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Chronicle of the Wolves

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Kveldulf Einarsen, after years of wandering and selling his services as a sell-sword, has returned to his ancestral land to help two of his friends form their own mercenary company. Before they know it, they'll stumble upon the efforts on an ancient enemy bent on finishing a terrible conquest begun centuries before. They'll need to rely on new allies and all their skills in order to save their world from falling into utter destruction. The first few parts will be posted until the first Friday, and then it will have a weekly schedule.

Fantasy / Adventure
5.0 1 review
Age Rating:

The Return

Kveldulf Einarsen tightly gripped one of the main riggings while listening to the fluttering sound of the sails in the cloudless sky. His shoulder length brown hair flowed in the air, his full beard and moustache held back the sharp cold air from his skin. His muscular build conveyed a sense of great strength and noble bearing, even when dressed in his brigandine armor. Looking out over the oceanic kingdom of Sjorvant with crystal blue eyes, he felt a smile come across his face.

The chillness of the water squeezed from the rope fibers slid down his hand and skin as the harbor drew closer. The snow tipped peeks of the Shaladin mountains loomed off in the distance with clouds hovering around the jagged crests as a monarch regal bears a crown. Kveldulf was in awe at the raw earthly beauty of Jorth in her element.

The fresh scent of brine and salt took him back to his days as a child. When his parents traveled all along the Shattered Coast, and the Endless Sea selling their services and singing their sword-songs to those willing to pay during the midst of the Wode Wars. He would listen as they regaled him with their daring exploits and adventures. All the while watching them play out in his mind as he dreamt yearning to join in on such thrilling exploits. Earning glory for themselves and their family that no one could rob them.

His mother would sing odes and sagas of great seafarers and raiders, one of his favorites coming to mind:

Tis woe to the Ancient Marnier,

Who sails the glittering seas.

Gazing upon near distant shores,

Seeking harbors which cannot be.

He remembered as his parents’ swords clanged in the air, mixing with the caws of the seagulls hovered above their vessel. The call of one of the sailors brought back to the present, Kveldulf felt a deep emptiness within him. Slowly letting out a painful sigh, Kveldulf thought of how those halcyon days were wrested from him. Leaving him only with a sense of loss returning he hated to keep, but was unable to release.

Looking upon the city of Tonaslyon in its full glory before him, he felt his breath whisked away. Tall squared buildings of bright pastel hues of red, white, orange, and pink lined the outer wharf. Entrances of the city canals showing arched bridges and smaller boats floating down into the interior of the city. He felt a sensation of pride he looked at this wonderous city with the samite tipped peaks behind them.

His woes melting away, replaced by a sensation of excitement and apprehension. He had returned to the land of his ancestral home. Proud in its ancient finery and resilience from ages of trials and triumphs, holding firm to the tradition of glorious battle, the treasures it brought for this world and the next. The beautiful cultivation of civilization unconquered.

As the boat docked, he eagerly waited to disembark. He slid his left arm through one of the straps of his shield and grabbed a long blade, a zweihander, which stretched for much of his height. He pulled part of the weapon out of its sheath to check it before departing. The blade was a simple design, no etching or design along the length of the sword. Above the cross guard of the hilt was dulled ricasso, running along the space of the blade between the larger guard and a smaller one on the other side, which Kveldulf gripped to check the edge of the sword before sheathing it and slung the weapons over his shoulder.

Stepping onto the soaked wooden docks, Kveldulf spotted an official coming up towards him. The man appeared to be in his forties, short sandy blonde hair, with a trimmed beard, around a head shorter than Kveldulf. He had a warm smile and was humming a cheerful tune. The official held a wooden tablet and an inkwell set in a circular holder and a quill resting inside with both attached to the side. He pulled out a handkerchief to dab his head from sweat as the sun hung over the sky. “I hope our trip was well,” the official said to Kveldulf civilly.

Kveldulf stretched his neck from side to side. “It wasn’t the worst one I’ve experienced. But I’m glad to be on land again.”

The official chuckled. “I know that feeling. I used to sail the tossing waves in my younger years. The sea was my first love, but did she ever have a temper. Often suffering from her thunderous roar.”

“You can say that again,” said Kveldulf nodding agreeably.

“But if this isn’t your first time, then I can assume you know how this works?”

“I should hope so,” replied Kveldulf pleasantly.


“Kel Stigsen,” he said calmly. Kveldulf had given the name enough times he had begun worrying about telling people this when needing to use his real name.

The official jotted the name down quickly. “How long were you out at sea?” he asked.

Kveldulf pondered the response for a moment. “Not long, maybe one to two months.”

The official chuckled. “I’d imagine you’re eager to be back onto dry land again.”

“It is nice when your immediate surroundings don’t have a penchant for trying to drown you.”

The official laughed harder. “That certainly can be a bit of a problem when you’re out there, yes?”

“I’m starting to think the sea and I should have a strictly professional relationship.”

The official began wheezing as he finished scribbling on the parchment. Taking a form in hand, he held out a slip of paper in his hand towards Kveldulf. “That should take care of everything here. Do you have any questions before heading out?”

Kveldulf felt his stomach becoming peckish as he thought of the matter. “Have any recommendations for an inn?” he asked the official.

The official rolled his eyes slowly in thought. “I know The Bristled Boar is close, and pretty good, especially if mead and swine is to your liking.”

“Works for me,” said Kveldulf.

The official lifted his arm towards the end of the peer and bent his hand to their right. “Follow the docks down and make your way up there, you can’t miss it.”

Kveldulf nodded warmly. “Much obliged,” he said to the official as he lugged his affects over his shoulder and took his leave.

Moving down the pier, Kveldulf listened to the squawks of seagulls as they soared above him, occasionally swerving to avoid the dock workers moved goods and people on and off the many vessels dotting the port. Looking down he saw the moisture saturating the wood seep out as the grain as he pressed his feet down. A strong whiff of the ocean scent mixed with whatever lived underneath the wharf.

As he made his way down the marina, he noticed a tall statue. Hewed from fine marble, it was fashioned into the shape of a woman, clad in armor, a long sword in one hand and a severed head of a demonic entity in the other. Beneath her feet she stood upon the fallen corpse of a man clad in armor, the markings of a white horse on his surcoat. Kveldulf read the plaque underneath, stating: “To the brave and noble Queen Allianna, who rallied the free peoples of the realm against the tyrannical Wraith King, Callanband, and the wicked and cruel traitor, Baeron Grimkellsen.”

Looking at the statue, he felt both admiration and shame. A deep pain in his soul as his mind tried to put away dark thoughts brimming within. He began wondering if coming here was such a good idea after all. He felt the compulsion to turn away his gaze from the memorial. A thickening sensation in his throat as he tried to clear his thoughts. Looking back up at the woman holding the severed head, his heart beat quickened as his muscles tensed. Taking a deep breath and recited a mantra he used to calm himself.

A noble man must be silent,

His fire fueled heart tempered.

Show not what trivial slights offend,

For tis the fool who speaks his woes to all.

Kveldulf felt his pulse and breathing slow down, he looked back to the stone effigy of the three. Feeling hollow and wanting distance himself from ill thoughts he moved off the wharf and onto the city street. After walking a short distance, he saw a wooden hanging sign of a boar with its hair standing up on their ends. The smell of roasted meat and mead touched his nose and made his mouth water.

Pushing the swinging tavern doors inward Kveldulf’s eyes adjusted to the darkened interior, softly lit by the candles placed on the multiple tables inside. To his right, Kveldulf found a server cleaning a metal flagon with a well-worn rag, stretching her neck from side to side before she placed the piece on a shelf underneath the counter.

He rested his zweihander against the counter railing on his right and his satchel his left. A server came up to him, wiping the sweat from her brow. “What can I get for ya?” she asked, letting out a sharp exhale at the end.

“Whatever is on the spit is fine and some mead would do wonders,” replied Kel.

The woman nodded, “I think it’s boar, been roasting for a bit.”

“I hope he wasn’t bored of waiting,” said Kveldulf, letting a short chuckle.

The woman paused for a moment to ponder the statement before looking back at Kveldulf, lifting a finger to him, and smiling. “Oh, I see what you did there. Nice, very nice.”

“Gotta have some fun when you’re new in town.”

“Better than how some people get their kicks.”

“That’s fair.”

As the woman placed the flagon of mead on the counter, and pushed it towards Kel’s direction, a loud crack of wood splitting deafened out all other sounds. A large man screamed as he plummeted onto a table, breaking it into several pieces. Kveldulf and the woman looked up to find someone emerging from the hallway above.

Kveldulf saw a woman wearing a gambeson, soft white now long sullied with years of being on the march. A buckler gripped in her right hand, the emblem of frosty mountain, dented and splattered with blood. Black hair tied into a short ponytail, with strands hanging over her brow. Her tanned skin gleaning with sweat, dirt and scratches from the recent fight. A fire burned brightly in her green eyes as she cast her gaze on the audience below as she snarled, shouting, “Who else wants some?”

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