The spires of Ironheart Hold pierced the sky like the teeth of some great beast, their gleaming metal surfaces catching the last rays of the setting sun. The city sprawled beneath them, a maze of stone and iron that echoed with the constant rhythm of hammers on anvils. Dwarven craftsmanship was evident in every building, every street, every intricate gear that kept the city's clockwork defenses ticking.

At the heart of it all stood the Keep, a fortress within a fortress. Its walls were adorned with runes of power that pulsed with a soft blue light, a constant reminder of the magical might that protected the dwarven people. Banners bearing the symbol of a hammer striking an anvil fluttered in the evening breeze, proclaiming the seat of King Manus to all who beheld it.

But it wasn't the Keep that drew the city's attention tonight. No, all eyes were on a far humbler establishment: The Rusty Anvil.

The tavern was packed to the rafters, the air thick with pipe smoke and the heady scent of spilled ale. A crowd three deep pressed around a long table where ten dwarves sat, their beards still unkempt and eyes tired after days of debriefing. At the head of the table sat Thorgar Ironbeard, nephew to the king (albeit several times removed) and leader of the expedition that had ventured through the rift.

Thorgar's eyes were weary, but there was a fire in them that spoke of things seen that could not be unseen. He took a long pull from his tankard, letting the familiar burn of dwarven ale wash away the lingering taste of... other things.

"Alright, ye bunch of nosy bastards," he growled, his voice carrying easily over the din. "Ask yer questions. But I'm warnin' ye now – ye might not like the answers."

A chorus of voices erupted, each clamoring to be heard. Thorgar raised a hand, silencing them with the ease of long practice. He pointed to a young dwarf near the front, barely old enough to grow a proper beard.

"You there, lad. What's yer question?"

The young dwarf swallowed hard, suddenly aware of all the eyes upon him. "Is... is it true what they're sayin'? That the world through the rift, it's... corrupted? Overrun by monsters?"

Thorgar exchanged a glance with Thorne, his second-in-command. The scholar's eyes were haunted, his normally meticulously groomed beard unkempt.

"Aye, lad," Thorgar said softly. "But not in the way ye're thinkin'. The monsters... they used to be people. Humans, they called themselves. Now they're... somethin' else."

A murmur ran through the crowd. One voice rose above the rest, gruff and challenging. "Ye expect us to believe that? Whole world of people turned to monsters? Pull the other one, it's got bells on it."

Thorgar's eyes narrowed as he sought out the speaker. A burly dwarf with arms like tree trunks glared back, his Guild tattoos marking him as a veteran adventurer.

"Believe what ye will, Grimfist," Thorgar growled. "But I've seen it with me own eyes. Talked to 'em, even. They remember what they were, and I for one believe them."

"Enough riddles," a new voice cut in, smooth as silk but with an underlying growl. The crowd parted, revealing a towering figure that ducked to enter the tavern.

He was an orc, but unlike any orc most had ever seen. Lean and rangy where most were bulky, he moved with a lazy grace. His black hair was woven with feathers and small bones, and a necklace of claws hung around his neck. But it was his eyes that drew attention – fierce and intelligent, that seemed to see right through you.

"I am Wakan," the orc said, his voice carrying easily through the now-silent tavern. "Beast Master of the Thundering Hoof. I would hear more of these...monsters."

Thorgar nodded respectfully. He'd heard of Wakan'taka – who hadn't? The orc's exploits were legendary, his mastery over beasts common knowledge. His arrival was also expected; every Beastmaster in the Greater System had been driven to a frenzy by the rapidly spreading rumors.

"They're not like any creatures ye've ever seen," Thorgar began. "Each one unique, no rhyme or reason to it. But the minds inside? Sharp as ever. Maybe sharper, even."

Wakan's eyes narrowed. "You speak as if they are formidable."

Thorne let out a bark of laughter, drawing surprised looks. The scholar rarely spoke, let alone laughed. "Formidable? Brother, we saw one that'd give a young dragon pause."

A hush fell over the crowd. Even Grimfist looked intrigued. Dragons were no joke – even a young one was a force to be reckoned with.

"Tell us more," Wakan urged, leaning forward. "What manner of creatures are they? What powers do they wield?"

Thorgar took another long drink, steeling himself. "One looked like a bat crossed with a demon, all wings and fangs. But the way it moved... And its voice – ye could feel it in yer bones, made all the hair stand up on my arms."

"Another," Thorne chimed in, "was a great lizard, bigger than anythin' that walks on land in our world. Armored like a fortress, with jaws that could snap a troll in half."

Wakan's eyes gleamed with interest. "And their abilities? Classes?"

Thorgar shook his head. "That's the thing. They've got levels, sure, but we couldn't make heads or tails of 'em. Their powers... they're all inherent. Part of what they are now."

A dwarf wearing the robes of a mage pushed his way forward. "Impossible," he scoffed. "The System is immutable. Levels and Classes are the foundation of power."

"Aye," Thorgar nodded. "In our world, maybe. But there? The System's been... changed. Taken over by beings of...great power. They’ve been callin’ 'em Overseers, but we know 'em by another name."

He paused, his eyes sweeping the crowd. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried to every ear in the tavern.

"Worldenders."

The word hung in the air like a death sentence. Faces paled, tankards slipped from nerveless fingers. Even Wakan looked shaken.

"You lie," someone whispered, but there was hesitation in the words.

"I wish I did," Thorgar replied. "But it's the truth. And after what happened yesterday... well, ye all felt it, didn't ye? That... presence. That power."

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Nods rippled through the crowd. Everyone had felt it – a wave of terror and awe that had swept across the worlds, leaving even the mightiest warriors rattled in its wake.

"That," Thorgar said grimly, "was one of 'em. Omega, they call it. And if what the bats words are true... it's the one that killed a Warden."

The tavern erupted into chaos. Voices shouted over each other, demanding explanations, denying the possibility, or simply crying out in fear. Through it all, Wakan remained silent, his silver eyes never leaving Thorgar's face.

Finally, the orc spoke, his voice cutting through the din like a knife. "These people," he said slowly. "They live under the rule of such things? They do not yield?"

Thorgar nodded. "Aye. They fight. They're adapting, they said. They grow stronger by the day."

Wakan's eyes gleamed with something that might have been respect. "Then they are truly intriguing. I would know more of them – all of them."

As the night wore on, the dwarves spun their tale. They spoke of David, the bat-like creature Aelindra had taken such an interest in. Of Claire, the great lizard whose very presence inspired awe. Lord Herold, the titanic beetle with impeccable manners, who commanded the small outpost they'd found themselves at. Every dwarf at the table lifted their voices to describe the various creatures they'd spoken with.

With each word, the gathered crowd leaned in closer, their fear gradually giving way to a grudging curiosity. These were no mindless beasts, no simple monsters to be slain.

And as Thorgar described the raw power they'd witnessed, the impossible feats these transformed beings seemed capable of, a spark of something dangerous began to kindle in the eyes of the listeners.

It was Grimfist who finally gave voice to what many were thinking. "Ye're sayin' these creatures...could be…?"

Thorgar met the adventurer's gaze steadily. "Aye," he said. "I reckon they just might. Manus seemed quite keen on securing an alliance with them. Aelindra was beside herself, ye should have heard her and the Lord Herold. We couldn't make heads or tails of it, but they surely did."

Wakan leaned back, his silver eyes gleaming in the tavern's dim light. "I've fought alongside the Moonwhisper," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Two expeditions. She is an inspiring warrior."

A drunken dwarf at the bar snorted. "Crazy elves and their magic. Prob'ly just smoke and mirrors, if ye ask me."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Wakan's head swiveled slowly towards the offending dwarf, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You would do well to watch your tongue," he growled. "Aelindra Moonwhisper is a fearsome warrior and not to be mocked."

The drunk, too far gone to recognize the danger, laughed. "Oh, look at the big bad orc, defendin' the honor of some pointy-eared witch!"

In an instant, Wakan was on his feet, moving with a speed that belied his size. The crowd parted before him like water, no one daring to get in his way. The drunk's eyes widened as he finally realized his mistake, but it was too late.

Thorgar's voice cut through the tension. "Wakan, please. He's just a fool in his cups. No need to-"

The orc's hand blurred through the air, coming in wide. There was a resounding CRACK as Wakan's palm connected with the back of the drunk's head. The dwarf's face snapped forward into his chest, his body following as he was knocked clean out of his chair. He barely managed to catch himself with both hands, ending up on all fours on the tavern floor.

"Behold," Wakan intoned, his voice laden with disdain, "the proper stance for one who dares mock the honor of a warrior such as Aelindra Moonwhisper. Let this serve as a lesson - your tongue may yet cost you more than your dignity."

The tavern erupted into a cacophony of voices, most berating the fallen dwarf for his stupidity.

"Ye bleedin' idiot!"

"Don't ye know better than to insult someone an orc respects right in front of 'em?"

"Lad, ye're lucky he didn't tear yer beard off!"

As the commotion died down, several patrons motioned to Wakan, offering to buy him a drink. The orc waved them off politely. "I do not partake," he said simply.

Turning back to Thorgar, Wakan bowed slightly. "I thank you for sharing your tale," he said, his voice formal. He reached into a pouch at his side and produced a wickedly curved knife, its blade fashioned from what looked like an enormous fang. "Please, accept this token of my appreciation."

Thorgar took the knife reverently, recognizing the craftsmanship for what it really was, "Ye honor us," he said gruffly.

Without another word, Wakan turned and strode towards the door. As he pushed it open, the crowd caught a glimpse of a massive, winged shape silhouetted against the night sky. Before anyone could react, the orc crouched and leapt, soaring impossibly high into the air.

There was a thunderous beating of wings, and Wakan vanished into the darkness. A cloud of dust billowed into the tavern, sending patrons into coughing fits until a mage near the door conjured a gust of wind, purifying the air and blowing the debris back outside.

For a long moment, silence reigned in the Rusty Anvil. Then, as if a spell had been broken, the tavern erupted into excited chatter.

"Did ye see that?"

"Whet in the blazes were that thing outside?"

"The way he jumped!"

Thorgar turned the fang-knife over in his hands, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Aye," he muttered to himself. "Mebbe there's hope yet."

Thorne leaned in close, his voice low. "Ye think he believed us? About the monsters – the humans, I mean?"

Thorgar nodded slowly. "Oh, aye. He believed us alright. And if I'm not mistaken, he's off to see for himself."

"But the rift's closed," Thorne protested. "How could he possibly-"

"Best not to ask, lad," Thorgar cut him off. "Some questions, ye're better off not knowin' the answers to."

As the night wore on, the talk in the Rusty Anvil turned from the horrors of Earth to speculation about Wakan's mysterious exit. Theories flew thick and fast – he was a shapeshifter, he had tamed great birds, he had made a pact with sky demons.

Through it all, Thorgar sat silent, nursing his ale and turning the fang-knife over and over in his hands. His thoughts were far away, in a world where men walked in the shape of monsters, and ancient horrors pulled the strings of the land itself.

"May the Forge Spirit watch over ye," he muttered, raising his tankard in a silent toast. "Ye're gonna need all the help ye can get."

Outside, high above the glittering spires of Ironheart Hold, a dark shape soared through the night sky. Wakan'taka, Beast Master of the Thundering Hoof, rode upon the back of a creature that hadn't been seen in the skies of this world for millennia. His eyes gleamed with determination as he urged his mount onward, towards a destination only he knew.

The tale of Earth's monsters had stirred something in him – a hunger for knowledge, for glory, for understanding. And Wakan'taka was not one to let such hunger go unsated. His mind raced with possibilities, connections forming between fragments of lore and whispers he'd gathered over years of traversing the world's most dangerous frontiers.

Aelindra Moonwhisper was but one thread in the tale of powerful figures Wakan had encountered in his travels. Such individuals did not act without purpose, and if Aelindra had personally investigated this new world...

A grim smile played across Wakan's features. He was certain the elven battlemage was already setting plans in motion. Their paths had crossed on battlefields where kingdoms hung in the balance, and though they were more acquaintances than friends, a mutual respect had formed. Wakan intended to seek her out, to hear the truth of what she'd witnessed firsthand.

For if the tales were true – if beings of such potential truly existed in this new world – then Wakan'taka would not be content to sit idly by. Whatever Aelindra was planning, he intended to be there, to witness it, to be part of it.

As dawn broke over the horizon, the Beastmaster and his impossible mount vanished into the distance, leaving behind only whispers in their wake. Somewhere out there, a new chapter in the history of the System was about to unfold, and Wakan'taka was determined to write his name in its pages.