Chapter Text
Varka was a man past his prime, he knew that well. He knew it in the way wrinkles had formed below his eyes and his smile lines deepened. He knew it in the way the training dummy near the Knights’ headquarters went down in slightly more than an instant now. Most annoyingly, he knew it in the way he had started to hurt everywhere. His back, his knees, his hips. A life of epic battles and more epic expeditions had started catching up with him. He wasn’t weak by any means, but looking down the barrel of the latter half of his life made him sweat.
So he searched for a workaround.
Varka had acquired many souvenirs over the course of his many expeditions, there had to be something stored in his room that would help him out. On a day where he was less busy than usual (or rather, pushed his paperwork onto Jean), he got to searching.
The afternoon sun stretched from long to longer when he had finally found it. Hidden at the back of a junk drawer at the bottom of his dresser, was a small vial full of glowing liquid. Its glass exterior was engraved with the gilded symbol of the Hexenzirkel.
“Aha!” He exclaimed as he sloshed the substance around, remembering just how long he had had this thing for.
He had acquired it many, many years ago. Early in his expedition to the north. He was younger, and his body had not yet felt the effects of his age. He was meeting with Alice.
They sat at a long table in some ethereal empty space made of flowing colors and stars. Tea cups and pots floated around, serving more tea Varka begrudgingly stomached. Alice stared silently from across the table, sipping her own cup. Smiling while her eyes told a different story. They bore right into his soul, like she already knew what he was about to ask.
That time was one where he was very unsure. He was strong, yes, but felt his prime had passed him by at the worst moment. Right before he was to face the fate he saw in Barbeloth’s scryglass head on. His confidence in completing his mission was shaken. Thus his request was one of desperation.
“I need something that will make me as strong as the wolf my title comes from.”
“Really now? You’re that unsure of your abilities?” Alice’s eyes shone with darkness.
“I-I mean… it’s more of a failsafe, really. I know I already have some plan B’s should I die in Nod Krai, but, if I can be weak for a moment, I really would like to return home one day.” A young Varka confessed, head hung low. Alice hummed with thought.
“I see. I shall grant your request.” She said with a giggle. Varka’s eyes widened.
“Really? Just like that? N-No act of heroism I must perform to prove I’m worthy?”
“Oh no, sir Varka,” red magic swirled around Alice’s hand, forming a purple-blue liquid encased in glass. “I already know just what you need…” the vial floated into his palm, glimmering like the night sky.
“Under the light of the moon, drinking this potion will grant you vitality and strength unattainable by humankind. As a last resort.” That was good enough for him.
He never ended up taking it. Somehow that request didn’t cost him his favor, and everything in Nod Krai— The Wild Hunt, the Doctor, and Andrius—all were resolved with his own human strength and the help of some friends. It seemed Alice had seen the future, or rather had more confidence in Varka than he had in himself.
But superhuman strength and vitality? That didn’t sound like such a bad deal now. However, with the potion’s “last resort” condition in mind, a full dose would be inappropriate. Perhaps a single sip would be enough. Like a small boost as opposed to an electric shock to the system.
So Varka made his mind up. He wrote a letter and left it on the desk in his office, letting Jean know he would be out of the city that night, and to find him near Stormterror’s Lair should his assistance be required. Surely she could forgive him for a little nighttime training?
The sky was lilac and pink from the approaching night; the moon was soon to rise and activate the potion. Varka sat on a cliffside overlooking the ancient ruins, the vial laying next to his flask. He had to admit that a ball of anxiety was brewing in his stomach. Alice’s magic was unpredictable as it was miraculous. Everything from the side effects to the taste would be a complete mystery, but Varka was no stranger to taking leaps of faith.
He picked up the vial, swirling the liquid around once more. Uncapping it, he sniffed the potion and recoiled. It was sickeningly sweet and burned his nostrils. He cringed at the thought of ingesting it, but he had his liquor as a chaser. He was a grown man, he could handle icky medicine. After all, it would only be a sip.
The cool rim of the glass rested against his lips. That cloying smell filled his senses. He took in a breath. It would just be like really bad fruit wine, he convinced himself. Without further preamble, he tipped the liquid into his mouth.
He got maybe a quarter of the bottle on his tongue before he dropped it. It clattered on the ground, its contents leaking out and making the grass sizzle. Varka gagged and hacked, trying his best to keep the potion in his mouth despite the horrible burn, worse than the strongest alcohol. It was as sweet as it was it was bitter; truly one of the worst things he had ever tasted. He reached for his flask and downed a few gulps of liquor like it was water in a desert, washing the potion down with it.
Varka leaned back and let the wind go through his hair, breathing through the sizzling and churning in his stomach as the potion settled. When he felt good enough to move without puking, he put the cap back on the potion bottle. He hoped he hadn’t caused the birth of some mega whopperflower by letting it spill, but for now it seemed the only consequences were some very dead grass. The knight took another drink from his flask, chuckling at his own wild reaction. All that was left was for the potion to take effect.
It came sooner than he thought. Maybe a minute since taking the potion, with the moon barely peeking over the horizon, his heart began to race. A newfound energy burst within him like he had been struck by lightning.
The knight stood, wielding his claymores and looking down on the ruin guards roaming cluelessly below. The perfect test subjects.
The ground split beneath Varka as he jumped into the fray. A new fire burned within him— a second wind as it were. He was light and strong all at once. The knight roared as he landed on a ruin guard’s back. His twin blades stabbed in, then sliced through the automaton’s core like a hot knife through butter. Varka flipped off of its corpse to face the other alerted bots.
It was like magic. Varka hadn’t fought this easily in years. Cutting down bots in record time, each swing as fatal as the next. He moved like water through them with not an ounce of pain, replaced by what he could only describe as pure energy thrumming in his veins.
By the end of the slaughter, the grandmaster stood calm in the middle of a whirlwind of scrap metal. He felt not a hint of tiredness. In fact, he could beat twice as many bots as the ones that lay there now. He laughed almost maniacally, probably looking like a madman to any innocent bystanders. But who could blame him? He felt amazing!
He hunted around the ruins like a storm, cutting down automatons and hilichurl camps alike in seconds. Unfortunately, though, enemies seemed to dry up while the high Varka was riding on didn’t stop. He looked up at the moon, shining silver and cool, and he laughed.
“Haha! I know there’s somebody left to challenge me, so why don’t you come on out now?!” The grandmaster’s voice echoed around the lair and then back to him.
For a moment, he thought he really was alone. Then, the trudging steps of a new ruin guard coming up from behind. He turned around, glaring into its empty yellow eye. He readied his claymore and charged. Varka sped past it in the slice of a claymore blade. When he looked back, the guard glitched with disfunction, its top half sliding off.
“Aw, so weak. I think I need a harder challenge- AGH!” the knight cried, falling to his knees as a splitting pain hit his head. He checked himself for injuries, but found none. That didn’t stop the stabbing pain from spreading from his head, to his core, to the tips of his extremities.
Varka writhed, curling in on himself like cooking bacon. But for as badly as he was hurting, he knew he had to get out of here. Although he had beaten many of the enemies one could encounter in Stormterror’s Lair, it still wasn’t the best idea to sit out in the open. The closest safe haven he knew of was a small cave beneath the main ruins. He set out on getting there to ride out the rest of the potion’s effects. Hopefully, Jean would notice he never returned and send some knights to help.
With every ounce of strength and willpower Varka had, he brought himself onto shaky feet, using his claymore for support. Every step was agonizing, he groaned and whined like a dying animal as he walked. He could only cling onto the hope that nothing would attack him, because he was as effective as a sitting duck right now, practically begging to be something’s prey.
With the cave’s entrance in sight and the moon shining down on him, Varka cried out and fell to the ground again. The pain was unbearable. It sank from the surface of his skin to the marrow of his bones, almost as if they were breaking and shifting. He couldn’t move any more.
The knight rolled onto his back, half sure he was going to die here. He began to pray mumbled, unintelligible syllables that were thick and gummy between his gritted teeth. If nothing else, maybe Barbatos could get him home and to the nearest hospital, or at least guide him sweetly into the afterlife. Varka lifted a shaking hand, feeling the breeze, when his eyes widened in horror.
Silhouetted by the moon, was a hand he swore could not be his own. It was large and hairy around the wrists, with long fingers and curled sharp nails splayed out against the light. Varka nearly threw up. This was the hand was not a man’s, but a monster’s. With that realization came another that was far more horrifying:
He was not dying, he was transforming.
Varka didn’t know why or how this was happening from a strength potion of all things. Nevertheless, that adrenaline from earlier came back but for a far more dire reason.
The knight writhed, trying to sit up and finding his clothes uncomfortably tight. He stretched against the resistance, and the fabric of his shirt tore. Looking down, his flesh was rippling and bending beneath his clothes before his very eyes. Varka yelled in horror, scooting backward as if it would save him from his own body.
He held his hands in front of him again, hoping to see that this was all some kind of pain induced hallucination, only to find them both transformed, and it had spread to his forearms, now covered in a thin coat of fur.
All Varka could do was scream and yell into the silent night, for help, for the pain to abate, for an end to the madness. His body contorted painfully; legs stretching, growing torso tearing his clothes apart, a ripping feeling at the base of his spine.
The knight felt his face, and his features were shifting like clay under his touch. Fear gripped his heart like nothing else had before. He tried to scream with everything he had, but the sound that came out was not human.
A howl, loud and mournful rang throughout the northern side of Mondstadt. The wolves in Wolvendom were woken up by it, but did not recognize the call.