When Worlds Clash: Reincarnated with the Arcane Register

The floor of the shack was damp. Very damp. Icy cold draughts shook the insides mercilessly. The place and everything about it looked tattered and very much the worse for the wear. The roof was a patchwork of torn fabric and rusted metal sheets, through which faint glimpses of moonlight peaked through and cast eerie patterns on the damp, dirt floor.

The walls, made of warped wooden planks held together with frayed rope and mud, creaked with every gust of wind.

A single rickety table, scarred by years of use, sat unevenly in the corner, littered with broken tools and scraps of scavenged metal. A small fire pit in the centre has long gone cold, its ashes scattered into the gloom. Ragged curtains somehow clung to the windows and the faint rustle of unseen vermin clashes with the sound of the wind every now and then.

This was the very picture of neglect and desolation.

There is a bed there too. If it could be referred to as that. The makeshift pile of straw and shredded cloth did not inspire any confidence in its ability to give comfort. The figure was not on the bed.

At first, it looked like the place was devoid of life. It was so dark anyway, you had to squint to see all I have already described. But there was indeed life in the shack. It was only an eagle-eyed person who could have spotted the figure who lay crumpled on the south side of the hut limp as a wet rag.

He had been lying there unmoving all night. Matter of fact, one might think he was dead. But he wasn't. And that was proven because he soon began to stir. It was slight at first but it was there. A leg moved. Then an arm and eventually the figure lying on the floor came alive. He opened an eye and looked around groggily before suddenly sitting up with a jolt.