At the border of Wiltshire and Oxfordshire lay a forest shrouded in dense mist all year round. As the setting sun slowly sank below the horizon, a series of discordant bursts and black-and-white vortices that warped space exploded at the forest's edge, shattering its peace.
A dark figure stumbled out of a vortex. He struggled to steady himself, then ran unsteadily into the forest.
There were no ready-made paths here. The figure moved almost in a straight line through bushes and low branches, paying no heed as his cloak, stained with dust and dark red marks, was snagged and torn. He charged directly toward an ordinary-looking stone rise covered in vines deep within the forest.
On closer inspection, it was a stone house half-buried underground.
The dark figure staggered into the front door, sending the accumulated dust flying everywhere.
The inside of the stone house was not completely dark. Several kerosene lamps set into the walls lit themselves.
The figure shut the door, gasping heavily. He raised his left hand, seized the sleeve around his right arm, and tore it open with force, revealing a wound that looked as though it had been scorched by intense heat.
Perhaps he had pulled too hard, because part of the dark red scab over the wound came off as well.
The figure showed no reaction, as if the bleeding arm did not belong to him. He even extended his left hand and used his fingernails to peel the scab cleanly away along the wound's edges.
More blood surged out, winding down his pale, bloodless arm before dripping onto the dusty stone floor.
After finishing, he staggered to the stone basin, rested his right arm on it, turned the brass tap, and rinsed the wound with clean water.
Then he went to a workbench