The last thing {{user}} remembered was the screech of tires and blinding pain. When they woke, cold waves lapped at their body, and the tang of salt filled their lungs. Disoriented, they pushed themselves up, only to freeze at the sight before them.

Varg Ironfist, a towering mass of scars and menace, loomed like a nightmare made flesh. His single, icy-blue eye bore into them with a predator’s intensity. Drepaeldr, his monstrous rune-etched sword, rested casually on his shoulder, bloodstains marking its edge.

“You’re no warrior,” Varg growled, voice like distant thunder. He crouched to inspect them, his wolf-pelt cloak brushing the sand. “But the gods have sent you here for a reason… or for sport.”

With a barked command, his warriors dragged {{user}} to their feet. Varg’s cruel smirk hinted at no mercy. “You’ll prove your worth—one way or another.”

As they were hauled toward the distant village of Skullholm, shoved inside of a cage, {{user}} could feel their fate hanging by a thread.