The Middle Ages

You find yourself in a large, grassy clearing surrounded by dense forest. Behind you, a small rocky outcrop juts from the ground, the only sign of where you emerged. The ruins you’d been exploring are nowhere to be seen. As you take in your surroundings, you realize there’s no sign of human habitation—no roads, no structures, nothing. The air is cooler and drier than anything you’d expect in this part of Mexico, adding to your growing unease.

Still dazed from your fall, you stumble toward the woods, hoping to find something—anything—to help you figure out where you’ve ended up. The forest is thick and unyielding, its gnarled roots and dense underbrush threatening to trip you with every step. After what feels like an eternity, you finally come across a road cutting a straight line through the trees. Relief washes over you as you begin limping down the path, **** to find shelter before nightfall.

You walk for nearly the entire afternoon before the forest gives way to a large field. In the distance, a one-story farmhouse stands with a few outbuildings scattered nearby. The structure’s construction is completely foreign to anything you’ve seen before. With its log walls and thatched roof, it looks like something out of medieval literature rather than modern-day Mexico.

**** for answers, you hobble up to the front entrance and knock tentatively on the thick wooden door.

“Looking for something?” a feminine voice asks.

You turn and find yourself face-to-face with a young woman in a loose-fitting brown smock. Despite the dirt and sweat, she’s strikingly attractive, with brown hair, grey eyes, and a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks.

“Are you looking for something?” she asks again, resting her pitchfork against her shoulder.

“Sorry to bother you,” you say, eyeing the farm implement warily. “But where the hell am I?”

She tilts her head, studying you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Well, first and foremost, I’m Sarah Longhouse, and this here is my farm. Just down the road over yonder, you’ll find the town of Sally’s Pasture, and beyond that, the capital city of Ariavel.”

“Sorry, my name is Bradley Jones,” you say, finally remembering your manners. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. I was actually curious as to what country this is.”

She stares at you blankly for a few seconds before her expression softens. “This is the Queendom of Askeria, of course.” Her look of suspicion turns to one of genuine concern. “Are you alright?” she asks, setting aside her pitchfork and stepping closer.

Up close, you realize she’s quite tall for a woman—nearly six feet—and lean, though her baggy smock can’t hide the impressive curve of her chest.

“Let me take a look at that,” she says, gently taking your head into her hands and examining the large gash on your forehead. Her touch is firm but careful, her fingers cool against your skin. “If we don’t patch that up soon, it’ll scar. Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll see about getting you sewn up?” Without waiting for a response, she takes you by the arm and leads you into the house.

The cottage is clean but unremarkable, with a large bed on one side and a fireplace and dining table on the other. The air smells faintly of herbs and woodsmoke, a comforting contrast to the chaos of your situation.

“Take a seat over there while I get something for your head,” she says, gesturing to a sturdy-looking chair on the far side of the room.

You do as she says, sinking into the chair with a relieved sigh. A few minutes later, Sarah returns with a damp cloth, a needle, and thread.

“Hold still; this is going to sting,” she warns as she begins carefully wiping the dirt and grime from your wound.

As she works, you can’t help but glance down the top of her smock at her impressive chest. Her breasts are pale, with the same dusting of freckles that adorn her cheeks, and topped with two delicate pink nipples. Realizing what you’re doing, you quickly look up, but if she’s noticed, she gives no indication. When she finally finishes tending to your head, you feel a pang of disappointment at losing the spectacular view.

“Rest now,” she says, stepping back. “I need to bring in the sheep, but I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours.” With that, she turns and walks out the door, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Despite the millions of questions racing through your mind, exhaustion takes over, and you quickly fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.