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Chapter 1: Desolation
Deep, thick snow cracked beneath Ulvarg’s dragging legs. Mystified horror circled his every breath. It was freezing and dark, worse than any world he ever roamed. There was no sign of life around him, not a single heartbeat aside from his own. With a body aching of intense pain and complaining limbs, Ulvarg was yet once more stuck in a situation where his actions to save others meant nothing, despite the immense effort he underwent. Attentively he searched for his missing lover within the white void of snow. She had to be here somewhere, all of them were sucked into this world when the collapse happened. He was unsure if Anvil, his lover and betrothed would still be healthy after the incidents. There was nothing in his sight, just a long road of snow around him, leveling the ground, neither was there any wind to give comfort to his aged beard.
“Where are you, Andvil!?” He desperately whispered to himself.
The snowy field stretched for miles without an end, in the center of it all, Yggdrasil, the tree of the realms. A large bulky tree almost like a weeping willow, silver-like trunk with a far stretch to each branch. The sky was hollow with the floating-mystic leaves circling this wonder. He hopelessly gazed through the branches of the titanic tree, which held nine branches, splitting through the ever darker heavens above. To have expected the consequences of his actions would cause such a drastic conclusion, were inevitable to the least.
“Andvil!?” He called but felt the pain of his wound still heavy in his chest. To have been betrayed by his own, costed the lives of many. He never had a love for humans or anyone other than himself and his pack. Those who died made a pact, a bond, a friendship with the enemy, a pact made themselves with their blood. Ulvarg could not make peace that he was once the leader too, now turned father. His brother and the snake who whispered ideas into his brothers' ears, would desire one thing from this slaughter and silly treasure hunts, godhood. Thousands of victims laid in woe by the hand of the leader of the ruthless wolf’s brother, known as the Silver-Ulf, Ognar. He was in control of merciless marauders who pillaged and slaughtered whoever they desired, with his second in command being the instigator to each pillage, called Torsten, The Demon Wolf. With one hand he felt the severity of his wound, a deep cut across his stomach. It did not seem to heal as it should, neither did the freezing atmosphere suspend the blood from running endlessly. His body would take a few moments after a fight to mend itself, for some reason the mending process struggled. A deep sigh was all he could give for slight comfort, hoping that it was only temporary and not the curse any longer, followed by a thick cloud of frostbitten breath. His steps struggled to reach Ygdrassil, no matter the length he went in trying.
“This is all your fault…” Ulvarg mumbled as he thought about everything, feeling an intense pain within his chest and coughing a few times.
“How could you have done this…?” Ulvarg furiously spat while grinding his teeth. He removed his hand from the wound and took a moment to breathe. The curse which was set on him when he was but a child, began to take a negative effect, although it did not seem too serious at the moment.
“To think, we would have achieved so much, if you would only listen, now I am stuck inside gods know where… What were you thinking, Brother? Why were you so desperate to find Alfheim when I fell ill?” Ulvarg’s inhuman senses did not fade at least. It was the curse he so desperately tried to lift that aided him in standing up after brutal battles. A curse Fenrir casts on those desperately in search of power, turning all men into bone-crushing demons, lycanthropy, at the cost of something they value dearly. Some abused this ability as a weapon, Ulvarg was just as guilty as the next, shape-shifting at will to desolate those opposing him. He did not embrace that strength however, neither did he ever want to. As punishment for disrupting the sanctuary of the Wolf-God, Ulvarg was set to change when he least desired and lose control of his mind. Those who where unlucky, soon found themselves running midst the bright moon, slaughtered in their wake by the very man who they trust. Something was approaching him in the distance, he closed his eyes slightly to see what was able to camouflage itself in the coated snow, in a place like this, a void of never-ending trails.
“Who is there?!” Ulvarg demanded, feeling unease growing with each crunchy step the being made on the snowy trail. With a moment's notice, he quickly shifted into a battle stance when he noticed that the thing approach did not seem human. His armor was thick with the same bear’s pelt he hunted when he was but a little boy, torn and damaged from the countless battles he faced, the most recent being inside Laufi, the city of immorality and right after on a strange farm where he prevented his brother in killing the one responsible for this catastrophe he is in. It was there where Ulvarg had to challenge his brother and those who despised him. He shook his legs to throw off the piling snow, his leggings made from the toughest bull hide he could find on his journey when traveling with his best friend, Igor, with thick fur boots made from a fox with a wooden sole underneath. He reached for his broken hilt-bent axe sheathed behind his back, which hid behind a thick wooden shield with a banner of a wolf hunting. The blue and red dye on the cracked shield dripped off from the countless nights they traversed in stormy weather. Both items still steamed warmly with the blood of his brothers. Ulvarg tried to convince himself that he did the right thing, feeling no need to apologize to the Gods for breaking a sacred oath, they have done nothing for him in his life. The vague being in the distance came closer.