It's warm and fuzzy inside your body, like a comfortable pair of pajamas and a favorite blanket on a cold winter day. A contented smile crosses your lipless soul-face as you slide in and prepare for enternity of rotting away and conversing with worms. Your lidless soul-eyes focus on the demon angel on last time. It's standing over you now with the blade raised high but pointed at your chest. You close you eyes, you don't want to see this final blow, and feel a strange click. It wasn't as bad as you anticipated and you open your eyes again. The world around you is in color and you can hear the wind rustle the tree leaves. The angel creature thing is gone.

Also, you're breathing and your heart is beating, and all your internal organs and blood and stuff are on still on the inside. In fact, you pat yourself down and notice the only evidence of your death is giant hole stained with blood in your apron and shirt.

As you feel around you also find a small piece of thick paper. On it is written Lesson 2: don't talk to the natives. They're crueler than me. It's hard to image anyone worse than that so you crumple the note and throw it into the forest. Litterbug. After a moment's thought your shirt and apron follow, you don't want to explain the gaping hole and blood stains to anyone you may meet. Then you make your way back to the road. Now the visible village is to your right and the smoke is to your left. Also, it's getting dark fast.

To the town. I need a drink.

I'm going left towards the smoke. And probably end up sleeping on the road, being attacked by bandits, dying again...