Utter darkness.

The endless sea of blackness, a void deep and absolute that swallowed everything that dared to penetrate its suffocating expanse. The null void, not of light's absence, but an abyss saturated by an inconceivable amount of it.

The obsidian domain so mercilessly deep, so vast that any existence which dared to wander would find itself irrevocably lost, claimed by an abyss that acknowledged no sovereignty but its own. The cloak of inevitability, a timeless specter, seemed to wrap around all. Yet, for a fleeting instant, an infinitesimal moment, it seemed to waver.

A ripple of its existence spread towards the horizons of the future, the only evidence of its presence.

***

Azrael’s eyelids slowly lifted, rousing himself from the cocoon of darkness.

His heavy lids, burdened with a weariness that seemed to seep into his very marrow, began their slow, painstaking ascent.

Vague forms, ethereal apparitions at the edge of his vision, gradually began to take on a more substantial shape, solidifying into tangible entities as though coalescing from the morning mist itself.

The sunlight assaulted his eyes, an invasive glare that seemed more a curse than a blessing. Vague forms, ethereal apparitions at the edge of his vision, gradually began to take on a more substantial shape, solidifying into tangible entities as though coalescing from the morning mist itself. His world blurred and then sharpened with each blink, each image clearer than the last.

A sharp inhalation and the crisp, rejuvenating morning air invaded his lungs. It filled his chest, the invigorating fragrance of dawn awakening his dormant senses. Each breath a methodical one, every intake and exhale akin to a well-rehearsed symphony, purposeful and with calculated movement.

A sudden jolt of energy surged through his veins, a spark that ignited the cold ashes of his lethargy, infusing him with a vitality that felt as new as it was exhilarating.

The world around him slowly began to draw itself into sharper focus. He could see the graceful ballet of the trees as they swayed to the whims of the breeze, their branches brushing against the glass of the window in a muted symphony of sound. He could hear the distant drone of voices, a persistent undercurrent to the melodic serenade of the birds that flitted in the azure expanse of the sky.

The golden glow of the sun caressed his skin, painting the world around him in a palette of vibrant colors that seemed to breathe life into every nook and corner of the room.

An acrid, smoky scent jarred him, snapping his head toward the source of the offending scent. His gaze fell upon a sturdy wooden bed, its surface marred with telltale signs of age and wear. Its charm was tarnished; the furniture was merely a whisper of its past glory. Its headboard was cracked and splintered, lending it a roughened texture. The bed frame itself had lost much of its structural integrity, with several slats missing or broken, causing the mattress to sag in the middle. Despite its obvious flaws, the bed was well-used and comfortable.

His eyes, following the trail of the pungent scent, swiveled toward an elderly figure hunched over his arm. Feeling the scrutinizing stare, the old man's gaze climbed up to meet Azrael's eyes. Their eyes met, locked in a momentary silent communion, before the older man cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence with a gruff, "You're awake, lad. Good."

Azrael offered no response, his confusion palpable as his eyes studied the old man. His world was a swirling maelstrom of uncertainty and questions.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" The old man exclaimed, a weary sigh escaping his lips. “Nearly had us convinced you were a goner. You gave us quite the scare, I tell ya. If I let another seed wither away before this darned great age, that ol' village leader might just have my hide! But seeing you awake, I reckon I can catch my breath,” his voice a mixture of relief and good-natured grumbling.

Time, the most relentless of sculptors, had worked meticulously on the old man, etching its tale onto the canvas of his honeyed skin. Wrinkles adorned his face, while his thinning hair boasted a silver sheen. He donned a tunic of roughly spun wool that fell to his knees, a shade of rustic brown. Underneath peeked a linen shirt with a humble collar. The loosely fitted trousers, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt, completed his attire. Despite the weight of years, he exuded a formidable aura of strength, his back unbent, his shoulders broad.

As Azrael studied the man, confusion clouded his vantablack eyes. His gaze flickered with uncertainty, but this fleeting bewilderment was soon replaced with a spark of cognition. Judging by the sharp, sterile smell of alcohol that hung in the air, he was likely a doctor. The alternative, that he might be a chronic drunkard, seemed less probable, given the situation and the medicinal tang of the alcohol.

The man, while appearing somewhat gruff, did not seem hostile, which offered a modicum of comfort amidst the swirling vortex of Azrael's confusion.

A dull, persistent ache snaked through Azrael's body, weaving a painful reminder of his current state. The doctor’s genuine concern stirred a modicum of comfort within, but instinct whispered caution. He remained vigilant, his eyes wandering to the window, his mind already outlining potential escape routes. Yet, he was no fool. He knew the pitfalls of rash action, of moving without a plan.

The room, the bed, and the situation all were alien, leaving him drowning in a vast sea of unanswered questions.

He inwardly reached for his husk, that potent core of his power, with a yearning that was both desperate and hopeful. But to his dismay, the anticipated response was a stifled silence, the void of a connection severed. It was as if he was groping in the dark, his fingers scraping against an unyielding emptiness, his call echoing back unanswered. The pulse that was once as familiar as his heartbeat, the rhythm that reverberated in sync with his life force, was ominously absent.

His husk seemed not merely barren but fundamentally absent, as if a vital part of him had been amputated. This absence was a void far more profound than mere emptiness. It was akin to a canvas stripped of its paint, a symphony muted in its crescendo, a tale abruptly shorn of its climax. It was an unsettling silence, a gaping hole in the fabric of his existence, a wound that left his spirit raw and exposed.

Caught within the stranglehold of this predicament, Azrael could feel the gnawing edge of panic nibbling at the fringes of his calm.

"No," he steeled himself.

He halted their advancement, eradicating the encroaching pull. For he knew, with a certainty that was as resolute as his resolve, that he had come back from far worse.

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Found himself in unfamiliar waters. Devoid of power and stranded in a strange setting, patience, and tact would be his allies, his tools to navigate through this labyrinth of uncertainty.

"A strategy of observation is key," Azrael reaffirmed to himself, his gaze an icy azure mirror reflecting the details of his surroundings. Each subtle nuance, each minute hint of color, texture, or sound, was meticulously recorded and analyzed, his mind working like a precision instrument of detection.

The old man, his gnarled hands steady as they monitored Azrael, shattered the thick silence permeating the room. “Well, I declare, what's the matter with you, boy? Wolf, done got your tongue? I stayed with you throughout the night, tending to your fever and ensuring you were alright. And all I'm askin' for is a simple 'thank you'? It don't cost you nothin' to show a little gratitude.”

Azrael's gaze remained riveted on the doctor, the tempest of initial confusion within his eyes gradually subsiding to reveal a controlled mélange of expressions. Uncertainty and fear subtly played across his features, each a calculated stroke, painting a picture of a man lost within the labyrinth of his own mind. The words he uttered were fragments of an incomplete puzzle, the undercurrents of confusion and apprehension lacing his voice lending them a haunting melody.

"I... I'm sorry, Elder," Azrael stuttered, his words trailing off into the silence. "Who... who are you? And where... where am I? What's happening? Why is there this... this fog in my head? And... my name? Why can't I remember it? Why can't I remember anything?"

Caught off guard, the old man's eyes narrowed into slits of disbelief. The furrows on his forehead deepened, akin to a weathered parchment being crumpled in a fist of frustration. “What are you babbling about, son? Are you jesting with this old man? Do not mistake my kindness for gullibility. I've got more pressing matters to attend to than your shenanigans. I'm no stranger to the antics of young folk, and I’m not one to be toyed with. I haven’t got the time nor the patience to indulge in foolery.”

A gambit began to take form in Azrael's mind, a strategic move born out of necessity and honed by instinct. He decided to cloak himself in a guise of vulnerability, a shield formed of frailty and confusion, hoping to stir a well of sympathy within the heart of the old man.

His voice wavered as if buffeted by the gales of feigned fear and bewilderment. "Elder... I can't... can't recall anything. I feel completely lost, and I can't seem to remember anything about myself. Is... Is something wrong with my brain? I'm terrified... Can you help?" His eyes glistened, teetering on the brink of shedding tears, lending his performance an authentic sheen.

Azrael knew that this was a critical juncture, a turning point that could either lead to the safety of solid ground or plunge him further into the abyss. If the old man bought into his carefully orchestrated act, the shadow of immediate danger would be significantly diluted.

Despite the persistent ache coursing through his body and the disorientation swirling in his mind, he had the clarity to understand that feigning amnesia was far-fetched, given his current condition. The wounds were not severe enough to claim amnesia. Still, this was his optimal bet at evading the prying eye of suspicion and buying time.

He could not afford to overindulge in his act. The line between a convincing performance and an overplayed charade was razor-thin, and he had to tread on it with precision. His “memories” needed to return in a gradual, organic manner, subtly filling in the informational gaps instead of allowing the narrative of memory loss to be the cornerstone of his act.

He needed to tread lightly, not overstating his vulnerability. A slow trickle of 'memory' would appear more natural than a sudden flood, thus reducing the chances of raising alarm bells. He could ill afford to make any overt move that did not fall under the umbrella of his feigned memory loss, as such actions would invite scrutiny and potentially arouse suspicion of possession.

The old man, his stern gaze softening, exhibited a spark of sympathy as he addressed Azrael. "Son, you're looking battered and bruised. But worry not. We'll unravel this mystery together. If my memory serves me right, you are Osric, the first borne of Valven and Melinda."

The elder paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink into Azrael, giving him space to process this newfound information.

The elder continued, “We're nestled amidst the grandeur of the Darkenhold Mountains, the heartbeat of your homeland, Silverglade, pulsating with life all around us.” His gaze lingered, almost caressing Azrael's face before retreating into a contemplative silence.

After a thoughtful pause that hung heavy in the air, his voice softened, carrying a paternal undertone that seemed to wrap Azrael in an invisible, comforting blanket.

“Do any memories stir within the recesses of your mind? Anything at all?"

A wave of relief swept over Azrael, his act seeming to bear fruit. The old man appeared to be buying into his story. The name Osric meant nothing to him, yet he artfully feigned recognition.

He would worry about Valven and Melinda later.

However, the mention of the Darkenhold Mountains and Silverglade rustled an unsettling unease within him. His mind drew a blank, devoid of any memory of such places. He needed to extract more details.

With an air of feigned clarity and subtle urgency, Azrael responded, hoping to solidify his amnesia tale. “I'm catching glimpses of... something. Bits and pieces are starting to come back to me. My name rings a bell, but the rest is shrouded in fog. Elder? Can you tell me the date today?"

"We're at the tail-end of winter, just on the cusp of spring," the elder replied, sinking back into his chair, exhaustion etching his words. "It's been 538 years since the last epoch.”

A ripple of disquiet coursed through Azrael, the sheer magnitude of his circumstances sinking in. He was hit by the alarming realization that his knowledge of this world was woefully inadequate. He felt a twinge of panic pushing back against his resolve as he stood on the precipice of this daunting mystery. The depth of his ignorance looming ominously in front of him.

As the fog of uncertainty enveloped his mind, Azrael strained against its formidable grasp. His mind felt like a barren landscape yearning for the soothing touch of familiarity, the grounding anchor of recognition. The task of unraveling his reality would be a simpler endeavor if he could tether the smattering of new information to the elusive wisps of his own recollections.

To do so, he needed to organize the fragments of data and gather more context. By gathering more contextual details, he could assemble these fragments into a coherent reflection of his situation. Only then would he be able to interpret their significance, comprehend their relevance, and finally start piecing together the puzzle of his predicament.

As Azrael processed the elder's statement, he understood that he needed further historical context. At the same time, he understood treading lightly upon the ice of this delicate situation to avoid cracking the surface and plunging into the icy depths of suspicion. For now, he opted to abstain from asking further questions.

Putting on an appreciative facade, he tried to sound as genuine as possible.

"Thank you, Elder. My head is still so foggy, but what you said helped," Azrael managed to say, his mind churning with the influx of new information. "I... I think I need to rest."

The elder started packing his belongings, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he offered some parting advice.

"Now, just relax and try not to agitate yourself. It would be wise for you to remain here and recuperate. Refrain from wandering about, understood? As for nourishment, stick to light liquids for the time being; we don't want your stomach in turmoil. I have some duties to attend to, so I'll take my leave and see to them. I'll inform everyone that you require some downtime. Simply rest easy, and I'll see you when I see you."

Azrael gave a weak nod of agreement. He knew recovery was his immediate priority.

"Thank you, doctor. I'll do my utmost to heed your advice and take it easy," he said, straining to convey sincerity in his tone.

As the elder prepared to leave, he paused at the door, turning back to look at Azrael. "One more thing," he began, his voice carrying a note of mirth, "the name's Martinase. Doctor Martinase, if you please. I'd sure 'preciate it if y'all didn't go forgettin' my name again, hear?”

With a final nod of acknowledgment, the elder stepped into the dimly lit corridor and disappeared from sight.

As the old man disappeared from view, the weight of his predicament bore down upon Azrael, pressing him into the unforgiving grip of reality.

His last clear memory was of the cataclysmic comet streaking across the sky, plunging into his fortress like the fiery hand of destruction itself. He remembered the sheer chaos and devastation as he battled on the Abyssal Supercontinent, his life crumbling before him.

Now, here he was, utterly alone, thrust into an unrecognizable form, stranded in an unknown land, lost in the swirling maelstrom of time.