Untitled Short Story Pt4

In an instant, Ivanson’s world went white. His eyes burned as if he had stared into the sun, and his ears ached as a tone of maddening volume assaulted him. His footing was pulled away, pitching him headfirst into nothingness.
With a crash Ivanson landed on a rocky surface, the force knocking the wind from him. Consciousness failed him for a moment as his brain rattled in his skull. Slowly his mind hummed back into life, and one by one his senses returned to him. First was the smell of rot and pine, sharp and biting. Next was the sweet sound of birdsong, beautiful but alien. Finally, prying shafts of light forced the traveler to open his eyes.
Through the slits in his helmet Ivanson saw an expanse of bright blue, marked by soft, white streaks. The sky. 
Ivanson shot up, his helmet flying from his head and bounding off the bed of pebbles about him. His vision now unrestricted, the adventurer was overcome by a sea of raucous colour. Before him stretched a wall of vibrant green, serving as a backdrop for patches of the most beautiful reds and yellows. Delicate flowers sat upon an ocean of grass, stretching over soft hills that seemed to reach to the horizon. Here and there a pale stone rose from the green, draped in multi-hued lichen.
Ivanson was dumbfounded. “Am I dead?” he asked himself. He looked down, running his hands over his torso. His black plate had received a number of knocks and dents, but save for some superficial damage it was intact. 
Ivanson looked around. To either side a riverbed ran, smooth stones lining its length. Behind him was the edge of a forest, where primeval pines as thick as a man’s torso shot skyward. Embedded in one of the great trees was Ivanson’s sword, stuck point first.
Ivanson turned back to the rolling hills and rested an arm on his knee. He had a faint idea as to where he was, but he pondered on how he reached this place. Two possibilities presented themselves; either Ivanson was slain by the thing in the mist, or he had passed through the edge of the fog. 
“Still old,” he grumbled, scratching his beard, “still sore. Still feel like hacking up a lung.” He chuckled. “Guess I’m still alive. Wonderful…” With a grunt he reached for his helmet, fastening the straps to his belt. He pushed himself up from the ground, his left leg aching. Ivanson cursed, grabbing a nearby branch. Leaning on his newfound crutch, Ivanson limped to his embedded sword.
Pulling the pitted blade free, the adventurer threw down his makeshift cane and replaced it with his faithful sword. He had no doubt he would be needing it before the end.

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