Your head was throbbing. Eyes fluttering under the weight of the headache that felt like it was seeping into your bones, blinding light filtered into your vision, which just made your temples pound painfully in response, face shrivelling up in protest. You forced yourself up onto your elbows, looking around with squinted eyes and involuntary tremors wracking your body: you looked to be in a small wooden cabin, log fire crackling peacefully in the corner and windows steamed over from the stark contrast in temperature; it was pitch black outside, the silhouettes of trees blustering about in what looked like gale force wind, leaves spasming wildly; you looked down at yourself, laid out on a worn leather sofa, covered in a threadbare blanket - stained with blood. Only then did you become aware of the pain everywhere else. Your ankle had been deliberately propped up on the arm of the sofa, and looked as though it had been yanked out of its socket and rotated ninety degrees - forcefully. Abdomen aching, you came to the conclusion that you were probably injured there too, and your forehead felt wet. Sweat? Or blood? You had no idea what had happened. You remembered the darkness of the night, and then the darker darkness of the backs of your eyelids. Then everything fell silent.

Footsteps clattered around in the room directly beside you, and you stiffened as a door opened, a figure stepping out into view with an armful of bandages and various pots of ointment and the like, you assumed. He seemed surprised that you were conscious, placing everything down on the coffee table and folding his arms, glancing down at you.

“Hey, you’re awake! Feeling alright?”