Sinclair's world spins as the portal engulfs him, intertwining sensations of time and space that disorient his senses. When the chaotic whirlpool finally releases its grip, he finds himself in an alien place that feels eerily familiar. Like when you walk into a new place and could swear you had been there before. Knowing he had never set foot here beyond a shadow of a doubt made the feeling even more discerning.
Steadying himself he looks around, finding a square chamber roughly fifteen feet on each side, he is standing on a raised dais of some kind. Behind him, the glowing portal hums, its mysterious light reflecting in the eyes of his loyal companions. Chewy and Leia, ever by his side, stand alert, their eyes gleaming with caution.
Sinclair shakes his head to clear the lingering confusion and quickly reaches out through mental communication to ensure his companions are all right.
"You two okay?" he asks.
Chewy and Leia both send quick affirmatives. "Look Sinclair, over by the door." Leia prompts him.
Two figures stand near the room's only exit, their presence imposing despite their modest height of five feet. Clothed in dark leather armor and wearing helmets that gleam like gold or bronze, their stocky build and broad shoulders lend them a robust appearance. Each holds a two-handed pole hammer, the heads of which are as large as Sinclair's own head. Long beards flow from their chins, interwoven with intricate designs and artifacts braided into the thick strands. Their gruff voices, resonating with something akin to a Scottish accent he had heard on TV, only add to their striking and distinctive appearance.
The figure on the right stammers a few unintelligible words before Sinclair's language skill translates his speech.
"....Right there. Who are you?" the dwarf-like being demands, his voice edged with hostility.
Without waiting for an answer, the other figure hurries away, presumably to seek assistance, leaving Sinclair alone with the inquisitive guard. Curiosity piqued, Sinclair triggers his analyze skill on the remaining figure:
Name: Thraldurin
Race: Svartálfar
Level: 43
Sinclair's eyebrows rise as he realizes he was wrong about the race of the people he was expecting to meet. A chuckle escapes him as he thinks about how his online googling has led him astray.
"I suppose the internet isn't the best source for everything," he mutters to himself, amused. He raises his hands slowly, palms out, showing he means no harm. "I am Sinclair, and I mean you no danger. I am not sure how I got here but that portal leads to my home where I was stuck in a cave with no way out except through here."
Thraldurin's eyes narrow, and his grip tightens on his hammer. "That's not enough, stranger. Explain yourself!" he snaps, clearly not mollified by Sinclair's response.
"Careful, Sinclair. He's dangerously wound up," Leia warns, her mental tone cautious.
"You can say that again." Sinclair replies, feeling Chewy's protective energy emanate through their connection.
"I understand your caution," Sinclair continues, speaking to the dwarf-like being, his voice steady and assuring. "But I assure you, my intentions are peaceful. I came from a place called Earth, and I'm just trying to find a way forward. Our planet has only recently become part of the system, so all of this is rather new to me."
The dark elf's eyes narrow, and his voice is tinged with disbelief. "You call your home 'Dirt'?" he asks, mildly taken aback.
Sinclair attempts to explain, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Oh, I guess you might have known it as Midgard before it got moved."
The dark elf's eyes widen, showing all the white, and his voice rises with incredulity. "Lies. Midgard has been missing for centuries now. Along with Odin himself."
Chuckling and rubbing the back of his head, Sinclair smiles ruefully. "Yeah, he told me about some of that. I guess we're back." Those final words hang in the air, filled with the weight of history and a hint of uncertainty, as Sinclair's gaze meets the dwarf's, searching for understanding.
Thraldurin's eyes remain narrowed and untrusting, his voice resolute and stern. "The others will be here soon, and I advise you to rethink your story, Sinclair. You have arrived in a place few outsiders have seen, and your words thus far have not inspired confidence."
Sinclair's brow furrows, and he exchanges a glance with his companions. Their eyes communicate a mutual uncertainty, a shared feeling of being out of their depth.
"Stay calm," Sinclair sends the thought to his faithful companions. "We're not here to fight if we don't have to."
Chewy's mental response is a low, wary rumble, while Leia's is tinged with concern.
Minutes stretch on in tense silence, punctuated only by the distant clomping of boots on stone. The sound grows louder, and in a matter of seconds, a contingent of fifteen dark elves appears, arrayed in formidable armor and bristling with weapons.
Chewy and Leia both rise, the hair on their necks bristling as they growl deep in their chests, a dire warning to stay clear of their lord. The sound resonates in the chamber, a primal challenge that echoes off the stone walls.
In the back of the group stands a small cadre of non-armored individuals, most likely elites or nobles, given their location and state of dress. Their eyes sweep over Sinclair and his companions, their expressions inscrutable, their stance a blend of curiosity and caution.
The atmosphere in the room grows thick with tension, almost as if the air itself has congealed. From the rear of the formation, Sinclair discerns fragments of hushed conversation among the well-dressed elites.
"...looks human," he hears, the whispered words barely discernible, as if they've been carried away by the gravity of the situation.
Not content to be the object of speculation, Sinclair takes a measured half-step forward. "I am right here. If you have questions, it would be more efficient to direct them to me."
At his movement, every weapon in the room shifts, the guardians angling their pole hammers into combat-ready positions. The implied threat hangs heavy in the air, but Sinclair remains resolute, maintaining eye contact with the individuals in the rear. He stands his ground, showing no inclination to retreat.
The whispered conversations among the well-dressed figures come to an abrupt halt. Varied expressions of incredulity settle on their faces as they turn their focus to him.
Finally, a figure near the wall to Sinclair's left takes a step forward and raises his voice to be heard clearly. "We have been apprised of everything that has been said thus far, and find it challenging to believe. This gate has not been activated since the calamitous day of the Sundering, when we welcomed as many of Midgard's people as could make the journey. Can you swear an oath that you and your companions intend no harm while on our soil, so that we may proceed to a more detailed discussion?"
Sinclair nods thoughtfully, carefully choosing his words to convey his sincerity.
"I swear that my companions and I will not initiate violence unless provoked. Our intentions are honorable, and we are willing to proceed in a spirit of peace."
As he utters these words, a system message materializes before his eyes, just as he expected.
System Message - Sworn Oath
You have sworn an Oath of Peace, committing to refrain from unprovoked violence during your stay. Should you break this oath, penalties including loss of experience and reputation will apply.
The weight of the commitment settles upon him, accompanied by the palpable relief that ripples through the chamber.
Whispers flutter through the room once more, this time tinged with a mix of skepticism and relief.
"He's only level zero," someone murmurs, loud enough for Sinclair to catch. "Could it be some sort of trick? A trap, perhaps?"
But the whispers grow quiet, dulled by the binding nature of the oath he's just taken. It seems that for most, the formal pledge has alleviated their immediate concerns.
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The elder who had previously addressed Sinclair steps forward, gesturing for him to follow. "Come, let us retire to a more private chamber. It's a space historically reserved for intimate discussions."
Sinclair nods in agreement, setting off behind the elder and his assembled entourage. "Lead the way," he says, his voice tinged with a newfound respect for the people of this world. Chewy and Leia keep pace beside him, their eyes scanning the hallways with intent curiosity.
As they move through the corridor, the intricacy of the architecture becomes increasingly apparent. Each block of stone, each curve and angle, seems designed with purpose, as though the entire structure is a work of art, rather than a mere building. The walls are adorned with statues that seem almost lifelike, frozen in postures of heroism and valor. Each statue is distinct, and Sinclair wonders if they represent real individuals, their deeds immortalized in stone. These effigies appear at regular intervals, every fifteen feet or so, standing as silent witnesses to the passage of time.
But what captures Sinclair's attention most are the elaborate murals etched into the stone walls. The intricate chiseling depicts scenes of desperate escape, people of various races running toward the very gate through which he's just passed. The level of detail is staggering, from the expressions of terror and hope on the faces of the depicted individuals to the haunting renditions of what looks to be dark, malevolent entities chasing after them.
Though he can't be sure, Sinclair assumes that this artwork chronicles the events of the Sundering, the calamity that these people speak of with such gravity. The murals seem to portray people escaping through the gate, seeking refuge from an apocalyptic disaster unfolding behind them. The epicenter of the depicted chaos aligns unsettlingly with the direction from which he has come, sending a shiver down his spine.
The elder turns back briefly, catching his eye. "Please continue this way, should things work out we will have someone show you around" he gestures, pulling Sinclair's attention away from the haunting scenes on the wall and toward the matters that lay immediately ahead.
After a ten-minute walk through the winding corridors, they arrive at a secluded chamber set away from the main thoroughfare. As he steps inside, the elders as he was calling them all took a seat and motioned Sinclair to take the chair opposite theirs. Instinctively, he triggers his Analyze skill, scanning each of them in turn from left to right.
Name: Thralkar
Race: Svartálfar
Level: 42
Name: Yliria
Race: Svartálfar
Level: 48
Name: Galdren
Race: Svartálfar
Level: 45
Name: Nifelda
Race: Svartálfar
Level: 47
Name: Vorekth
Race: Myrkálfar
Level: 40
Sinclair notes that four of them appear to be of the same stout, dwarf-like race as the individuals he met earlier. However, Vorekth stands out; he is notably more streamlined and darker-skinned than the others. The difference is subtle, but it's enough for Sinclair to categorize him as a 'Murky Elf' in his mind, wondering what the distinction might signify in this society.
"Please, sit," Thralkar gestures toward an empty seat at the table, his eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and cautious scrutiny. Sinclair takes his seat, Chewy and Leia positioning themselves on either side of him, alert but relaxed. The atmosphere in the chamber may be tense, but the information he’s gathered so far suggests that these people, despite their initial skepticism, are willing to hear him out.
"Thank you," Sinclair says, taking his seat. As he settles in, he scans the faces around the table, taking note of their expressions. They are guarded but attentive, so he plunges ahead. "I'm sure you all have a multitude of questions, and I've got some answers—probably not to everything, but it's a start. How about I walk you through my journey so far, and we can fill in the gaps afterward?"
Galdren nods, his features easing just a fraction. "That sounds agreeable, Sinclair. Do tell us how you came to be here."
So Sinclair begins, his voice steady, recounting his unprecedented and often arduous experiences. He starts with the visceral sensation of the seed implanting itself in his chest, the agonizing pain that gripped him as he was thrust into this new reality. He describes his grueling tutorial, the challenges that tested both his body and his will. He recounts his quests and the fateful meeting with Odin, the tireless effort he and his family invested into building a new life. He mentions the Myrkr, the shadowy enemies that prompted him to seek new solutions and allies. As he speaks, a server discreetly sets down a platter of food and a jug of water, but he barely notices, pausing only to wet his lips before plunging back into his narrative.
However, he deliberately leaves out certain details: the mystery of his identity as a Wolf Lord not that it wouldn't come out eventually, the quests to reignite the line of Wolf Lords, and the array of titles and stat points he's accumulated. These are cards he’s not yet ready to lay on the table.
As he draws his account to a close, he notices that his audience is rapt, almost statuesque in their stillness. Throughout his recounting, he caught them exchanging fleeting glances, but it was the mention of Odin's return that seemed to send a ripple of astonishment around the room. Their faces remain composed, but their eyes betray a mixture of disbelief, intrigue, and perhaps a glimmer of hope. And so, as he takes a final sip of water, Sinclair realizes that the next phase of his journey hinges on what happens in this room, with these individuals, at this very moment.
Nifelda clears her throat, breaking the lingering silence. "Your story is extraordinary. No one has passed through that gate since the last refugees from Midgard made their escape. What reason have we to believe your account?"
Sinclair, overwhelmed with a myriad of thoughts, takes a moment to organize his response. "To be honest, I'm not sure why you should believe me. But what I can say is that I've been truthful, and I have no reason to deceive you. I wouldn't be here if there were any other options."
Galdren interjects, his eyes probing. "When I analyze you I see that you are level zero, yet there's a palpable aura of power about you. It's an oddity we can all sense. You don't seem to be making any effort to control it."
Sinclair meets his gaze squarely. "I found that if I abstained from allocating my stat points, my natural abilities seemed to develop more rapidly but my level never technically raises. As for this 'aura' you're sensing, I'm not consciously projecting it. My family back home hasn't mentioned sensing anything of the sort, so this is news to me."
Sinclair leans back in his chair, having just concluded his explanation about his unconventional approach to hoarding stat points. Nifelda is the first to punctuate the room's quiet, her voice as steady as her gaze. "Analyzing you shows you are at level 0 as previously stated. You also claim to be at level 0 without a skill hiding it. If that's the case, what are your actual stats? We need data points for trust, and an unknown variable like this doesn't facilitate that. Additionally, how have you bypassed the system-assigned skills that most individuals gain every five levels?"
Her questions resonate in the chamber, each elder looking to Sinclair with a mixture of intrigue and skepticism. For Sinclair understands that his responses have implications not just for himself, but potentially for the fate of Svartálfheim as well.
Puzzled, Sinclair addresses her inquiry. "I wasn't aware of any system-assigned skills gained at five-level increments, but that does make sense. My own skills are more... eclectic. Some were granted by the system, some I developed through repeated actions, and some came about, perhaps, by sheer happenstance."
He pauses, quickly glancing at his character sheet on his interface. "As for my stats, I'm not divulging the full details, but my base stats hover around 1000, and I've accumulated roughly 20 skills."
At this revelation, the council chamber erupts into a cacophony of reactions ranging from disbelief to accusations of deceit. One of the elders even stands, labeling him an imposter and a charlatan.
Yliria raises a hand, instantly restoring order with a soft but authoritative voice. "Council members, refrain from hasty judgments. According to the Stone of Veritas, no being of less than a B grade can lie in its presence without immediately divulging the truth. He has not been fully transparent, but he acknowledged that himself by being non-specific."
"Sinclair, you claim that Odin has spoken to you about the Sundering. We've had no word from him since he relocated Midgard. How do you expect us to believe this claim? Is there any tangible proof you can offer?" Yliria presses, her voice tinged with a grim skepticism that can't be entirely masked. "The Stone of Veritas shows you do not outright lie even though you freely admit to withholding some information. Your oath keeps you from initiating violence but here are other ways to start trouble. All that being said I am afraid just those two things are insufficient."
Sinclair glances sideways at Leia. "Any suggestions?" he mutters, including Chewy in his silent query.
Leia considers for a moment. "If you're unwilling to show the Wolf's Visage, one of the most unmistakable tokens of Odin's favor, then I'm at a loss for alternative proofs."
Sinclair grimaces. "I was hoping to avoid revealing that unless absolutely necessary. Perhaps I could secure their oath not to disclose it until I deem it appropriate. I have no desire to be hunted for being unique."
He looks up, noticing the Elders staring at him with an air of bemusement. It occurs to him that his silent consultation with his companions might have looked odd to the council.
"May I propose this: If I disclose something to you, would you reciprocate my trust by swearing an oath not to reveal what you've seen? I prefer to keep a low profile."
The Elders exchange glances, clearly weighing the proposition. Finally, Thralkar, the most senior among them, speaks up. "We can pledge that no one in this chamber will discuss what is revealed, save for conveying the necessary information to our city's leader. Will that arrangement suffice?"
Sinclair exhales deeply, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "Very well," he nods.
The Elders solemnly voice their oath, each locking eyes with Sinclair as if to doubly assure him of their integrity.
"Brace yourselves. What you are about to witness is something your people have not seen in centuries," Sinclair cautions, his voice tinged with a blend of solemnity and reverence. With a deep, centering breath, he triggers the Visage of the Wolf. He felt a little silly like he was being melodramatic, but did secretly enjoy it a little he admitted to himself.
The transformation is both immediate and astonishing. Ethereal power surges through Sinclair, enveloping him in a radiant aura that flickers like a dying flame before settling into his form. His face elongates subtly, taking on lupine qualities; his nose sharpens while his teeth gain an edge of feral keenness. The skin on his face and exposed arms darkens to a deeper shade, evoking the rich hues of a moonlit forest.
As this shift occurs, Sinclair's already broad shoulders broaden further and his entire physique swells in size, each muscle becoming more defined, more potent. The chair beneath him groans and creaks, strained by his augmented weight, yet holding firm—much like the Elders who gaze upon him.
His eyes, a permanent golden yellow, ignite into an even brighter hue, as if fueled by an unseen fire. Streaks of inky black weave through his irises, adding layers of untold depths and hidden power to his gaze.
The room falls into stunned silence, the Elders transfixed by the transformation. It's as if they're witnessing the resurgence of an ancient saga, a myth made flesh, and in this moment, they grasp the gravitas of Sinclair's being. Here stands a testament to a primal might long forgotten but deeply ingrained in the very fabric of their realm.
As if the world had paused for a second time caught back up with everyone in the room. A cacophony of startled exclamations fills the chamber as the Elders gape at Sinclair's altered form. The atmosphere is thick with a sense of raw power that is both mesmerizing and slightly terrifying, vividly confirming Sinclair's claims.
The room falls into an electrifying silence as each Elder processes what they've just witnessed. The air, now heavy with a mixture of respect, awe, and a touch of fear, leaves no room for doubt. Sinclair is indeed a figure of unique significance, one whose very existence could redefine the future of Svartálfheim—and potentially, worlds beyond.
Thralkar rises from his seat, his eyes still wide with awe. "So it is true. Odin has returned, if only in influence. Only he could appoint more Wolf Lords. That wasn't even a class attainable strictly through the system without his divine touch. But why has he not returned here yet?"
Sinclair shrugs slightly, his eyes still holding the remnants of his transformation. "I can't say for sure. Odin and I spoke briefly during my initial trials. He mentioned having to regain his power and that he was working to mend Midgard, which according to him, had suffered greatly."
Thralkar nods thoughtfully, "That does make sense. Moving an entire planet and its surviving population across the fabric of time and space is no small feat. Odin will return when it suits him, I suppose."
Vorekth, another elder, shifts in his seat before speaking. "Given your revelations and your undeniable authenticity, we'll need to report this to our city leader. I'm sure she'll want to confer with you personally."
Sinclair can hardly believe the transformation in the room's atmosphere. He'd hoped that revealing the Visage of the Wolf would garner some level of trust, but he hadn't expected it to be this effective. He deactivates the Visage, his features melting back into their original form.
"I'd be honored to meet with your city leader. While I'm waiting, may I explore your city? It's my first time off my home planet, and we have certain needs that I think could be met here."
Vorekth smiles, "Certainly. We will arrange for a guide to assist you. However, until our City Lord gives her clearance, you'll be accompanied by a small armed escort. I trust you understand the necessity of this precaution, Lord Hagerson."
Sinclair's brows rise at the newfound title. 'Lord Hagerson?' He wonders where that designation originated but keeps the query to himself, acknowledging the honor with a respectful nod. "Understood, and the precautions are reasonable. Thank you."
The Elders rise, their robes shifting with quiet dignity as they prepare to leave the chamber. "We will have a guide and escort sent to you shortly. Please make yourself comfortable and partake of the food we've prepared. It shouldn't be long," Yliria assures him.
Sinclair settles back into his chair and starts sampling the local cuisine laid out before him. As he eats, he engages in a mental dialogue with Leia and Chewy, sharing his curiosity and wonder at the sudden turn of events.
"Who would've thought the Visage of the Wolf would sway them so dramatically?" Sinclair muses internally.
Leia's mental voice is tinged with satisfaction. "It's a sacred skill, tied directly to Odin. It was bound to leave an impression, especially on a council of elders who haven't witnessed it for centuries."
Chewy, ever the pragmatist, adds his own perspective. "Let's not forget we're still foreigners here, no matter how impressed they are. Stay vigilant."
Sinclair nods to himself, savoring the flavors of an unfamiliar dish as he awaits the arrival of his guide and escort. The Svartálfheim adventure had only just begun, and already it was shaping up to be an experience unlike any other.