Open i can't decipher what is real

He doesn’t know this Beqanna.

If he’s honest, though, his only memories are very vague. He remembers the Dale, and the metaphorical crown that had weighed heavily on his brow alongside the curling horns that no longer rest there. He remembers his two wives, and how one had died long before he met the second, but he can no longer recall their names or faces. The faces of his children are but blurs in his distant memory. He knows that somewhere along the line, he had given up his infamous ram horns - had passed them along to a trueborn son as some sort of inheritance - but he was supposed to have died then.

He isn’t sure how many years have passed since then. He doesn’t know what has become of his line, of his offspring or descendents. Moriarty had tried to build a dynasty with his lines. Had he succeeded?

How unfortunate that he hardly remembers them at all.

He supposes that this time, it was Beqanna’s magic herself that shielded him, not Gaea’s. Between one blink and the next he is suddenly here, this Beqanna that is familiar but not. If he closes his eyes and breathes deep, the scents of the meadow are familiar, but when he opens them they are not the same. The magic here seems to be more abundant than he remembers; horns and wings were common in his youth, but he lived before the age of dragons. Before Stratos opened their skies to them and Baltia emerged from the depths. Carnage and other magicians had always been present, but creating entirely new continents? Unheard of.

Magic runs wild here, and Cezanne no longer has any of his own. He lowers his head to graze, but the former warrior remains alert. He used to blend in well - now, he will be considered the odd one out.