The Volundr’s path

Xeric's journey begins

Xeric's Daydream – A Future Beyond the Wilds

Xelric sat at his workbench, absentmindedly turning a wrench in his fingers, his mind elsewhere.

The shop was quiet, save for the distant hum of the forge and the occasional creak of old machinery. But in his mind, he wasn’t here.

He was inside the city.

Not the outskirts. Not some back-alley workshop where scavenged parts held machines together with hope and rust.

The Guild.

The beating heart of Volundr craftsmanship.

He imagined walking through its doors, his recommendations in hand, finally being one of them. No more scraping by, no more chasing work from passing caravans.

Inside the city, he’d be safe.

From the war. From the Hierarchy.

From the Landrid.

His fingers tightened around the wrench at the thought.

The Landrid.

That was his worst fear. Not the mercenaries that wandered the outskirts, not even the Hierarchy’s enforcers.

The wild.

Where men disappeared, where the Landrid ruled the dark.

Where people like him were hunted.

He had heard the stories.

And no matter how skilled he became, no matter how many weapons he forged or armor he reforged—

Nothing stopped them.

That was why he had to make it.

He had to reach the Guild. The city.

Lara: (tilts her head, watching him)

“What are you thinking about?”

Xelric: (absentmindedly staring into the distance)

“Nothing. Just the city again.”

Lara: (groans, stretching her arms)

“Ugh, what is it with you and that place? It stinks, the people are awful… Give me open air and an honest fight any day.”

Xelric: (quietly, almost to himself)

“It’s safer.”

Lara: (snorts)

“Yeah? Try telling that to the thug you fried last night.”

Xelric: (sharp glare)

“Shut up. Bronx can’t find out about that.”

Lara: (leans in, smirking, but her voice lowers slightly)

“You don’t mean safe from the gangs, do you?”

Xelric: (hesitates, then exhales)

“The Landrid aren’t what people think. Everyone calls them animals—but they’re not.” (his voice drops, almost a whisper) “They’re worse.”

“So what’s stopping you, then? You’re a better smith than anyone I know—and you’re a Volundr.”

Xelric: (exhales, setting down his tools)

“It’s not that simple. You need a recommendation from a Volundr or a Voldragoon. And from a guild member. Both have to have firsthand experience with your work.”

(Edric enters the shop, his armor gleaming under the dim forge light. He steps forward, tossing a few coins onto the counter—then pauses, his gaze settling on Xelric.)

Edric: (gruffly)

“Listen, kid. I never asked for these upgrades.”

(He hesitates, then his voice softens, sincerity cutting through his usual rough exterior.)

Edric: “But you saved my life.”

Xelric: I just gave you what I thought you would need

Xelric: (shrugs, keeping his eyes on the forge)

Lara: (smirks, nudging Edric with her elbow)

“Well, if you’re so grateful, handsome, you could write him a recommendation for the guild.” (leans in, teasing) “I mean, you’ve had firsthand experience with his skills, haven’t you?”

(Edric glances at Xelric, then at his armor—perfectly fitted, expertly reinforced. His fingers tighten around the edge of his gauntlet, considering.)

Bronx’s gift

Xelric stuffed the last of his tools into his worn-out bag, pausing only to glance around the shop one final time. He had already told Bronx he was leaving—but he hadn’t had the heart to say it outright.

Bronx: (grunting, arms crossed)

“If the kid wants to go, let him go. Spoiled brat.”

Lara: (leaning against the counter, unimpressed)

“Oh, shut up. He didn’t want to ask you, but he needs one more recommendation. And you’d better give it to him, you blockhead.”

Bronx: (grumbles, rubbing his chin)

“Tch. It’s not good enough that I saved his life—now I gotta compete with that damn savant?”

Lara: (smirking, tapping the counter)

“Think about it this way—once he puts half the high-end shops out of business, there’s only gonna be one place left to get the cheap stuff.”

(Bronx blinks. A slow realization dawns. In his mind, he sees visions of himself, standing in his cluttered little shop—massive sacks of gold coins stacked around him, his arms struggling to carry them all. Customers lining up outside, desperate for his wares.)

Bronx: (pausing, then grins to himself)

”…Damn kid.”

(He turns, grabbing a sheet of parchment and a pen.)

Xelric hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, giving the forge one last glance. It had been home for years, but now it was time to move on.

Bronx hadn’t said much, and Xelric hadn’t expected him to. The old smith wasn’t the sentimental type.

But then—Bronx moved.

The gruff old man shuffled over to a dusty old crate in the corner of the shop, muttering under his breath as he pried it open. Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, was something metallic. At first, it seemed like just another old tool. Then, with careful hands, Bronx unwrapped it—revealing a single crafting gauntlet, its surface embedded with intricate runes, its inner mechanisms humming with dormant energy.

The tool was unlike anything Xelric had ever seen. The gauntlet was designed for precision, yet its reinforced plating and modular framework made it clear—it wasn’t just a smith’s tool. It was an extension of its user, a fusion of craftsmanship and combat, built to manipulate Volnyte-infused materials with ease.

Xelric gawked at the shining Piece of craftsmanship.

Bronx sighed, holding the gauntlet for a moment, running his calloused fingers over the engravings.

“Didn’t have a son to pass it down to.” His voice was gruff, but quieter than usual. “And I ain’t gonna start now. But I figure… in the hands of someone with your skill, it’d mean something.”

He shoved it toward Xelric, avoiding eye contact.

“Take it before I change my mind, brat.”

Xelric swallowed hard, taking the gauntlet with careful hands. The metal was warm, almost alive beneath his fingers. As he flexed his hand inside it, the mechanisms adjusted, syncing with his touch. It wasn’t just a tool—it was a legacy.

For once, he didn’t know what to say.

Xelric stared down at the gauntlet on his hand, its gold surface glinting in the dim forge light. He traced a finger over the intricate runes, feeling their depth, their weight—not just in metal, but in meaning. His hand slid into the gauntlet. The metal was warm, almost alive beneath his fingers. As he flexed his hand, the mechanisms shifted, adjusting seamlessly to his grip.

Before he could find the right words, Bronx grunted and shoved a folded piece of parchment into his chest.

​Bronx: (gruffly) “Here. I wrote your second recommendation. You can go straight to the guild now.”

​Xelric’s eyes widened. He unfolded the paper, scanning the rough, no-nonsense handwriting. It was real. A path—one he’d fought for, one he’ earned—was finally open to him. He swallowed hard, clenching his gauntleted fist.

​Xelric: (quietly, sincere) “I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

​Bronx snorted, crossing his arms.

​Bronx: (grumbling) “Just stay away from the salvage business!”

​Xelric blinked—then smirked.

​Xelric: “No promises.”

Bronx groaned, muttering something under his breath, but there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Xelric adjusted his bag, flexing his gauntlet one last time before setting off.

It was time to go.

The Guild

Guildmaster Varim: (leaning back in his chair, swirling a glass of wine)

“Xelric Tane. Another damn outsider trying to climb where he doesn’t belong.”

Guild Treasurer Malkin: (snorting, flipping through a ledger)

“His work is too good. If we let him in, it won’t be long before he’s taking contracts from our own masters.”

Guild Secretary Halst: (flatly, adjusting his spectacles)

“We should reject him outright.”

Guildmaster Varim: (raising an eyebrow, amused)

“A Volundr? Denied entry? You want the Regis knocking on our door?” (chuckles, shaking his head) “No, no. We have to be reasonable about this.”

Guild Quartermaster Dravik: (grinning, leaning back in his chair)

“Journeyman status, then. That keeps him under our thumb. No access to the higher commissions. No workshops. No apprentices. Just labor.”

(A brief pause. Then, soft chuckles spread through the room.)

Guild Treasurer Malkin: (mock surprise, signing off on a report)

“And where shall we assign our promising young talent?”

Guild Quartermaster Dravik: (flipping through dispatch orders, smirking)

“Ah. Here’s something fitting—caravan duty. Heavy risk, low reward. And wouldn’t you know it? There’s an urgent request for a run through the Accord lands.”

Guild Secretary Halst: (smiling knowingly)

“The ones crawling with raiders and mercenaries?”

Guild Quartermaster Dravik: (grinning)

“The very same.”

(Silence. Then—laughter. Low at first, then growing into full amusement, the kind only the rich and secure can afford.)

Guildmaster Varim: (smirking, raising his glass)

“A fair chance for the boy. If he makes something of himself, well… we’ll discuss his future later.”

Guild Treasurer Malkin: (grinning as he signs the final order)

“And if he doesn’t… well. That’s business.”

(More laughter. The sound echoes through the chamber as the decision is sealed, Xelric’s fate written before he even steps foot in the Guild.)

Xelric entered the great forge of the Guild Hall in Hecthalla, his breath catching in his throat. The air was thick with the scent of heated metal, a fusion of scorched iron and burning coal that clung to his skin. The rhythmic clang of hammers striking anvils resonated through the vast hall, a symphony of creation that pulsed like a living heartbeat.

Xelric arrived at the Admission Hall and looked up at an old man who seemed to be a hundred years old. Squinting down at him, the old man suddenly yelled, “Ticket!” Xelric reached into his pocket and retrieved the ticket he had received from the kiosk.

Guild Administrator: “Xelric! Journeyman, assigned to the caravan—next!”

Xelric: “Wait—hang on! Journeyman? No, no, no, I applied for an apprenticeship!”

(A beat of silence, then realization hits.)

Xelric: “Wait… did you say the caravan?!”

Xelric: “I’m sorry, but I’m supposed to go to the academy.”

Guild Administrator: (groans, tapping on his tablet screen) “Let’s see… looks like, based on your recommendations and experience level, you were granted a Journeyman-level appointment. Just five years, and you’ll be a Master—congrats.”

Xelric: “No, no—thanks, but no thanks. I’m going to the academy.”

Guild Administrator: (shrugs) “All assignments are final. If you don’t want it, it’s forfeit—but you can’t apply for another for two years.” (leans forward, voice flat) “Next!”

Xelric felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His dream was right in front of him, but to take it, he’d have to face his worst nightmare.

Dain the wrestler

Dain’s Mission

Dain had seen dozens of dead worlds like Vash’Theris—war-torn wastelands, their skies thick with ash, their cities nothing but bones. The same war, the same endless cycle between the Thool’Varen and the Hierarchy.

But this time, things were different.

This time, he had a head start.

For once, he was ahead of them.

His destination? Vesh’Veluun. A place where the past hadn’t been bombed into oblivion. A place that held something worth more than ruins and bloodstained battlefields.

If luck was on his side, he’d make it before the scouts did. Hi

It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that the fate of humanity itself could hinge on his mission.

He had to move fast.

Every second counted.

The survival of entire worlds could be decided by what he found at his destination.

And he’d be damned if he let anyone else claim the recipe for Mrs. Tan’s famous cornbread before he did.

Dain vs. the Thool’Varen Wrestler

(Inside a bustling tavern, the crowd watches as Dain and a massive Thool’Varen wrestler prepare to square off.)

Thool’Varen Wrestler: (laughs, pointing at Dain)

“This one is so skinny! No wonder—he’s too slow to catch food!”

Dain: (grabbing his nose, mockingly gagging)

“That’s because I keep hunting down wind from you! That smell coming off you scares all the game away!”

(The crowd erupts in laughter as the Thool’Varen snorts in frustration.)

Thool’Varen Wrestler: (beats his chest, towering over Dain)

“You are too weak and feeble to fight me! My strength is legendary!”

Dain: (cracking his knuckles, smirking)

“After today, when you’ve been bested by an old man, I think not.”

(The Thool’Varen lets out a guttural growl and suddenly flips a nearby table, sending plates and mugs flying.)

Thool’Varen Wrestler: (grinning, voice booming)

“When they write the songs of my victory today, I will be sure your name is not even mentioned!”

Dain: (raising an eyebrow)

“Wait… you can read?”

(The tavern explodes with laughter as the Thool’Varen’s face turns red with rage. Letting out a primal scream, he launches a barrage of open palm strikes.)

Dain: (gracefully dodging, weaving between the blows with ease)

“And you called me slow? Come on, I’m an old man, remember?”

(The Thool’Varen clenches his fists and raises them high.)

Thool’Varen Wrestler: (roaring)

“I’LL CRUSH YOUUU!”

(With a massive swing, he brings both fists crashing down—but Dain is already gone. In a blur, he dashes between the giant’s legs, grabs him around the waist, and with a swift, unexpected motion, he slams the massive Thool’Varen hard into the ground.)

(For a moment, silence.)

Thool’Varen Wrestler: (groaning from the floor, eyes blazing with fury)

“Now you’re dead, fool!”

(He draws his blade, but before he can get up, Dain waves his hands dramatically, pretending to strain. A nearby jug, influenced by the lightest touch of Volundr magic, wobbles off a shelf and smacks the Thool’Varen square in the head.)

(The entire tavern bursts into laughter.)

Crowd: (howling, clutching their sides)

“You fool! You can’t even land a single strike on an old man! How embarrassing!”

(The Thool’Varen grumbles, rubbing his head, and finally throws his sword aside with a sigh.)

Thool’Varen Wrestler: (grumbling)

“You win today, old man.”

After the Fight

(As the laughter dies down, Mrs. Tan, the tavern owner, leans on the counter with a smirk, arms crossed.)

Mrs. Tan: (narrowing her eyes at Dain)

“I think you cheated.”

Dain: (grinning, raising his hands innocently)

“You watched the whole thing! I won fair and square!”

Mrs. Tan: (chuckling, shaking her head)

“You know those idiots too well. You knew he’d quit if you made a fool of him.”

Dain: (shrugging)

“You could’ve picked one of your human wrestlers.”

Mrs. Tan: (snorting)

“Yeah, right. Like any of those chumps would stand a chance.”

(She reaches under the counter, pulling out a handwritten recipe and sliding it toward Dain.)

Mrs. Tan: (grinning)

“I better not catch you selling this to any of my competition.”

Dain: (snatching the paper, tucking it into his coat)

“Wouldn’t dream of it! This is the only edible thing in this whole dump. If you went out of business, where the hell would I eat when I’m here?”

(He gives her a mock bow.)

“Now hand it over, you old hag!”

(Mrs. Tan throws a ladle at his head. Dain ducks, laughing, as the tavern erupts in cheers.)