"Atvelll... Atvelll", then some other muddled words came from the darkness, which Atwell was still floating in.  Atwell felt something on his head, moving around, it felt almost like fingers. Cold, grimy fingers. Although Atwell's eyes already seemed to be open, he could also see the inside of a tent, while also looking through to the floating darkness, which he thought to be another plane of existence. Both places overlapped, and one began to take over all of Atwell's vision. Finally, it seemed as if his brain decided, and he was flung onto a bed in the white tent he had seen earlier. 

Gasping for air, Atwell propelled himself into a sitting position, clawing the air madly, and screaming. Nothing was there. A clawed hand touched his back, patting it sympathetically. Atwell spun around, revealing the group of creatures that he had been following before the darkness. They stood clustered around Atwell in a circle, making grunting noises, and consulting among themselves. Next to him on a moldy three-legged stool, sat the one that was talking to Atwell earlier, the one that let Atwell into what they call Hvanknar. Still gasping for air, Atwell turned to the creature and inquired: "What happened to me?". 

"You vell and hit your head". A blackout. He must have had blacked out when he smashed his head on the ground. "You ver dreaming". "Vat did you dreem about?" it asked, it's face grave. "I dreamt that was fastened to a slab of stone, and someone was chasing me". "Then, I fell into some odd sort of a pit, where he told me that I couldn't hide from him," Atwell replied, confused at why this thing would want to know, much less care. "Vat vas eets name?", the creature asked, staring deep into Atwell's eyes. "He said that his name was The Puppetmaster". The room fell dead silent, and everyone stopped what they were doing, and stared at Atwell. "Are you sure dat's vat he zed?", it slurred, as if it was wishing for Atwell to say no. "That is exactly what he said".

 Panic flew through the room, and all of the creatures started howling in despair, looking up at Atwell, and screaming, "ee's coming vorh us!". "I'm very confused", Atwell stated, among the cluster of creatures.  Everything came to a halt, as the monsters calmed themselves and sat in a circle surrounding Atwell. From outside of the tent, a shriveled creature carrying a crinkled scroll lifted the flap, and scuttled in, positioning himself directly in front of the table. It looked down at the scroll in its hand and then began to slowly unfurl it. Miniscule runes were scrawled in black ink all over the large scroll, and at the very end, there was a small symbol that looked oddly familiar. The creature then proceeded to make a truly disturbing noise that came from somewhere within his throat, and the room silenced, the tension slowly building. At last, the creature began to read the scroll, although, with his deep accent, it was very hard to decipher what it was saying.

 "Ve are an ancient reece. Ees old as the trees living veethin our home, and as old as our mother, teeh vorld. Centuries ago, ve vere leeving in peace, as vone vith nature. Alongside zee trees vee slept, neever vighting, and neever keeling. Zen eeh came along, destroying our civilization, and teeking control of oor minds. Ve tried to fight back, but vere quickly beaten, eend enslaved. Zee vun you speek of... he got eenside of oor minds, eend corroded oos from dee inside. Eeh could control everyting vee did, eend toyed vis us like leettle puppets. Noboody knew hees veal name, so ve all referred to eem as dee Puppetmaster." It seemed to have to strain itself a great deal to speak the name of whatever this famed "Puppetmaster" was. Although Atwell now knew what he saw in his vision like a dream, he still had no idea what to call these creatures. Raising his head, the creature looked deep into Atwell's eyes, and Atwell saw, somewhere deep within its eyes, a longing for something.

 "Tat book. Vere did you find dat book."  After a long and drawn-out pause, in which Atwell wondered why this peculiar book was so important to them, Atwell parted his lips and whispered; "When I was about the age of three my famil...  "Atwell trailed off, and memories flooded into his mind, like water gushing from a shattered dam. closed his eyes,  he tried to stop them, attempting to push them out of his mind. Quiet. The memories had stopped, and a sense of relaxation and peace washed over him, the tension in his limbs ceasing to exist. Atwell released a breath of air that he forgot he was holding, and slowly opened his eyes, one at a time. 

As the landscape came into view, Atwell noticed that he was now looking at a lush green forest, with a small orange tent positioned in a small patch of land without any trees. Three people, one of which was a small boy, sat roasting marshmallows over a blazing fire with carefree looks upon their faces. The two people seemed to be the boy's mother and father, as they did the things that Atwell assumed most families would do. Atwell could never really remember his mom and dad, although he did remember having them at some point in his life. It felt odd watching the scene take place... almost as if he had already seen it before. A noise came from somewhere within the trees, and the small boy got out of his chair and stumbled towards it. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨? 

 Atwell's thoughts began racing, anxious, and worried about the boy's safety. Dropping everything in their hands, his mom and dad began running after him, trying to stop him from venturing into the thick forest. "Atwell, wait!", they called out almost in unison. That name. The single word that made all of Atwell's world stop. His name. Not just any word, it was his name. It couldn't be a coincidence, but at the same time, it seemed impossible, but that boy had to be him. After getting over the initial shock of it, Atwell turned his attention back to what was happening before his eyes. Atwell's parents were kneeled down and crying in despair, crying his name out into the forest, although no noise came back. The boy... he was gone.