Soaring through the air for the second time, Sinclair couldn't help but ruefully consider the possibility that maybe—just maybe—he should refrain from taunting his adversaries in the future. The sensation of being tossed around like a rag doll was a humbling and somewhat unfair experience, highlighting the daunting level of challenge he faced in fighting with the mighty Jarl Fulvragg.

The unexpected flight—and subsequent landing—afforded Sinclair a few precious seconds to regain his bearings. As he struggled to orient himself, he realized with a sinking feeling that Jarl Fulvragg was almost certainly just toying with him. And yet, when Sinclair's gaze followed the Jarl's to the cave entrance, a surge of protective fury once more washed over him. The pulsating heat in his chest, now more intense than ever, mirrored his rising anger.

In a swift motion, Sinclair retrieved a javelin from his storage and hurled it with all his might at the giant. The javelin whipped through the air with such velocity that it emitted a sharp whistling sound, the air itself seeming to protest its furious passage. The javelin struck with deadly accuracy, pierced the Jarl's shoulder, continued its trajectory through the upper chest, and exited with a violent eruption from the Ice Giant's back.

The Jarl's reaction was instantaneous as a roar blending pain with shock ripped through the air. As he whipped around to face Sinclair, his eyes blazed with a lethal intensity. The look was unmistakable: it was the promise of retribution, the kind of wrath reserved for those who have inflicted deep—often psychological—wounds.

Well, I've achieved part of my goal at least. The Jarl's attention was now solely on him, pulled away from the vulnerable cave. It was crucial to keep the Jarl engaged in this fight, to prevent him from reaching the weaker inhabitants hiding within the cave. Every moment of distraction could mean the difference between life and death for those he sought to protect.

Sinclair, determined to create a tactical advantage, launched another javelin with a swift motion. This time, his effort was in vain as the Jarl easily swatted it out of the air. Battered and bruised from being tossed around like a plaything, Sinclair acknowledged the grim reality: he had only managed to whittle away about 1,000 hit points from the Giant so far.

With his options dwindling, Sinclair resorted to a rapid-fire tactic, hurling two javelins in quick succession at the Jarl's face. The sudden barrage caused the giant to halt his charge momentarily, buying Sinclair the precious seconds he needed. Seizing the opportunity, he activated Focused Charge, quickly followed by Cleave. As he accelerated towards the giant's uninjured ankle, Sinclair also unleashed the Will of the Norns at full effect, channeling his anger and rage into the skill. The aura burst forth, striking the Jarl with such intensity that it momentarily widened his eyes, disrupting his attempt to activate an earth-shaking skill.

In that critical pause, Sinclair executed a successful strike at the Jarl's other ankle, swiftly moving between the giant's legs. But his triumph was short-lived as, in an unexpected move, Jarl Fulvragg swung his mace behind his legs, catching Sinclair off guard. The blow was less powerful than it could have been, sparing Sinclair immediate death, but it still sent him hurtling at a frightening speed. Crashing to a stop, Sinclair lay motionless, the fight seemingly drained from his body.

Jarl Fulvragg watched the still form of the human with a tinge of regret. The battle, thrilling as it was, seemed to be drawing to a premature close. He thought that this human, whoever he was, possessed the potential to become an extraordinary warrior, which gave the Jarl a mix of satisfaction and melancholy as he contemplated the all-too-soon ending of their epic confrontation.

On the ground, Sinclair's vision was a blur, the world around him refusing to come into focus. He could barely make out the entrance of the cave and the faces of his friends peering out, their expressions a mixture of horror and urgency. Their voices reached him, a chorus of desperate pleas and encouragement, urging him to rise, to continue the fight. But exhaustion was weighing heavily on him, the heat of battle—and possibly a concussion—making him long for the escape of sleep.

As he shook his head in a futile attempt to dispel the drowsiness, his body suddenly gave way, and he collapsed onto his back. But before he could succumb to the temptation of rest, he was abruptly snatched from the ground by a giant hand. Once again, he found himself airborne, the world spinning chaotically around him. He knew he was in dire straits; his health bar was a glaring orange, a visual testament to his perilous state, and it was about to plummet further upon impact.

The landing this time, however, didn't send him as far. As he lay there, trying to gather his wits, he could hear the Jarl's booming voice gloating towards his friends, threatening to consume them after dealing with him. Anger surged within Sinclair, dispelling all other thoughts. He managed to sit up just in time to see the Jarl advancing towards him, intent on finishing the battle.

What he hadn't anticipated was the sight of Rose darting out of the cave, javelin in hand. He dimly recalled her having a stint at javelin throwing back in college. His heart screamed for her to return to safety, but it was too late. With a fierce determination, she hurled the javelin with all her might. The weapon sliced through the air, barely grazing the side of the Jarl's skull. The impact was negligible against such a formidable foe, akin to a toddler's stuffed toy thrown at an adult. Sinclair was surprised that the Jarl even registered the hit. Yet, in that moment, the audacity and courage of her act were not lost on him, granting him a small beacon of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.

As the javelin clattered to the ground, having grazed his shoulder, Jarl Fulvragg turned his attention to the source of the audacious assault. With a derisive chuckle, he acknowledged the bravery – or what he perceived as hubris – of this diminutive human. In a dismissive, almost casual motion, he swung his massive mace in Rose's direction, and although his lack of focus caused him to miss his target, the sheer force of the swing and the resulting gust of wind were enough to send her reeling through the air.

Time stretched and warped.

Rose's body flew through the air, the trajectory on course to take her straight into the wall of the cave.

Her limp form collided violently with the rock, the impact causing it to reverberate with a sickening thud.

Her body peeled off the wall and collapsed to the ground.

And then blood began to pool round her motionless body. Sinclair's vision snapped into focus, his world condensing into a tunnel of focused despair. All he could see was the haunting image of Rose's fall, replaying in his mind. The realization that he had been powerless to protect his family was a crushing blow. A deep, searing pain, far more agonizing than any physical wound, gripped his heart as he grappled with the harsh reality of his perceived failure.

In a maelstrom of fury, Sinclair's scream tore through the frigid air, a raw, primal sound that echoed the depths of his anguish. The pressure that had been simmering in his chest, a smoldering ember of rage and power, suddenly erupted, reaching a cataclysmic breaking point. The unleashed force surged through him like wildfire, coursing down every nerve, setting them ablaze with an indomitable energy. Power flooded his being, an overwhelming tide that lifted him from the ground, infusing him with an incandescent radiance that seemed to shine from within.

His vision was a haze of crimson fury, the world tinted with the color of his wrath. In this state of heightened power, his menu interface appeared involuntarily, the screen dominated by large, bold letters that seemed to pulse with the intensity of his emotions. He stood, a figure of pure, unbridled energy, ready to unleash his newfound might on the Jarl, driven by a singular purpose fueled by loss, love, and an unquenchable desire for retribution.

System Message: New Class Available

SINCLAIR, LISTEN TO ME. YOU ARE ONLY ABLE TO ACCEPT THIS CLASS DUE TO YOUR BLOODLINE AND THE SYNERGY IT HAS WITH YOUR PATH. THIS IS A ONE-TIME THING AND YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO CHANGE YOUR MIND LATER. ACCEPT IT, AND YOU CAN SAVE YOUR FRIENDS. REJECT IT AND YOU ARE OF NO USE TO ANYONE.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

New Class: Ulfhednar

Description: Hidden

Do you accept this class? Yes/No

Whatever. He clicked yes.

New Skill: Visage of the Wolf (Mythic)

Description: The Visage of the Wolf skill holds a storied place in the annals of Norse mythology, a gift once bestowed by Odin upon his most esteemed Wolf Lords. Unlike the Wolf Lords themselves, who were chosen by Odin to manifest his will within the mortal realms, this skill does not confer lordship. Instead, it allows the worthy to channel the Wolf Lords' formidable presence and strength, serving as a tribute to their legendary might and authority. It represents a pinnacle of transformative power, merging the essence of man with the noble spirit of the wolf. The Visage of the Wolf is a powerful embodiment of transformation and homage to the mighty Wolf Lords of yore. It is a gift that enables the chosen to exhibit a fragment of the Wolf Lords' legendary might, a ceremonial link to Odin's will, rather than an ascension to their ranks.

Effects:

Transformation:

With activation, the user experiences a profound metamorphosis, assuming the visage and physical prowess of a half-man, half-wolf being. It creates a powerful bond with the spirit of the Wolf Lords, embodying their fearsome aspect.

Enhanced Physicality:

The transformation imparts the user with a 10% increase in physical capabilities, including size, speed, and strength, akin to those of a mighty wolf. These enhanced attributes significantly amplify the user's abilities in combat as they channel the raw power and majestic presence of the Wolf Lords.

Tribute to the Wolf Lords:

The skill does not elevate the user to the status of a Wolf Lord but serves as an homage to their power. Those who invoke the Visage of the Wolf command respect and can inspire awe, as they briefly mirror the legendary Wolf Lords in battle, without claiming their hallowed authority.

As the radiant light within him began to dim, Sinclair found himself gently descending back to the ground. Rage like nothing he had ever known coursed through his veins, a tempest of fury that threatened to consume him. His blood thundered in his ears, each pulse begging him to unleash his wrath upon the Jarl. With unbridled anger driving him, he activated the Visage of the Wolf. His mind was singularly focused: he would topple the giant before him and exact a brutal vengeance for Rose's death.

The transformation was immediate and intense. Sinclair's body contorted and shifted, an unsettling sensation that felt as though thousands of tiny ants were crawling over his skin. His senses heightened dramatically; his vision became razor-sharp, painting the world around him in vivid, acute detail. His hearing amplified to extraordinary levels, allowing him to pick up the subtlest sounds, including the rhythmic beating of the Jarl's heart, and the moment the Jarl caught sight of him, and a beat was missed.

It was a strange, almost indescribable feeling: a fusion of immense strength and overwhelming anger, with nothing to temper it. Sinclair could feel the power of the Wolf coursing through him, lending him not just physical might but also the primal, instinctive wrath of the creature. In this moment, he was more than just a warrior; he was the embodiment of a fierce, ancient legacy, ready to unleash his newfound prowess on his formidable foe.

The Jarl, a veteran of countless battles and witness to many marvels, thought he had seen it all. The sight before him was something entirely out of legend. Since the sundering of Midgard from its former location, severing it from the realm where the Wolf Lords had risen, none had laid eyes upon such beings. And now, a figure with the furious mien to challenge a White Dragon. A mere Frost Giant wasn't going to stand a chance.

Unbeknownst to the Jarl, of course, Sinclair was not a true Wolf Lord; he simply wielded one of their most sacred skills. In the grand scheme of things, however, it scarcely mattered. With his head thrown back, Sinclair released a howl that welded grief and rage, a sound that seemed to shake the very air around them. In the throes of the Visage of the Wolf, Sinclair underwent a transformation that bestowed upon him the physical markers of the animal: his teeth elongated into formidable points, his stature increased, and his nails morphed into claws as precise and deadly as surgical instruments. His eyes, now a piercing golden hue, were lupine adding to the feral aura that now enveloped him. This was no mere human; this was the avatar of an ancient and wild power, unleashed and ready to exact his vengeance.

As the rush of enhanced power coursed through Sinclair, he was granted an intoxicating boost to his strength and agility stats. The newfound power was exhilarating, and he was driven by an unrelenting desire to draw blood from the colossal adversary before him. With a burst of speed granted by Focused Charge, compounded many-fold by the augmented attributes of his transformation, Sinclair closed the distance in a blink. He found himself beneath the towering Frost Giant before it could even muster a defense.

No longer content with mere ankle wounds, Sinclair ascended the behemoth's body with the ferocity of a predator. His sharpened claws tore through the Jarl's flesh, carving a path upward as he sought a critical artery, a vulnerable organ—any vital point that would hasten the giant's demise. Blood gushed in violent streams from the Jarl's wounds, painting the snow crimson.

The Jarl, now snapping out of his initial shock, hastily dropped his mace, realizing the futility and danger of swinging at the agile horror that clung to him. To harm Sinclair now was to risk harming himself. Yet the creature that Sinclair had become was proving elusive. Just as the Jarl managed to grasp one of Sinclair's legs, the wolf-man reacted with lightning speed, severing the tips of the Jarl's fingers with ease. They fell away like slices of soft cheese, severed by the razor-sharp precision of Sinclair's claws. To the Jarl, grappling with Sinclair was akin to battling a cyclone armed with blades—every movement, every touch, was perilous.

Panic began to grip the Jarl, an emotion unfamiliar and unwelcome. The human, transformed into a ferocious predator, had wreaked havoc across his torso, scaling his immense frame with terrifying agility. The creature clambered up and over the Jarl's shoulder, its claws leaving deep furrows as they raked down his back. Muscle and skin were rent asunder, a macabre shower of blood marking the trail of Sinclair's rage.

The Jarl, now acutely aware of his vulnerability, contemplated flight. Before he could muster more than a few steps, Sinclair's heavy swing severed the Jarl's hamstring, the tendon snapping and retracting with a grotesque 'thwip'. With a thunderous crash, the Jarl toppled forward.

Meanwhile, Sinclair was beyond caring for the Jarl's whimpering and his desperate pleas for mercy. His senses were attuned only to the giant's frantic heartbeat, a drumbeat he sought to silence. "You take my heart, and I will take yours," he growled, making a formal vow of retribution. Not caring that the Jarl was already past the point of survival, light swiftly fading from his eyes, Sinclair continued to be a whirlwind of carnage, his claws never ceasing their dance of death.

He plunged his hand through the cavern of the Jarl's ribcage, muscles and bones giving way until his arm was submerged nearly to the shoulder. His fingers grasped the quivering edge of the Jarl's heart. With a savage pull, he tore a portion of it free, retracting his arm to behold the spoils of his fury. Biting into the raw flesh, the warmth of the blood spilling down his chin, Sinclair found a grim satisfaction. The blood debt demanded its due, and he would exact it in full, no matter the cost.

With a primal ferocity, Sinclair arched his back and released a howl that seemed to embody the very essence of his grief and rage. It resonated through the frigid landscape, a mournful and vengeful cry for the loss that could not be undone. The target of his wrath lay motionless before him, unable to suffer further, providing no solace for his seething anger. He remained standing in the aftermath, a silent sentinel amidst the snow and blood, as turbulent waves of fury and self-reproach crashed over him.

Then, a gentle touch—a small hand upon his back—pulled him from the tempest of his emotions. A voice, fragile yet laden with life, whispered into the quiet aftermath of battle. Sinclair's heart, which had been awash with vengeance, now pounded with a different intensity.

He spun around, and there she was—Rose. Her shirt, now serving as a makeshift bandage, was drenched with the evidence of her ordeal, and tears cut through the dirt and blood on her face. "That's enough, Sinclair. Come rest," she implored, her voice a balm to his frayed spirit. "You did your job. Come back to us, please. I need you here, with us. With me."

In her plea, Sinclair found the anchor he hadn't known he was seeking. Rose, who he had believed lost, stood before him. Her presence, her need for him, was a potent reminder of the human connections that still bound him. It was time to let go of the beast and embrace the man once more.

As Sinclair let go of the Visage of the Wolf, he could feel the potent changes—wrought by the transformation—receding from his body, leaving a trail of weakness. His legs buckled slightly, and he stumbled, but he was swiftly steadied by the supportive hands of his friends. Glancing to the side, he saw Ed and Alice, their faces etched with concern, clutching his arm to guide him back towards the refuge of the cave.

Outside, Chewy and Leia were vigilant, their keen eyes surveying the surrounding fields, ever the guardians. Sinclair felt a rush of warmth from the link he shared with them, a bond of love and loyalty that was palpable. In their eyes, he was their new Wolf Lord, a title they bestowed upon him with reverence and joy. To them, this moment was as bountiful as fields in high cotton—they had their leader, their companion, and they reveled in his safety.

With a final, almost absent-minded nudge, Sinclair brushed against the fallen giant, invoking his ability to auto-store the loot from the Jarl's body. Actually checking the spoils of battle could wait; his priority lay elsewhere. There would be time later to sift through the Jarl's treasures. For now, his heart yearned for the comforting presence of his friends, the companions who had stood by him through the ordeal. Together, they walked towards the cave, a circle of unity and solace amidst the remnants of chaos.

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