You blink in the midday sun, the scent of fresh-turned earth in your nose. A tall, broad-shouldered man stands before you, hoe in hand, brow furrowed.

“Saints preserve us… where in God’s name did you come from? One moment my sheep were grazing, the next—light, noise, and here you stand as if sprung from the ground. Are ye hurt? Or mayhap… be you some manner of spirit?”