Progenitor's Burden

Sinclair pressed forward, fueled by determination. The wolves' swift and silent approach through the grass was a sight to behold, their agility and speed unmatched. Although he couldn't rival their pace, Sinclair's focus remained unshaken as he closed the distance to the fray.

The raiders, preoccupied with their frontal assault against Bjorn and his men, were oblivious to the impending danger behind them. As Sinclair neared the battlefield, the wolves pounced on the unsuspecting archers, creating chaos in the enemy's rearmost ranks. Each wolf moved with lethal precision, incapacitating one archer after another in a methodical and ruthless manner. Hamstrings were sliced, necks targeted, arms maimed - the raiders stood no chance against the ferocious onslaught.

This was more than just a battle for Sinclair and his companions; it was a statement, a declaration of their strength and resilience. As the wolves wreaked havoc, Sinclair knew his moment to strike was near. The plan was in motion, and soon he would join the melee, bringing his own brand of devastation to the fight. The element of surprise was theirs; now it was time to capitalize on it.

The tactical maneuver unfolded with precision, as Sinclair and his wolves plunged into the fray at the perfect moment. Their timing was impeccable, exploiting the shift in the raiders' focus towards the rear. With the raiders' army effectively bisected, Sinclair's pack lunged into the divide, their ferocious assault slicing through the enemy lines.

Sinclair signaled his wolves to veer right, converging with their counterparts. This move trapped the raiders' lightly armored ranged fighters, and those who had been skulking at the back. The raiders, caught off guard, scrambled in disarray as the wolves, naturally coordinated and ferocious, tore into them.

The battlefield, chaos just moments ago, now echoed with the coordinated efforts of Sinclair and his loyal companions. Their united front was like a well-oiled machine, systematically dismantling the enemy's formation and seizing control of the situation.

Sinclair pivoted sharply to the left and drew both of his hatchets. He infused them with a surge of magical energy, priming them for his devastating Cleave. As the hatchets hummed with power, he locked his eyes on the nearest cluster of warriors.

These raiders, unprepared, were about to face the full wrath of his assault. With a fluid, practiced motion, Sinclair unleashed the charged Cleaves simultaneously, directing the formidable attack at the back of the unsuspecting group.

The hatchets sliced through the air, their blades tracing a deadly horizontal arc. Sinclair stepped forward, channeling every ounce of his strength into the strike. The unsuspecting raiders, merely level 8, and ill-equipped to handle such ferocity, stood no chance. The hatchets cleaved through their defenses effortlessly, felling the first five adversaries in one swift, lethal swing.

Sinclair, propelled by the adrenaline coursing through him, moved with lethal precision. His exceptional strength and speed allowed him to take down adversaries before they could even turn to face him. With each swing of his hatchets, raiders fell, creating a small cleared zone around him.

The sounds of battle echoed from where Bjorn and his group were positioned, adding to the symphony of chaos. The clanging of steel and the cries of combatants melded into a cacophony that fueled Sinclair's resolve.

He knew that for his plan to be successful, Torvaldr and his forces would be crucial. Their participation would be the final, critical piece in the intricate puzzle he had laid out. As he felled another raider, Sinclair's senses remained alert, waiting for the telltale signs of Torvaldr's arrival.

Sinclair's optimism soon began to wane as the resistance intensified the deeper he penetrated the raider lines. He was now four rows in, and the reality of the situation was setting in. His progress, initially swift and unchallenged, was slowing, the raiders' stronger members forming a more formidable barrier.

He felt a sting of pain – he'd been stabbed twice. While the wounds weren't critical, they were a clear sign that he needed to adjust his strategy. The fight was getting tougher, and he couldn't afford to be bogged down or, worse, encircled.

Sinclair's health had dropped by 25%, and his stamina was depleting even more rapidly, down by 35%. His mana reserves, however, remained robust. Adapting to the changing dynamics of the battlefield, Sinclair began to infuse his right hatchet with mana, using it to unleash powerful Cleaves, while his left hatchet took on a defensive role.

The tactical shift allowed him to carve a path toward the divide created by his wolves. There, he hoped to find some respite and support. He had no clear idea how many raiders had fallen by his hand, but one thing was clear—the fight was far from over.

Meanwhile, Bjorn's group held their ground admirably. Formed into a tight turtle-like formation, they repelled oncoming assaults with disciplined spear thrusts. From Sinclair's perspective, even amidst the chaos and clashing of steel, he could see no fallen comrades; it was a testament to their skill and tenacity.

With his focus now split between offense and defense, Sinclair pushed on, determined to reach the relative safety of his allies' lines. The battle was intense, demanding every bit of his prowess and strategic thinking.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Sinclair moved with lethal efficiency, his strategy seamlessly intertwining with the wolves' ferocity. Every step he took was calculated, his eyes scanning for the next target in the melee. As he called upon the Call of the Hunt, the wolves, now in perfect sync with his movements, formed an impregnable circle around him.

The battlefield formed a symphony of violence, with Sinclair and the wolves the deadly dancers. Each time a wolf lunged, causing an enemy to falter, Sinclair was there to deliver the fatal blow.

The sound of hooves thundering across the battlefield signaled the—literal—arrival of the cavalry. Two dozen mounted riders emerged from the pass, their spears gleaming in the sunlight as they struck at the raiders' rear guard. The allied reinforcements surged forward, bringing renewed vigor to the fight.

In the midst of the raiders, Skagnar stood out, a figure of rage and desperation. His commands were drowned out by the din of battle, his once-formidable presence now barely a focal point within the chaos. As he raved and ranted, foam flecking his mouth, he was the epitome of a foe who had lost control, a rabid dog amidst the ruin of his plans. The endgame was approaching, and Sinclair knew that the time to end this battle and bring peace back to the land was now.

The battlefield resonated with the thunderous charge of Torvaldr's riders, their spears poised with deadly intent. Each thrust delivered a fatal blow, their momentum carrying them through the dwindling ranks of the raiders. The once-formidable force that Skagnar had commanded was now reduced to a desperate few, numbers rapidly diminishing under the relentless assault.

Sinclair, emboldened by the tide turning in their favor, plunged back into the heart of the conflict. The adrenaline coursing through his veins banished any lingering fear, replacing it with a fierce exhilaration. With each fallen enemy, Skagnar's aura of command faded further into desperation.

Skagnar, consumed by rage and despair, fixated on Sinclair. In a reckless, frenzied charge, he bulldozed through the melee, throwing friend and foe alike aside in a single-minded pursuit of vengeance. The charge was relentless, powered by a skill that seemed to grant him unstoppable momentum.

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Sinclair readied himself for the inevitable clash, the culmination of the battle. The fighting around them seemed to blur into the background, the noise fading as the two warriors locked eyes. With a calm resolve, Sinclair steadied his grip on his weapons and prepared to face Skagnar's fury head-on. The final showdown was at hand, and Sinclair was determined to end this once and for all.

Sinclair stopped his press forward and quickly spoke to the wolves, "Spread out and don't let us be interrupted. It is time for me to make good on my promise to the Pack." The wolves immediately started pressing bodies back. Friendlies moved quickly to finish off the remaining raiders while Torvaldr's men circled around to watch from the back of their horses.

"You did this! I don't know who you are, or how you knew, but I will kill you for your interference!" the panting and out of breath Skagnar bellowed at Sinclair.

Reduced to a wild, frenzied state, Skagnar charged at Sinclair with reckless abandon. His movements, although powerful, were uncoordinated and driven purely by rage. Sinclair remained cool and collected, effortlessly dodging the predictable attacks.

"Nice to meet you too, Skagnar," Sinclair taunted, unable to resist poking fun at the almost cartoonish villainy of his adversary. "You really should have left the forest alone. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to poke the wolves? They have a nasty habit of biting back. Oh, and just so you know, once I'm done with you, I'm claiming your lands and giving them away. For free."

Skagnar's blind fury, boosted by Sinclair's words, made him an easy target. The latter expertly parried a wildly telegraphed horizontal slash from the former, then counterattacked with a swift and precise strike. His hatchet, aimed with surgical precision, sliced through Skagnar's tricep, rendering his arm useless.

Skagnar, driven by fury and now also pain, let out a string of unintelligible curses, what little rationality he had left now completely abandoned. Dropping his cumbersome ax, he drew a smaller hatchet, the Jarl lunged back into the fray with a suicidal disregard for his own well-being. It was the last stand of a desperate man. Sinclair prepared himself for the final blow, his hatchet raised to disarm Skagnar once and for all, poised to bring an end to this brutal conflict.

Stepping to the side, Sinclair blocked the wild swing and shoved Skagnar back and to the ground. Skagnar fell to one knee in the mud yelling and spitting impotently at everyone in sight. From one knee he lunged up at Sinclair again, determined to leave even the smallest of marks in his desperation. Sinclair (who was, funnily enough, not fond of being cut open by a mad man) spun to the side and brought his ax down with all of his might. It came down on the extended arm and severed it at the elbow. Sinclair continued his swing, spun the ax in a circle around his head, and buried it deeply in Jarl Skagnar's collarbone, half-severing his head. Gazing disgustedly at the corpse, Sinclair spat on the remains of the wicked man.

As one, the wolves all leaned back and howled, giving witness to the deeds. The promise had been fulfilled and the forest was now safe, once again. Sinclair stood still as the howl washed over him and felt it in his bones. The timbre of the howls washed over him. And so, in unison, Sinclair howled as well, for nothing else would have been right.

Gradually, the wolves faded into the distance. The deal was complete, the promise kept. Now was the time for returning home to lick wounds and enjoy their reasserted freedom.

As Sinclair turned back towards his human forces, a tall, mounted man—clearly Jarl Torvaldr—came over, pulling his helmet off and hanging it from his saddle.

"I must admit to feeling some skepticism at the message relayed to me through our messenger. A man—a thrice-named hero, no less—would bring aid through a forest no-one has dared to enter in decades. And all I had to do was be ready, and hit Skagnar's men from behind? It seemed preposterous, and yet, it is what occurred."

Tired and covered in blood (and, let's be honest, probably smelling like he'd been rolling in pigshit), Sinclair introduced himself.

"Well met, Jarl Torvaldr. I am Sinclair Hagerson. You are correct that I have helped Jarl Hrondir before. The last time, it was to help with a Draugr problem. This time, it was to escort his people. I see now why the gods sent me: Skagnar here clearly had evil intentions. As to the forest? I am blessed with the ability to call wolves and speak to them, so I entered the forest and gathered allies from the pack. The price for their assistance was killing, or at least stopping, Skagnar, who had been destroying their forest."

Jarl Torvaldr's eyebrows had crept so far up his forehead, they risked joining his hairline. "I—I... see. Well then, it looks like it is time to clean up. Let us move the raiders and burn them near the tree line. Our own dead will return with us, for full rites."

Sinclair looked around, surprised how few had died on his side. Only two of Bjorn's people lay on the ground, and they were being attended to by their comrades, so they clearly were still alive. It did, in fact, look like there were no dead amongst Bjorn's men at all.

Looking around, Sinclair found Chewy and Leia sitting off to the side of Bjorn's people, lying down. They both had blood around their muzzles, so it looked like they had found a way to help after all. Analyzing them he found they had both come up a few levels.

Name: Chewy

Race: Direwolf

Level: 6

Health: 190/190

Name: Leia

Race: Direwolf

Level: 6

Health: 120/120

Mana: 100/100

Well, the rest of my notifications had better wait for later. I've got other things to do now. Sinclair had responsibilities to his own dead: three fallen wolves. Getting the help of some of Bjorn's men, he built a pyre at the forest edge. It was, to him, an important part of his responsibilities to personally lay the wolves down, and to light the pyre himself. The largest of the wolves—the ones who had led the run—waited at the edge of the trees watching him carry out the rites. When all was over, they turned and raced off into the forest, followed by the flickers of the dancing firelight.

Sinclair returned to the group to find them dividing up the loot. Apparently one of the men had a similar looting ability to his, and had already used it to gather up and distribute everything, with a pile off to the side ready for Sinclair to collect. Shrugging, and deciding to sort through it later, Sinclair walked up to the pile and willed it all into his storage.

He then walked back over to Bjorn and Torvaldr and joined in their discussion.

Bjorn spoke first. "I have sent some men back to fetch the caravan. I believe you sent some of your men too? Thank you."

Jarl Torvaldr responded positively "It was not a problem. Hah! If there had been a problem, indeed I am sure that our young hero could have figured it out."

Of Sinclair's many flaws, one of the most frustrating was a difficulty accepting praise, and it reared its head now. "I am, er, just doing what needs doing. I am only glad I could be of assistance. Umm. I am looking forward to the gods sending me home though. After this? Er, to rest, I mean?"

Both men looked at him with humor in their eyes. It was not unusual for the young to struggle with praise as much as they did criticism.

Bjorn grinned at Sinclair. "I almost envy you and your path, my friend. I am too old to walk it with you, but in another life I would. From what I can tell, you are doing a great job. You would make your ancestors proud."

Even with full health, stamina and mana pools, Sinclair was beyond exhausted. "Your words humble me. Thank you. If there is nothing else, I need to return to my world now."

Jarl Torvaldr held up a hand briefly to signal Sinclair to stay, "Wait. Since you killed Skagnar, his lands are now yours. What would you have done with them?"

"I cannot stay, so it is up to you. If you want you can sell them off, or keep them and run them yourselves. I must only demand that the encroachment upon the forest's boundaries stop, immediately and permanently. The wolves there will be left alone, on pain of my return."

Looking over at the edge of the wood line speculatively, Jarl Torvaldr nodded, "We can do that. But, I wish you to have another reward. This has been in our family for a long time and has some magic, although none of our people have the power to use it. Perhaps it will be of some benefit to you."

New Item: Mithril Ring of the Wolf (Epic)

Description: This ring was once worn by the Wolf Lords of the Great Northern Forest. They ruled this land along with their Direwolf companions for centuries, until the Cataclysm tore the power from the land.

Effects:

Grants the ability Pack Link which allows you to communicate with Direwolves.

+10 Agility

+8 Willpower

As Sinclair slipped the ring on, his agility hit the all-important threshold of 50 and he felt the change immediately: longer muscles, increased speed, more flexibility. However, it wasn't the surge he'd gotten from hitting 50 in his first stat. I can't wait to get back and hit the track though, I'm gonna fly like superman!

Sinclair bowed his head to the two men in gratitude. "Thank you. I can definitely use this. If the past has any bearing on the future, I have no doubt that I will see you again. Fare thee well, and take care of yourselves."

There was a flash of light, and Sinclair was gone.