Morthisal's eyes fluttered open as a gentle hand shook his shoulder. A new cleric stood over him, this one with dark skin.

"Mr. Logan, I'm Travious. I'm sorry, but you can't sleep for too long," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You might have a concussion. We need to keep you awake for a bit longer."

"Travious. It is an honor to see one of such hue."

Travious blinked several times. "Pardon?"

"Your dark skin. Truly a sight. I have missed much since I arrived here…" Morthisal's words trailed off.

"Dude," Travious lowered his voice. "You can't say shit like that. I'm going to let this one go on account of that head wound. I heard you might be having memory issues."

Morthisal blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. "Oh. Yes. I apologize, friend Travious. My mind is not my own this day."

"You can say that again," Travious murmured as he turned away to bustle around the room, his movements efficient and purposeful.

Travious produced a small, colorful box in one hand.

"Do you like cranberry juice?" Travious asked, holding up the container.

Morthisal hesitated for a moment. He had no idea what a cranberry juice was, but he wanted to appear normal in this strange realm. "Of course," he replied, trying to sound confident.

Travious inserted a thin tube into the box and placed it on the table next to him. Then, to Morthisal's surprise, he began to undo his bindings.

As the restraints fell away, Morthisal slowly sat up, stretching his arms and back. A dull ache spread through his muscles, more intense than expected. His hands and arms felt particularly sore, similar to when he had wielded his staff for days.

The cleric handed him the box with the tube. Morthisal stared at it, perplexed.

Travious mimed bringing the tube to his lips and sucking on it.

Morthisal cautiously followed his example, placed the tube into his mouth, and waited. Confused, he gave it a squeeze. The elixir that flowed into his mouth was cloyingly sweet but lacked the familiar burn of the potent brews he was accustomed to. He missed the rich amber liquors that had once filled his goblets. Or beast's blood, which added little to his powers but was always a tasty treat.

"This brew. Is it intended to extend my life?”

"Not if you drink too much of it," the man said and laughed. "It's also bad for you if you have diabetes, but your bloodwork is good."

"My blood?"

"Yes. All of your tests looked good. The doctor will discuss the results with you."

Travious turned and left the room. Morthisal lifted his arms, and studied the peculiar skin color, strange hair on his tiny forearms, and short digits for fingers.

Moments later, a man with brown skin, dressed in a white shirt with a strange device hanging around his neck, bustled into the room. He went to the device Megan had used and touched the pebble pad, his fingertips racing across them.

"Hello, uh…" the man leaned forward and stared at the illuminated panel that had suddenly come to life. "Mr. Logan. Vince. How are you feeling? I'm Dr. Patel."

"I am…"

Dr. Patel cut off Morthisal and spoke rapidly, his words clipped and efficient. "So, Mr. Logan, any dizziness? Nausea? Headache?" He barely glanced up from the glowing panel as his fingers danced across the surface.

Morthisal opened his mouth to respond, but Dr. Patel continued, "Your bloodwork looks good."

"I—" Morthisal began, but the doctor interrupted again as he leaned over and looked under the bandage over Morthisal's forehead.

"I'll have a nurse put a butterfly bandage on that head wound. It's superficial, but we don't want it getting infected."

Morthisal tried once more. "Doctor Patel, would you be so kind as to--"

Dr. Patel waved a hand dismissively. "Any allergies? Medications?"

"No, but—"

"Good, good. Now, follow my finger with your eyes." Dr. Patel held up a finger and moved it from side to side.

As soon as the doctor lowered his hand, Morthisal interjected, "What is the sorcery within the objects in this room?"

Dr. Patel blinked, then chuckled. "Sorcery? No, no, this is science. You're in a hospital. We're here to help you."

"Help me? By holding me captive?" Morthisal struggled to sit up straighter.

The doctor sighed. "Mr. Logan, please be calm. You're not captive. You had a fall. We're treating you."

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With that, the doctor turned and strode out of the room, leaving Morthisal alone.

A few moments later, yet another cleric entered the room and approached him. She approached a small white package in her hand. "Mr. Logan, I'm going to apply this bandage to your forehead. It might sting a little."

Morthisal flinched as the nurse's fingers brushed his skin. The touch was gentle, but it felt wrong, alien. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, to reach for the dark power that had always sustained him.

But there was nothing. Only the steady beep of the machines, the distant chatter of voices, and the gnawing fear that he was forever trapped in this strange world.

Travious entered the room again. His footsteps light on the polished floor. He approached Morthisal's bed with a friendly smile.

"Good news, Mr. Logan. It's time for your CT scan, and after that, we'll get you out of here, assuming they don't find anything seriously wrong," Travious said. "It might take a few hours, but you're probably going home soon."

Morthisal nodded as if he understood what Travious was talking about. The elixir they had shot into his arm was wearing off, and the warm haze was fading with it. This left his mind feeling sharper. He would play along from here on out.

Travious asked, "Do you think you can stand?"

"Of course," Morthisal assured him, mustering as much confidence as possible.

Travious wheeled in a peculiar wheeled chair and placed it beside the bed. Morthisal eyed it with curiosity. Determined to blend in, he pushed himself to his feet despite the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him.

As he lowered himself into the seat with large wheels and metal struts to place his feet upon, Morthisal couldn't help but admire the device. Its smooth seating surface and effortless glide fascinated him. Travious moved behind Morthisal, grasped the handles, and began to push, guiding Morthisal out the door and down a long, sterile hallway.

They passed through several passageways, each turn revealing more of this bizarre realm. There was a strong smell in the air. Something he could only assume was wrongness. It was all so clean here. Too clean! Morthisal sat in silence, absorbing every detail. The effects of the Ativan were fading, and he felt his mind sharpening. He felt more like his old self. His head hurt. Morthisal reached up and touched the bandage over his eye. Ran his hand over his forehead and brow. Over his cheeks.

“Strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“Nothing, Travious. Nothing.”

How was he able to understand and communicate in this strange world? What made it so his words, which were strange on his lips, were understandable?

Morthisal leaned forward, closed his eyes, and pinched his nose.

At last, they arrived at a room housing a huge white contraption. Its presence dominated the space, reminding Morthisal of some arcane sorcerous device.

A figure in white approached them. "Name and date of birth, please," they requested.

Morthisal hesitated. "Vince Logan,” he replied, but found himself at a loss for the rest. "I... I'm afraid I can't recall my birth date."

Travious stepped in smoothly. "He's experiencing some memory issues due to his head injury," he explained to his colleague and rattled off a string of numbers.

“Yeah. That’s him,” the man said and nodded.

The attendants helped Morthisal onto yet another bed, this one equipped with a contraption to hold his head in place. He wondered if this might be some form of torture device, but he fought to maintain his composure.

As they slid him, head first, into the white circular space, Morthisal's anxiety grew. A loud noise erupted, reminiscent of something being wound in circles, the volume increasing steadily.

A disembodied voice echoed from within the machine. "Please don't move, Mr. Logan," the voice instructed.

The whirring intensified, accompanied by a series of loud clicks. The noise felt like a wedge being driven into Morthisal's skull, and each sound pulsed through his entire being.

As the noise reached its peak, something extraordinary happened. Morthisal sensed a familiar presence, a whisper of his old power. It called to him, a faint echo of the formidable force he had once wielded.

Morthisal reached out with his mind and grasped for that elusive thread of power. As his concentration deepened, the noise of the chaotic machine faded into the background.

A tiny surge of energy coursed through him, igniting his nerve endings. Morthisal's fingers tingled with a familiar sensation, and for a brief moment, he could touch a little of his former power.

Yes!

The machine's din seemed to warp and twist, transforming into an otherworldly hum. Morthisal's consciousness expanded, reaching beyond the confines of the sterile room. Visions flashed before his eyes. Glimpses of shadowy realms. Whispers of ancient incantations. The faint outlines of his once-vast army of the undead. The boundaries between this strange new world and his own blurred.

Tendrils of his old abilities flared to life. For a brief moment, Morthisal sensed the presence of souls, not just in the hospital, but throughout the surrounding area. They pulsed like beacons in the darkness, each one a potential vessel for his dark arts.

Morthisal's fingers twitched, aching to weave the complex gestures that would bend the forces of death to his will. Foul, heretical words came to his lips.

But as quickly as it had come, the sensation began to fade. The machine's noise returned to the forefront of his awareness, and Morthisal found himself once again trapped in his new, unfamiliar body.

The whirling and clacking sounds ended, and the bed slowly slid out of the machine. Morthisal blinked, disoriented by the abrupt return to this reality. Travious and the technician approached, and their faces showed no sign that they had witnessed anything out of the ordinary.

"All done, Mr. Logan," the technician announced. "You did great. We'll have the results for you shortly."

Travious helped Morthisal back into the wheelchair. This time, it wasn’t so easy. The floor and the walls swayed, and he stumbled and nearly fell to the floor. His hands weakly grasped the handlebars.

“Woah.” Travious grasped him under his arms, and helped him sit. “Are you okay?”

Morthisal took a moment to gather his thoughts. The lingering traces of his power still hummed beneath his skin, but they were fading.

"I'm... fine," Morthisal replied, his voice steadier than expected. "That was quite an experience."

“Almost falling on your ass or getting your brain x-rayed?”

“How can I get another one?“

“Another CT scan? Those are expensive. Plus, you get too many of those, and you might get cancer. Know what I’m sayin’?”

No, I do not. Morthisal nodded anyway.

As Travious wheeled him back towards his room, Morthisal went over the experience of touching his old power. The brief connection to his former abilities had awakened something within him. He now knew that his powers were not entirely lost—merely dormant, waiting to be reawakened.

Or were they? He focused, and there was an echo of a thread. He closed his eyes and felt along its vast length. His mind closed around it, embraced it, and coaxed it to him.

A glimmer, nothing more, but it was something.