(Eli's POV)
I woke up face-first in mud. Thick, sticky stuff that clung to my cheek like it wanted to drag me under. I could feel gravel embedded in my lip and something wet and gritty coating my tongue. I rolled over with a groan, blinking against the low, red-orange sunlight filtering through the clouds.
It didn't take long to realize something was seriously wrong.
The sky looked off—darker, like it was bruised. The clouds drifted fast and low, tinged with purples and blood-like reds. The trees around me weren't quite right either. They stood twisted, bark dark and sickly, leaves too sharp. Some of them were wrapped in what looked like leather cords strung with bones.
I sat up slowly. My back hurt like I'd been tossed down a flight of stairs. I was in a clearing of sorts, maybe twenty yards across, overgrown with dry grass and brambles. Broken fence posts jutted from the earth like ribs. Ten yards ahead stood a slanted house, partially collapsed, its walls bowed out from rot and time. Behind it, I saw what used to be a barn. The roof was caved in, and something large had clawed up the outer beams.
This place wasn't abandoned. It was vacated. Violently.
I checked myself over: my hoodie was torn at the sleeve, jeans soaked in mud, and my boots—thank god I had boots—were still on my feet. My backpack lay nearby, miraculously unopened. Inside was what little I had: a half-empty water bottle, a hatchet I used for camping trips, a folding knife, and a small notebook I used to sketch and write dumb stuff in.
I grabbed the hatchet first.
Then the realization hit me like a gut punch.
This place—the sky, the bones on the trees, the twisted landscape—it was familiar. Not from my world. From books, maps, and lore. I had read about it, played it, and joked about it.
Warhammer. The Warhammer Fantasy world.
And judging by the chaos totems nailed to nearby trees, I wasn't just anywhere—I was in Beastman territory. That meant I was probably somewhere in the Drakwald Forest. Maybe worse.
And I was alone.
I took shelter in the farmhouse.
Up close, it was about 40 feet wide and 30 feet deep. Half the roof was missing. The door was barely hanging onto one hinge. I had to shoulder it open, and when I did, a wave of mold, dust, and decay smacked me in the face. Inside, the place looked like it had been hit by a tornado and then forgotten for years.
Broken furniture lay scattered across the wooden floor. An old hearth dominated the far wall, soot-stained and filled with crumbling ash. There were claw marks on the walls. Big ones. At least seven feet high.
Something had died here. Maybe several somethings.
But there was shelter, and shelter was survival.
I spent the next few hours exploring the property. I needed to understand what I had to work with before night fell.
To the right of the farmhouse—maybe twenty feet away—was a well. Still intact, the stone ring is solid, the crank is still connected to the rope and bucket. I pulled up a load of water. It came out clear, if a little cloudy. I boiled a small bit over a fire in the hearth just to test it. No taste of iron. No smell. That meant I could drink it.
Beyond the well, maybe thirty yards from the house, was the barn—or what used to be one. It looked like it had once been a two-story structure with a hayloft, maybe 50 feet long and 25 wide. Most of the northern side had collapsed inward. Some beams were salvageable. There were bones inside. Animal bones, thank god.
Behind that stretched the remains of fencing and farmland. Most of the wooden posts had been torn down or rotted out, but a few still stood. I paced out the area—about three acres of semi-clear land, bordered by thick, clawed forest on all sides. It was a natural bowl—bad for defense but decent for water retention and wind protection.
The soil was rich. Black. Smelled strong.
This had been a working farm once.
My mind started calculating. I'd need shelter first, then food. Water was covered—for now. Firewood was everywhere. Tools? Hopefully some survived. And I had to find a way to keep anything out there from wandering in.
By dusk, I was exhausted.
I made my first fire in the hearth using splintered chair legs and dried vines. The flames were weak, but enough to take the chill off the air. I drank boiled well water and rationed my protein bar into tiny bites. I kept the hatchet close. Every creak of the house, every gust of wind outside, made my pulse spike.
I had never been truly alone before. Not like this.
I sat with my back against the far wall, hatchet in hand, staring at the dying fire until sleep dragged me under.
I dreamed of horns. Of snarling mouths full of fangs.
Of being hunted.
Day 1 - Personal Journal
Time here feels... longer. One day stretches like two. Nights come quickly. The shadows move.
Farmhouse: 40ft x 30ft. The roof half collapsed. One fireplace, two small rooms still intact. Barn: collapsed. It will need to be rebuilt. Enough planks left for small repairs. Fencing: Mostly ruined. Only about 40 yards of usable wood left. Will need replacements. Water: Working well. Slightly cloudy but drinkable after boiling. Soil: Fertile. Ground is dry but manageable.
No creatures spotted yet. No people. No Beastmen—thank god. But I can hear things at night. Far off. Sometimes closer.
Found one rat nest in the pantry. Killed one. Burned the rest.
I've decided to stay. I don't have a choice.
That night, it rained. I lay on the only intact cot in the house, wrapped in a moldy wool blanket I'd found in the cellar. Wind howled through the gaps in the walls, and rain slapped the broken shingles. But the fire held, and the walls kept most of the wet out.
I started thinking about the days ahead. I'd need food. Real food. Traps maybe. Hunting if I could find a bow. I'd need to start clearing the fields. Turn the land over. Find seeds. Livestock. Tools.
And if I survived long enough, I could build something real here.
A home.
That was the night I stopped thinking about how to escape.
And started thinking about how to live.