Aran was pursuing the strange woman through the woods afoot. At first, they had to run in order to … distance themselves 'properly', at least according to the woman. Her 'properly' was around two thousand meters.
Seventeen years of having a single body made Aran quite familiar with all his faults and his scars—be they on his scalp or his back—as well as his strengths and lucky traits like his height or his slender body.
It was things like these that were etched behind his mind. He looked at his fingers for signs of bitten nails only to see sharp, dirty fingernails not too far from grotesque. He felt his neck for the scar a school bully had maimed only to feel nothing but smooth skin.
He looked at his left wrist for the little tattoo he'd been hiding from his grandparents for months only to see that it was not there.
In pursuit, he looked at the woman who lead him down the path. "Hey, lady … what the hell's happening to me? This … it," he frowned, "isn't my body."
"A pond or a river might be close," she looked over her shoulder at him, "maybe you'd be able to see your reflection in it." She had a calm air as she walked sedately.
"Do I look like the old me? My actual body?"
She shrugged. "I couldn't know. I didn't pay attention to your appearance when I first met you." A lie. She knew the face like she knew the back of her hand. She knew another man who had that face. A man long gone.
Aran furrowed his brows. "That's it!" He halted. "I've had it with you."
She stopped shortly afterward but didn't turn to face him. "What?"
"I'm trying my best to keep my cool right now, woman. I've been trying since I woke up. I don't know where I am or how I got here. I only know one thing: I'm not home.
"You told me that you'd explain yourself once we got to safety. We're safe—so why haven't you started talking yet? If anything, you're quieter than before. You're barely answering my damn questions!"
She stood in the same spot, her back still turned on him. "I gave you my word. But I'm afraid explanation would have to come a bit later … once you're safe."
"But I am safe!" He snapped. "Why don't you start talking here?"
"Because talking takes up too much of your ability to function. Once I start talking, I'd stop focusing on the environment and," she sighed, "once I do that … we're more vulnerable to attacks."
"Ah, c'mon. This place couldn't be so dangerous, could it?"
She looked over her shoulder at him. "You know nothing of this world … nothing."
In that moment, Aran remembered something: his surroundings were different. He wasn't at his initial residence. In the worst-case scenario, he wasn't even on Earth.
He looked up at the sky. It was a blend of yellow and purple in some areas. The shadows here were strong. Stronger than the shadows of his world. The sun's light was frail and wavered further the more time passed by.
He was traveling through shaded woods. The trees were moderately tall and the grass reached his calves. There were some strange trees. Some twisted up with barks that almost spiraled. Others were extremely narrow and tall with no branches at all.
But undoubtedly, the sky was the true enigma among the rest. It was far from a normal sky. There was barely any blue. Moreover, he'd witnessed carriages and cloaked men and women using anachronistic items. Aran was, most definitely, in another world.
"No …" he muttered to himself, "no, this can't be."
The woman continued walking. "Welcome to Archeria, young Aran."
Aran roved his gaped eyes about. How did he get here? Was there a way back? What was happening? Why him? What about his grandfather … his grandmother—what happened to them?
He sped up to the woman and fell in beside her on her saunter. "What did you do?" He snapped. "You brought me here, didn't you? Why did you do this? Answer me goddammit!"
After a bit of silence, Aran chose to leave such silence undisturbed. He figured he needn't speak much more. For that matter, he needn't speak at all. He was either tired of being redundant—repeatedly asking the same questions, or, he was tired of hearing his now youthful, high-pitched voice.
For him, the aforementioned proved truest (especially the latter) but other than that, he quelled himself because he knew the answers would come … eventually.
Heeding the silence, the woman walked, her white cloak whooshing as gusts of wind brushed past her. "I guess I can start now. But if we get ambushed, you're to be blamed."
Aran looked at her. Desperate. He wanted answers. He deserved answers. He'd been disoriented since he woke up.
"I guess I'll start by introducing myself," she said, "since you'll be seeing my beautiful face all the time. If you don't want to see it—your problem," she looked at him. "Chandrelle. I go by Chandrelle. Chandrelle, the White-Cloaked Campaigner. But my friends … they call me Snow."
This was the second time he'd heard such a name. Eerie and powerful like a name a warrior with unshakable prowess would carry along with the several claymores on his back.
"I have a bit of a reputation here," she said, "you know, as the White-Cloaked Campaigner. Mostly it's a burden. They know me as mentor of Aran Hayes: a past apprentice of mine you'd soon come to know like you know yourself.
"Throughout the years, I've only had a single trainee under me. Haven't trained a student more. Aran was that student but recently," she frowned, "he died."
"What happened to him?" Aran asked, genuinely quizzical. Enthusiasm flushing through the entirety of his body.
"He died," Chandrelle repeated, "what's the matter, got your ears clogged?"
"No," he snorted, "I meant … how. How'd he die?"
"Well that's what I'm purposely trying to not tell you or else I'd have gone into it," she snapped.
"Why are you refraining?"
"Because that's a story for another time. For now, all you should know is that Mono killed him. And that he's alternate of you … actually," she cringed, "I'd prefer to say you're an alternate of him. Ahhh, much better."
"An alternate? The hell is that?"