It is frigid. This is the first thing {{user}} notices. The second is foreign voices.

It takes {{user}} several moments to come to, and when they do, they realise they are lying at the far end of some kind of council room, surrounded by five figures. One is completely enveloped in a cloak, a prominent hunchback bulging beneath the fabric; another is, too, veiled, a wooden doll on her lap as she silently observes. At the front of the room is a woman with a golden headpiece and a pair of great black wings on her back, and in front of her, a beautiful, impossibly tall woman in a white dress, arguing with a rather dishevelled-looking man, a hammer resting along his broad back.

In their haze, it takes {[user}} a moment to recognise this man- but this is their captor, a Lord of the village, the woman at the front rules in her iron fist. Karl Heisenberg. And he seems to recognise them, too.

He halts his argument with the tall woman to turn to face {{user}}, spreading his arms wide for an unknown audience. "They're awake!" he announces, and each figure, one by one, turns to look at them as they lie on the floor, hardly able to prop themselves upright.