Johan gritted his teeth against the relentless assault of the icy water, his skin prickling into gooseflesh as the frigid splashes cascaded over him like a merciless downpour from some unforgiving winter storm. He stood there, shivering uncontrollably, clinging to a faint hope that the pipes might relent and deliver a stream of warmth—perhaps after a few more agonizing moments, the ancient plumbing would awaken and offer respite. But as the seconds stretched into minutes, the cold only intensified, seeping into his bones and numbing his extremities, refusing to yield even a hint of heat. Frustrated and defeated, he abandoned the futile wait, snatching up the brick of soap from its perch on the sink's edge. In a hurried frenzy, he attempted to lather it over his body, scrubbing vigorously at the grime and bruises that marred his youthful frame. Yet, the task proved excruciating; the soap was unlike anything he'd encountered before, clearly fashioned from some peculiar, otherworldly materials far removed from the familiar bars back on Earth. It resisted the water stubbornly, taking an eternity to soften and produce even a meager foam—or perhaps it would have yielded quicker under the embrace of hot water, which remained stubbornly absent, leaving him to battle with this unyielding, chalky lump that barely cleansed and instead left his skin raw and irritated.
The ordeal became too much to bear, the combination of freezing droplets and ineffective suds pushing him to his limit. With a grunt of exasperation, Johan twisted the faucet shut, silencing the erratic sputters, and stepped out of the makeshift shower enclosure, water dripping from his limbs onto the cracked tile floor in a puddle that mirrored his growing despair. "This is a terrible life! How could anyone endure living like this?" he exclaimed to himself, his voice echoing off the bare walls with a mix of incredulity and anguish. The words hung in the air, a raw admission of his plummeting spirits, as he wrapped a threadbare towel—scavenged from a hook on the wall—around his waist. Determined not to wallow in filth any longer, he resolved to tackle the state of his clothing next, his mind already racing through improvised solutions for washing the soiled garments he'd discarded earlier.
Venturing back into the main room, he swung open the door with a creak that seemed to protest the intrusion, his eyes scanning the cluttered space for anything useful. Amid the scattered debris and forgotten odds and ends, he spotted a wide, weathered bucket tucked in a corner—large enough, perhaps, to submerge a small body or, in this case, serve as a makeshift laundry basin. It was made of sturdy wood, scarred from years of use, with metal bands holding its staves together like weary sentinels. Grabbing it by the handle, he hauled it into the bathroom, positioning it under the sink's faucet. He turned the tap, watching as the water trickled in slowly at first, then gained momentum, filling the container with the same chilly liquid that had tormented him moments ago. As the bucket neared capacity, his thoughts shifted to the next challenge: heating the water to make the washing more effective. Recalling a glimpse of a rudimentary fireplace in the apartment's corner—a small, soot-blackened hearth with a grate and a few scattered logs—he approached it cautiously. It wasn't much, just a humble setup that looked like it hadn't been tended in days, but it would have to suffice. He gathered a handful of kindling from a nearby pile, striking a match from a battered box on the mantel to ignite a modest flame. The fire crackled to life reluctantly, its warmth a welcome contrast to the pervasive chill, as he carefully balanced the wooden bucket atop the slowly heating grate, ensuring it didn't tip or scorch.
While the water warmed, Johan turned his attention back to the soap bar, examining it with a critical eye. To avoid waste or excess, he splintered it into smaller, manageable pieces using the edge of a dull knife he found in a drawer—careful slices that yielded just enough fragments for the task without depleting his meager supply. His attempt proved somewhat successful; as the water began to steam gently, he dropped the pieces in, stirring with a stick until they dissolved into a frothy, bubbling solution that carried a faint, acrid scent. Satisfied with the makeshift detergent, he gingerly submerged the shirt and pants into the sudsy depths, agitating them with his hands to work the lather into the fabric. He squeezed out the excess moisture and grime repeatedly, the water turning murky with the accumulated dirt of unknown origins, then rinsed them in a fresh batch from the sink before draping them over a makeshift line strung near the fireplace. The heat from the flames helped evaporate the dampness, though the process was tedious, requiring him to flip and adjust the garments every so often to ensure even drying.
Emboldened by his progress, he repeated the ritual with the coat—a hulking, tattered trench that demanded far more effort and time. Its heavy fabric absorbed the water like a sponge, making the soaking and wringing phases laborious, his arms aching from the exertion. Drying it proved an even greater pain; he had to prop it on a chair angled toward the fire, rotating it periodically to prevent scorching while coaxing the moisture away. Hours slipped by in this monotonous vigil—the flames flickering hypnotically, casting elongated shadows across the room as the day wore on. Johan paced occasionally, his mind wandering to fragmented thoughts of his former life, the luxury of modern appliances now a distant memory. But persistence paid off; after what felt like an interminable stretch, the coat finally hung dry, its holes and tears no less evident but at least free of the clinging filth.
At last, with a sense of hard-won accomplishment, he dressed himself in the freshly laundered shirt and pants, the fabrics now stiff but clean, imparting a casual, impoverished appearance that blended seamlessly with his surroundings—faded colors and mended seams speaking of quiet endurance. Over it all, he shrugged on the old trenchcoat, which surprisingly fit him quite well, its length draping just right over his frame, the worn material settling like an old friend's embrace despite its decrepit state. Standing there, clad in this humble attire, Johan felt a peculiar mix of resignation and readiness, as if this simple act of self-care had fortified him against the uncertainties that lay ahead in this bewildering new existence.
Johan carefully extinguished the flickering remnants of the fire in the hearth, stamping out the last glowing embers with a worn poker until only wisps of smoke curled lazily into the air, carrying the faint scent of charred wood. Satisfied that no stray spark would ignite the dilapidated apartment in his absence, he turned toward the door, a surge of determination propelling him forward. The world outside this cramped shack beckoned with unknown mysteries, and he could no longer ignore the pull—if not now, in this fragile moment of clarity, then when? Procrastination had no place in his unraveling reality; the answers he sought about this strange existence wouldn't unveil themselves while he cowered indoors.
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As he reached for the tarnished key he'd absentmindedly placed on the rickety table the night before—its cold metal biting into his palm—he paused, his gaze snagging on an object he hadn't noticed amid his earlier emotional turmoil. Perhaps the breakdown, with its torrent of tears and swirling doubts, had blinded him to the small details scattered around the room. There, nestled beside a dusty lamp, sat a modest leather pouch, its surface cracked and faded from years of handling, tied shut with a frayed drawstring that whispered of neglect. Curiosity piqued, he lifted it gingerly, feeling a subtle weight shift within. When he gave it a gentle shake, a soft, metallic clink resonated from inside, like the chime of forgotten treasures stirring in the dark.
Intrigued, Johan untied the string with trembling fingers, the pouch yielding easily to reveal its contents: a handful of coins, ancient and irregular in shape, their edges rough and uneven as if hammered by unskilled hands in some rudimentary forge. They gleamed dully in the dim light filtering through the grimy window, bearing faint etchings that spoke of a bygone craftsmanship—imperfect circles, some slightly oblong, adorned with cryptic symbols that hinted at a currency far removed from the polished bills and coins of his former world. In that instant, a fragment of memory surfaced unbidden, bubbling up from the depths of Johan's clouded mind like a long-buried artifact unearthed by a sudden quake. These were Prafa, the humblest denomination in this realm's peculiar monetary system, each one scarcely worth more than a single cent in earthly terms—or so it seemed, their value diminished by scarcity and the harsh economy that governed them.
As the recollection deepened, Johan pieced together the hierarchy of this odd currency, the knowledge flowing in disjointed flashes that felt both alien and intimately familiar. There were four tiers in total: the Prafa, the base unit, simple and unadorned, meant for the most trivial transactions like a scrap of bread or a fleeting favor. Above it sat the Plyxfa, a slightly larger coin with a notched rim, equivalent to twenty Prafa and often used for modest purchases such as a meager meal or a bundle of kindling. Then came the Phyla, broader and etched with intricate patterns, valued at fifty Plyxfa—enough, perhaps, for a day's labor or essential repairs in a place like this. At the pinnacle stood the Mylar, the rarest and most coveted, a hefty disc that commanded the worth of one hundred Plyxfa, reserved for significant exchanges like rent or tools that could alter one's fortunes.
"Such an odd currency," Johan murmured aloud, his voice echoing softly in the empty room, a mix of wonder and bemusement coloring his tone as he turned the coins over in his hand, feeling their textured surfaces against his skin. Counting them revealed a paltry sum: ten Prafa in total, barely enough to sustain him beyond a few desperate necessities. Yet, this discovery ignited a spark of insight—he realized now that the memories of Johan's original life emerged not at random, but triggered by exploration, by venturing into the world and encountering elements that his outsider's perspective could never innately grasp. Each step beyond these walls might unlock another sliver of understanding, drawing him deeper into the enigma of his transplanted soul, even as it exposed him to the perils lurking in the unfamiliar streets outside. With the pouch secured in his pocket and the key turning in the lock, Johan stepped across the threshold, the creak of the door sealing his resolve as the alleyway's shadows swallowed him whole.
the wind outside was nothing but breeze a cold and gently caressing breeze the world outside now in light show what johan didnt expected a large building that cleary are taken from earth renaissance and gothic architecture with some odd changes like someone who came with it was not really a good architect at all but an imitator.
"I see" Johan said to himself as he walked on the rock plated road with carriages driving on the wider side that clearly was a road. "Weird, it seems someone even had an idea of the basics of driving rules," Johan thought as he passed a sight that showed a sympall of two little men. Was this a child warning sight? for carriages?
Johan observed the buildings and place and saw many people walking by, some wearing heavy fur coats while women were wearing a more slightly modern kind of clothing that were familiar to the ones from earth, then suddenly "Excuse me mister?" a voung voice said from behind and as johan turned he saw a young lady who passed him a newspaper "Happy Jorgmund's Day!" she said and opened her hands expecting something "two prafa please!" the girl said and johan even thought he had no much pay the two prafa and keep the newspaper then he sat down on the rocky bench nearby and spread the papers open.
With the news open joahn noticed a weird styled writing it was not english nor german it was not nordic even it was a different mixture of or many suddently another memories rises this language was Skjarn a native language of this new world. “Skjarn? how can i read it clearly i am not from this world?” Johan thought to himself while looking at the new papers he didn't know the language yet as he read the title Fyrsta Vitnisburer in his eyes he read the translated meaning which was First testimony.
The title writes about the start of the occupation of Land Of Yuggoth and its capital city of Salca by a newly raised cult called theEye of the Providence. “cult? occupation? this is all so weird how is this world so basic yet feels so close i am so pissed that johan could live better then the way he lives i am like bum i do look like bum god i cant even take shower because of that crappy palace where i live!”
While reading about the situation in Yuggoth, Johan thought about it. He always wished to be a writer and now in this world he could become really famous. He reads so many works he can always change the outcome of the famous works and gain popularity! Johan can be this world Shakespeare or Goethe! all of literature now lies in Johan young hands. While he liked the idea a sense of shame grew inside him. Would that make him a plagiarist ? the works doesnt exist, only i know them at least to some degree! Yet they are not really his ideas and if he would do it he needs a good name, a memorable name yes a name that will be really cool to remember. Then Johan thought and thought until an idea came to him.
“If I will become this writing fraud I must take that name after all its only best choice! I will call myself Johan Wanless Faust!”
