against her bodice with each subtle movement, held him captive. Her soft sighs of relief escaped her lips, unaware of his voyeuristic gaze, heightening the illicit thrill that made his pulse thunder and his shaft throb with insistent need.
Finally, she finished, a last few droplets tracing shimmering paths down her inner thighs before she shook gently, the motion causing her pussy lips to quiver enticingly. She stood, smoothing her skirt down over those generous curves with a contented exhale, her hips swaying naturally as she turned—and began walking directly toward the very spot where Elaric had been gathering herbs.
Panic surged through him like ice water, snapping him from his trance. He darted back silently, heart pounding, retrieving his basket just in time. Dropping to his knees, he resumed plucking moonleaf with feigned nonchalance, though his hands trembled slightly, the leaves' cool touch doing little to quell the aching erection straining against his pants or the lingering image burned into his mind.
Moments later, Liora's footsteps crunched softly on the path, drawing nearer until she emerged into the glade, her presence filling the air with the faint floral scent of her homemade soap and the subtle warmth of her body. She paused at the exact spot, her deep green eyes meeting his with a surprised yet gentle smile, oblivious to the charged secret hanging between them.