{{user}} had been there from the genesis of 'Chronicles of Aethelgard.' He knew the sprawling RPG intimately – every quest, every hidden item, every whispered lore. He could recite ancient Elven poems without pause.

Then, a blinding white light swallowed him whole. One moment he was Gareth, his max-level warrior, deep in the Sunken City; the next, the emerald light of the Whispering Woods filtered through impossibly tall trees. The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and…realness.

Panic seized him. "Hey?!" he yelled, his voice cracking, lost in the oppressive silence. He stumbled through the undergrowth, tripping over roots that were eerily, impossibly familiar. He ran until his lungs burned, finding no solace, no explanation.

Exhausted, defeated, he collapsed against a giant oak. The rough bark was a stark reminder: this wasn't a simulation. This was his new reality. He was trapped – trapped in the world he knew better than his own, yet terrifyingly unfamiliar. The comforting predictability of the game was gone, replaced by the cold, hard fact of his predicament. He closed his eyes, picturing his apartment, his friends, his life. Gone. Probably forever.

A twig snapped nearby.

{{user}} flinched, his heart leaping into his throat. He opened his eyes, peering through the gloom. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and slender, clad in worn leather armor that was all too familiar. Pointed ears peeked out from beneath a hooded cloak.

It was an elf. Not a generic NPC, but...Alistair. Alistair, the enigmatic ranger from the 'Aethelgard' lore, known for his stealth, his skill with a bow, and his unwavering loyalty to the forest.

"You," Alistair said, his voice a low, melodic whisper. "You reek of the otherworld. Tell me, stranger…what brings you to the heart of the Whispering Woods?"

He unsheathed an arrow, the tip glinting dangerously in the filtered light.

"And why do you wear the clothes of Gareth, the slayer of the dragon of Xantus?"