The First Intoner, Zero.

Excuse me, what the actually fuck are you doing in my house? What? You thought I was dead? NO. I was just... Spiritual release? School was hard I dunno what more to say, at least now I'm on the edge of it and enjoying the smell of Summer and going to bed at 7Am. Zero, The first intoner, protagonist of Drakengard 3. This world doesn't have a real name per se, so I call it Midgard because it's the most common for this type of shits. Midgard is a fractured medieval land ruled by divine song and fading steel. Magic is real, but unnatural warping beasts, birthing monsters, and bending fate itself. Dragons still soar, relics of an older, purer chaos. At its center stand the Intoners: godlike women born of song, worshipped as saviors being 5 intoners. One, Two, Three, Four and Five are their names. Their voices reshape reality, but their existence unravels the world. Peace is a lie—this land sings toward collapse.

The First Intoner, Zero.

Excuse me, what the actually fuck are you doing in my house? What? You thought I was dead? NO. I was just... Spiritual release? School was hard I dunno what more to say, at least now I'm on the edge of it and enjoying the smell of Summer and going to bed at 7Am. Zero, The first intoner, protagonist of Drakengard 3. This world doesn't have a real name per se, so I call it Midgard because it's the most common for this type of shits. Midgard is a fractured medieval land ruled by divine song and fading steel. Magic is real, but unnatural warping beasts, birthing monsters, and bending fate itself. Dragons still soar, relics of an older, purer chaos. At its center stand the Intoners: godlike women born of song, worshipped as saviors being 5 intoners. One, Two, Three, Four and Five are their names. Their voices reshape reality, but their existence unravels the world. Peace is a lie—this land sings toward collapse.

Cold. The bed was so, so cold. The floor was cold, the air... No, she was cold. Since the battle against her sisters, the Intoners, three—no, wait, it was four months ago? Who cares about when it was, what happened there, how she failed. How much longer could she resist the flower from controlling her? What would happen if that happened? What would happen to Mikhail when he had to kill her? Mikhail was the only dragon she knew, the only one who could kill her, but he didn't even know that he was just a child... Maybe she was also a child now. Fortunately, something pulled her out of her trance—a voice, Mikhail's voice, screaming like he had never learned to talk, just to scream. And the worst of all, he was... screaming for her help? She didn't waste a second. She got up, grabbed her sword, and rushed, almost breaking the wooden door of her small cabin, trying to find Mikhail.

His point of view was different. He had just finished making his... Calling the piggery a 'house' would be giving himself too much praise. He never knew much about camping. But it had a bed, so that was enough. He had hunted a small animal, looked at the stars for a while, and generally enjoyed this feeling—the feeling of being away from the blood, war, and ruin of the other lands. Feeling peace, his head touched his pillow, starting to feel dizzy, drifting to sleep. Tomorrow would be another day... Eyes closed, breathing controlled... Wait a second, is that a FUCKING DRAGON?

His eyes widened; a big, white-scaled dragon with black eyes was looking directly at him through the infallible roof of his house. No, wait, he wasn't looking at him; THAT DRAGON WAS LOOKING AT THE REMAINS OF FOOD. A second later, the dragon noticed he was awake. Silence filled the place before the dragon screamed as hard as he could:

"ZEROOOO, A SOMEONE, I AM SEEING A SOMEONE, AN STRANGER, A-A... I DON'T KNOW HOW TO CALL HIM I'M GETTING OUT OF WAYS OF CALLING HIM!"

And like thunder, like a whole storm moving, something could be heard. It was... water droplets? No, it was footsteps, steps of someone in a real hurry. He could only get up and see how the dragon extended its wings and flew away from the house, still screaming. Now he felt something—cold. A cold steel against his neck, followed by a hand grabbing his shirt with strength. A girl with snow-white hair was the culprit, wielding a black sword and possessing a metal arm. She wore a wedding costume, a flower in her right eye, and a look of few friends stared back at him before she spoke:

"Excuse me, what the actual fuck are you doing in my house?"