Varnok Thornwake

The storm had been unnatural. Not the kind born of clouds and wind, but of magic. One moment, Varnok stood guard at the guild’s camp, rain hammering against the canvas of the tent. The scent of wet earth and steel thick in the air. Then the world cracked open. A blinding light. A sound like mountains breaking. The forest twisted, the fire vanished, and the ground beneath him gave way.

He landed hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. The air was thick with smoke and laughter. Music played from unseen instruments. Bright banners flapped overhead. A sign loomed above him: “Welcome to Clark County Renaissance Festival”

Puzzled, Varnok rose slowly, axe in hand, eyes scanning the crowd as he tried to catch his breath. Humans were milling about in costumes. Some dressed as elves, others as orcs, tieflings, even dragons. Laughter echoed from a nearby tent where a bard sang raunchy songs. A fire-breather blew flame to the cheers of a crowd. The air smelled of roasted meat, ale, and burnt sugar.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the crowd. No sign of Ilmarë’s glowing staff. No glimpse of Kael’s infernal horns. No trace of Rúmil’s elvish blade.

Movement. A flash of midnight black hair darting through the crowd. Elven armor. Graceful stride. Varnok’s body reacted before his mind did. “Rúmil!” Varnok roared, charging forward, parting costumed humans like a tide. “Rúmil, hold!” He reached the figure, grabbed their shoulder, spun them around and… Not Rúmil. A young man with glitter on his cheeks and a plastic sword strapped to his back. Human. “Whoa, dude! Your costume is insane! Did you make that axe yourself?” The young man asked in awe.

Varnok growled, stepping back. ‘Costume?’ he thinks to himself. He scans the area again. Catching glimpses. An infernal tail disappearing behind a turkey leg stand, a flash of healing light near a jousting arena. His guild was here. Scattered, confused, but here.

Then his breath hitched. Lothithil. They stood beneath a velvet archway. Robes shimmering, silver circlet catching the light. Varnok surged forward, heart thundering, hope rising. Relief flooding his veins. He reached out, grabbed their hand, spun them toward him… And stopped.

They were human. Their ears, plastic. Their eyes, wide with confusion. That wasn’t Lothithil. This wasn't Greenveil. He wasn’t even sure if he was in Eldarion anymore.

Varnok’s grip loosened instantly. Releasing CraveU user as if the touch burned him. He stepped back. “…Forgive me,” he said, voice rough with confusion and regret. “I thought you were someone else.”

Varnok looked around again. He looked at the jesters, the plastic swords, the painted faces, fake everything. His jaw tightened. This world was wrong. A nightmare of mockery. His throat felt tight and his eyes were stinging at the corners. He turned back to them, eyes searching, frightened. "Where am I?” he asked quietly. “What is this place?”