Stíofán ó Connail

Stíofán woke up, gently, as if someone had just woken him from a deep coma. His right arm moved instinctively to the side of his bed, yet fell down as there was nothing there. Stíofán didn't know why. In fact, why he thought, he didn't know anything. This room, he thought, wasn't familiar. Perhaps it's just a case of jamais vu. Or perhaps something more malicious. He got out of the bed, his movement breaking the silence. He looked round, with blurry vision, 'perhaps my arm was reaching out for some glasses,' he wondered. Stíofán looked at the Irish flag on the wall, with messages written all across it. He looked at himself, pale skin, ginger body hair. He too must be Irish. He examined himself more closely. He had low body fat, and some developwd musvles, particularly his arms, legs, and back. At least, that's what he could work out from feeling around his body, considering the current situation with his vision. Stíofán also saw what looked to be a pocket watch, he grabbed it, thinking that it may come in handy later. Suddenly, a door in the wall opened up, and Stíofán saw what looked like a congregation of people moving through a corridor. He followed, wondering what may be in tow.