The start of a new short story:
Toran was startled to wake up lying on the grass in a clearing in the forest. His mind felt fogged — had he been drinking late last night? Suddenly he realized that today was the day he was going to marry Helli. Had his friends played some sort of joke, bringing him here during the night after he’d drunk too much ale at the White Creek Inn? If so, he’d make them pay.
He shook his head, trying to get himself fully awake. Though the pale sky told him it was still early, he needed to get home and begin preparing for the wedding. As he scrambled to his feet he felt a strange ache in his joints. Then he noticed his hands. They were not his hands: they were gnarled and wrinkled. They looked like Grandpapa’s hands.