On a stone floor you wake up, and slowly, consciousness returns to you. You are in a dim room and a gentle light of late afternoon sun is passing high on the wall from a window above. There is a gentle rustling from outside somewhere at a distance. Startled for a moment you see on the ceiling a moving creature, winged and big as a turkey, but your eyes widen and clear and it becomes a shadow. You sit up and look around, taking in your surroundings.
Particles float through the sunlit air gently circulating. There seems to be a light layer of dust covering everything in here. The room around you is embraced at all angles by polished – what seems very old, but – finely carved, hand milled and stained wood. The walls, window frames, bookshelves, chairs and desk are all decorated elaborately with geometric patterns. Someone has a very intense office here that they never use it seems. You have no memory of ever being in or seeing an image of this room before.
Sitting up, you notice that the dust around you is disturbed from your movements, and you seem to be covered in it as well. Which obviously you know can’t be possible, you’d have to have laid here for years. You are clothed and laying in a stone fireplace bordered by dust covered wood floors. The floors are covered in dust also and you don’t see any foot prints which could have laid your body here. Stretching for answers, your brain decides that someone must have spread this dust on you after placing you here.
Where are we now and more than that how did i get here anyways? The last thing I remember was…wait - an image of a deserted country road surrounded by tall tan waiving plant life (grass? wheat?) is all that comes to mind. Well where was that? I’ve never seen that either… Closing your eyes for a moment you recall seeing a big black cat looking at you out of thick wild green foliage. It meets your gaze and squints gently, the gesture seems to fill you with comfort.
- it was… I was… Clearly I wasn’t born in this room The memories of being small and having a mother lift you and a father scruff up your hair seem accessible, though you cant recall either of their faces or names or see more than a blank outline of their forms. Well this is a new challenge. Concentrating, harder now, you close your eyes and search your mind. Conscious thoughts seem to be floating on the surface of liquid like feathers on water, unable to do more than touch the surface. Well this is ridiculous, of course I am a person and I have a name. I am, oh ugh, unbidden and not your name the words come to mind, thaqirenda madje! _What does that mean? Seems like a remark of exasperation. Whats more is how do I know that its not the same language I’m speaking currently. Trying, you can’t seem to recall any more of that language either.
The more immediate concern at this impasse switches to where you – whoever you are – are currently located and how did you get here and why. You are closest to the desk and you struggle but make your feet.
Rising reveals some soreness on the back of your head you hadn’t noticed before. A quick physical inventory of your various parts seems to find everything else in working order but sore from a feeling of sleeping on stone. Naturally you stretch your body like a long and wavy blade of grass, your arms above your head and fingers laced. Your body then bends and you touch the floor by your feet. the urge strikes you to kneel and you do. With your arms out in front of you, you arch and stretch your back, leaning forward and then falling back to sit on your calves. Your garments are thin brown cloth, soft and loose fitting. You’ve never seen them before either.