Varka

It is in bustling taverns that the grand tales of Varka are told, and they almost always begin with the extraordinary story of his birth.

Some claim that, when he was still in his swaddling clothes, two venomous serpents sought to slay the hero he was to be. Yet the infant, not a full month old, seized them, one in each hand, and tossed them from his cradle as if they were mere playthings. And thus, 'tis said, he grasped the secret to wielding twin blades!

Some say that, upon the very hour of his birth, a bitter north wind, the likes of which had not scourged Mondstadt in a century, tore through the sunlit skies. And from the depths of Wolvendom rose a chorus of wolf cries, one answering another. 'Twas a declaration that the "North Wind" would rise again to reclaim his place as the mightiest of the Four Winds!

Some whisper that he was born to be a knight, a favored child of fate, destined for greatness since his first breath... Such whispers, of course, are but the idle stuff of tavern tales.

In Mondstadt, there are no fell serpents that single out infants as targets for their venom, nor packs of wolves that howl for no rhyme or reason.

These tales are naught but the beguiling babble of tavern bards, who, with much ado, weave epics of high destiny and doom for entertainment.

Not all legends are born of legendary beginnings, nor must every myth be guided by a god's own hand.

On a perfectly ordinary day, without a breath of wind or drop of rain, in a home neither poor nor prosperous, Varka came into the world in the most ordinary way.

No peril arose, no omen struck. In the days that followed, he grew up no differently from any other ordinary child in Mondstadt.

Listening to the bards' tales of knights and gods, he dreamed of the day he might charge across a battlefield, just like the heroes of those very tales.

Yet, when the tales were over, and the children departed in twos and threes, he would always linger, clinging on with ceaseless questions...

—Why is it that the heroes are always born of some ancient bloodline, or blessed by the favor of gods long past?

The bards could only offer an awkward smile and reply, "That's how the stories have always been told."

—Then who founded those ancient bloodlines? Who blessed the gods before their divinity?

At this juncture, most bards would fall silent. A handful would point towards the Knights of Favonius's library.

—One cannot look to "stories" for these answers; one must look to "history."

And fewer still, wearied by such questions, would point towards the boundless wilderness beyond the city walls...

—What do I know? I'm just a bard! Ask Barbatos!

Many years later, when Varka had at last become a "Legendary Knight" of the new generation and the hero of his own tale, he finally understood the bards' predicament.

Reality requires no justification, yet a tale must earn the credence of its audience.

And for the ordinary listener, it is nearly impossible to conceive: Without ancient bloodlines or divine favor, with nothing but ceaseless effort and unyielding will, how could a mortal forge a legend?

When a younger Varka first participated in the Knights' prep exams, he floored every single examiner. That is to say, he literally bowled them over.

Just as he was brimming with confidence, ready to receive his formal appointment as a knight, a letter of rejection arrived, shattering every last one of his dreams.

"To Varka: First and foremost, we would like to express our sincere appreciation for your participation in this assessment. Your capabilities and your aspiration to become a knight have left a lasting impression on us."

"However, after careful consideration and thorough review, we regret to inform you that..."

Before he could even finish the rest of the letter, Varka scrunched it into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket. Then, he reached for a scrap of paper to plan his next move.

That very night, as Valentine, former Grand Master and the previous Lionfang Knight, was making his way home after a drink, he was ambushed by an assailant.

With all his attendants laid out, Valentine was left to face the attacker alone, both impressed and speechless.

Impressed, because the assailant was much more capable than he had imagined, and his ability to conceive and execute the ambush in under half a day was nothing short of astonishing.

Speechless, because the assailant's absurd declaration left him in bewildered silence: If the Knights of Favonius can't even protect their own Grand Master, how can they protect Mondstadt? They might as well hand the job to him!

"Did you... not finish reading the letter I wrote you?" "Hmm? Who reads a rejection letter to the end?" "I always put the important part in the postscript."

Fortunately, Valentine had already intended to speak to Varka in person, as noted in his postscript. But Varka's speed in turning thought into action had advanced their meeting by a wide margin.

So, after shaking the attendants awake and apologizing to each one in turn, Varka followed Valentine for a second round of drinks and to hear the reasons behind his rejection.

Over drinks, the two spoke at length. But it all boiled down to something quite simple: The wind, born free, should not be caged within city walls too soon.

Valentine believed that, instead of standing guard in Mondstadt or patrolling its outskirts, Varka should venture out to distant nations and uncharted frontiers.

Just as the adage holds: only by practicing a thousand melodies can the bard strike an extraordinary chord; only by studying a thousand blades can the smith forge a legendary weapon.

"Not to mention, if we actually made you sit in an office for three years... No, three months, you'd be handing in your resignation!"

Confronted by Valentine's piercing observation, Varka gave a noncommittal laugh, swallowing his "three days, give or take" with a gulp of wine.

"What I really want is for you to find your own reason for being a knight," Valentine said, his smile turning serious. "And it shouldn't be your starry-eyed fantasies, nor something you heard from a bard's tale. Once you've found that reason, come back to Mondstadt."

The very next day, Varka set out on his journey to discover what could make the free wind content to remain within city walls... and become a "knight."

"...Even if the day should come when, for the sake of being a knight, you find yourself doing the work you loathe, day after day."

Borne by the salt-tinged breeze of Dornman Port, the young man narrowed his eyes against the rising sun and recalled the old knight's solemn counsel once more.

"...Even if the day should come when, for the sake of that very same title, you must surrender the glory and pride you hold dearest."

No homeland was, 'til other lands defined its frame.

No longing was, 'til farewell spoke its name.

While Seamus Pegg wrote that short verse into his notebook, Varka crouched by the campfire, warming a pot of wine.

"If you ask me, you should really come to Mondstadt. With your gifts for song and words, you'd be a sensation!"

"We'll see." Seamus accepted the cup from Varka and shrugged noncommittally. "...At least that dandelion wine you mentioned sounds worth a try."

On a winter night in a distant land, two up-and-coming adventurers, far from their respective homelands, crossed paths by chance.

By then, Varka had already journeyed through many nations.

He had witnessed the most monstrous of creatures prowling the mountain peaks and churning oceans into towering waves. He had seen the bravest of men, armed with little more than crude spears and cloth armor, standing their ground against hordes of enemies. The Millelith, the Gardes... Different people from different lands, called by different names, sharing the very same spirit.

Yet, it felt as though a veil still hung between him and the answer he so desperately sought. As the years abroad slipped by, his longing for home was the only thing that stayed.

"I wonder... Did young master Crepus go back to take over the winery, or did he finally achieve his dream of becoming a knight?"

"And what of Frederica, who never had a good word for anyone? Has hell finally frozen over? Has she taken a shine to some lucky fellow?"

"What about Eroch? He was always so quick to point out how I fell short of the chivalric code. Has he grown more forgiving with time?"

"I wonder if the wine back home still tastes the same as I remember. I wonder if my family misses me as often as I miss them..."

"If you're so curious, why not just go back?" Bluntly, Seamus interrupted Varka's incessant rambling. "You're not like me. I don't have anyone left to miss in Nod-Krai."

"Go back? But I still haven't found my answer..."

"Those people you were just rambling about... Why can't they be your answer?"

Varka fell silent, his cup frozen halfway to his lips. It was as though a veil in his heart had been torn away.

"Home" was never some nebulous concept. Likewise, the reason for becoming a "knight" never required the burden of a grand, noble purpose.

Only... How could such a simple truth take so many years to click? If he went back now, wouldn't those guys back home laugh themselves hoarse?

Shouldn't a hero's awakening come in a moment of legend, followed by a triumphant return at an epic hour? This isn't how it goes in the bards' tales!

Still, perhaps the truth isn't nearly as simple as people think. After all, one has to leave home before one can learn to miss it...

Sensing the turmoil in Varka's thoughts, Seamus cleared his throat and snapped his notebook shut.

"Ahem... Fine, if you need a reason that badly, then consider it your job to get me to Mondstadt. Besides, I want to see this Freder— I mean, this dandelion wine you keep talking about! I want to see if it's really as impressive as you say!"

Since formally inheriting the title of the Knight of Boreas, Varka remained undefeated across every campaign he led.

If Lionfang is a blessing of abundance for the earth, then Boreas is the indomitable spirit behind a formidable strength. Be they vile outlaws or monstrous terrors that ravage the realm, or even the creeping darkness of the Abyss, all shatter beneath a blade that bears the North Wind's biting chill.

Following a series of campaigns, any remnant danger within the territory was utterly purged, and Mondstadt entered a golden age of peace as none had seen before.

Peace arrived with such apparent ease that people began to view it as the natural order of things. A sentiment arose that, in this age of tranquility, the Knights should hang up their swords and spend their days finding lost cats or wrangling misbehaving dogs...

After becoming Grand Master, Varka drowned out these noises and pushed forward with the next expedition.

His early years as an adventurer served as a constant reminder: the peace that they were enjoying was but a happy accident. The absence of a visible threat did not mean that the danger had vanished.

The Abyss still festered in the North, monsters still lurked beneath the waves; Durin still resided in the snowy mountains, Ursa was only deep in slumber... Any of these could shatter the fragile peace they had fought so hard to secure.

The seniors who had paved his path had grown old: Lionfang Knight Valentine, Calvary Captain Feroux, Captain of the Ranged Company Adorno... And yet, the knights of the new generation still had much to learn.

Varka knew all too well that his own prime would eventually wither with age.

As Grand Master, he sought to buy more time for the next generation. As a warrior in his own right, he wanted to test his mettle against the mightiest of enemies before his best years began to fade.

And so, after entrusting Mondstadt's affairs to the veteran knights and Inspector Eroch, Varka set out once more on another expedition.

...But this time, Varka suffered a most devastating defeat.

In his own blinding brilliance, the knight remained blind to the shadow he cast, where jealousy and malice had begun to spawn.

Varka never realized that, from the day he returned to Mondstadt and joined the Knights of Favonius, a twisted seed had already taken root in Eroch's heart.

And when The Doctor's Segment whispered to the man of power and authority beyond all measure, the darkness within Eroch surged forth like a flood.

—A wanderer who spends his days idling abroad, hailed as the strongest Knight of Boreas in history?

—A lawless maniac who flouts every code of chivalry, yet lays down the law for the other knights?

Warped obsessions and the passage of time can turn friends into foes as easily as the wind changes its course.

The Inspector, who was meant to safeguard order in Varka's stead, trampled upon every principle of justice instead.

Eroch, the man solemnly entrusted with the security of the seal, roused an ancient horror from its slumber, plotting to lay claim to the power of the heavens alongside The Doctor.

Even as Varka was once again striking down formidable foes beyond the borders, holding the line for Mondstadt at the frontiers, devastating news arrived from home — his old friend Crepus had died in combat, and Inspector Eroch had turned traitor.

Varka returned in haste, immediately setting to work uprooting those who had colluded with the turncoat. But Eroch had inflicted too many wounds upon Mondstadt in the intervening years.

Cornered by Varka with no way out, he took his own life amidst peals of manic laughter.

That laughter held no words, yet every note rang with a clear, biting mockery of the Invincible Knight of Boreas, the Grand Master Who Rivals the Gods.

—Behold. You've stumbled. You've failed.

—You are only human, after all.

No matter how formidable a single person's power may be, even if that power rivals the divine, they cannot protect all things.

There are corners in this vast world that will always remain unseen, schemes in this unpredictable life that will always remain unforeseen.

Mondstadt's freedom and peace were won at a great cost, and safeguarding them is a task far beyond the reach of a single man, or a single god. One can never be too prepared.

And so, the Knights of Favonius must keep up with the times.

The Ranged Company must be outfitted with new firearms to bolster their stopping power, while the Support Company must develop modern fortifications to adapt to the changing face of the battlefield...

There is no need to rely solely on the brilliance of a few outstanding heroes. The evolution of tactics and equipment can tangibly improve the combat effectiveness and survival rate of every single knight.

And so, the Knights of Favonius must nurture a legacy that endures.

A new generation of knights, whom he had watched grow up, was now coming into its own. Many are already serving as the organization's new backbone.

Yet, there are still those who have not truly grasped what it means to be a knight, nor are they ready to shoulder the weight of that title — just as Varka was in his youth.

And so, Mondstadt must have resolute and reliable allies.

Under the mediation of the Anemo Archon, Varka took his place at the Tripartite Conference. With cunning charm and a silver tongue, he sought to win over a mage who walked beyond the world's common logic.

"I never expected a knight to have such a way with words... It almost makes one wonder if Barbatos might be whispering lines into his ear." Such was Alice's assessment of Varka's display.

At last, the mages set their names upon the pact. Perhaps they were unmoved by his words... Perhaps they had motives of their own.

In any case, with this pact in place, Mondstadt had secured one more safeguard for its future.

In accordance with the pact, the trial forged by the combined power of the mages was finally completed. Varka, who hadn't let loose in ages, could at last set all worldly duties aside and lose himself in a truly exhilarating fight.

At the end of the trial, the mages asked the knight to make a wish, but the knight had nothing to ask for. The city he sought to protect was safe, and the power he desired, he would seize with his own hands.

And so, on a whim, Varka asked if he might steal a glance at Barbeloth's scryglass. Just to satisfy the sudden spark of curiosity.

Before the thrill of the battle could even fade, Varka caught a glimpse of fate's design reflected in the scryglass.

What the water mirrored was at once a vision of boundless glory and endless suffering.

He saw the legends he had idolized since childhood locked in a struggle against real dragons. He saw them surpass their own limits in the heat of blood-soaked battle, becoming the heroes of dreams amidst cheers of jubilation.

But he also saw a dark calamity creeping across the lands of Nod-Krai and Snezhnaya, and heard the wails of strangers echoing from the depths of the snowfields.

Why become a knight? In his younger years, Varka had given himself an answer — to protect those he loved, and protect those who loved him in return.

Now, fate greeted him with a colder, more cutting question: Would a knight still fight for those who might not even know his name?

If fate was bold enough to show its hand, why not play the hand he was dealt? If the storm has yet to reach Mondstadt's shores, why cast aside his dreams now to go chasing shadows in the North?

There was no need for hesitation. The unruly North Wind has never followed anything but its own whims. And every child of Mondstadt, born into freedom, carries the same answer in their heart.

"We will not bow before any tyrant, even if that tyrant is fate itself!"

There are numerous ways to enjoy Tabletop Troupe, a game popular across many nations. Even the expeditionary force makes use of it, hosting games during their leisure hours to help broaden the knights' strategic thinking.

Traditionalists insist that roleplaying and narrative are the heart of the game. But every game has its rules, and so long as there are rules, there will be players looking to push them to their absolute limit.

"My 'Character' is a righteous and honorable knight, but I once crossed paths with a cursed blade! To suppress its fury, I have no choice but to carry it with me at all times..."

"And while I am merely an ordinary bard, the rumors I've picked up in countryside taverns have taught me many a secret regarding the hidden depths of magic..."

Beyond that, you'll find the people who insist on pitting these "Characters" against each other to see who comes out on top.

"A high-level Master of Qi can attack five times in one turn? And leap onto rooftops in a single bound? That's way too strong!"

"But what happens when they run into magic? They'd be sitting ducks! Magic casters are obviously superior, they can reshape the world itself."

"No, no, look at this. A heroic bard can cast spells while attacking, and if they've dabbled in these other trades... Not only can they cast spells, but they can also hit their target twenty times over in a single turn!"

"You're just exploiting a loophole!" "But that's exactly how it's written in the rulebook!"

Whenever such a stalemate arose over the expeditionary force's sand table, all the bickering would end with one thing:

"Grand Master, what's your call?"

As Grand Master and Game Master, Varka's response was very blunt.

"Ekbert, your Master of Qi is trapped within six invisible walls." "Ugh...!"

"Winfried, a Bathysmal Vishap has dragged you underwater. You can't cast spells now." "Uh..."

"Leifhelm... According to the rules, you can cast spells while attacking." "Ha! Told you I'm the strongest!"

"In that case, you are now facing a behemoth that deflects those very spells. Take your time."

After a few rounds of wailing, all three knights' characters were tragically "Wiped Out."

"...A single person can only be so strong. The dangers out there never end. Luckily, we're only playing tabletop games right now, and not standing before the Abyss."

Varka flicked over the last chess piece representing a character without hesitation.

"Next time, remember to scope out the enemy and assign roles before charging into battle! Even Lohen knows that Tabletop Troupe isn't a solo game!"

With the fleeting years and scant wisdom of a human life, no man is an island, especially against the myriad foes of this world.

Only when scattered embers are drawn together, each kindling the space before it, shall their light mingle and thus rival the stars and moon.

"To you, the soul of a God is no gift. It is a lethal poison. The strength of mankind is bought by bitter toil. Are you certain you wish to do this?"

On the eve of the expeditionary force's departure, the Dominator of Wolves posed this very question to the visiting knight.

"I am certainly not the only one capable of slaying the God of the North Wind."

Varka grinned as he always did, as if nothing more than a common errand lay ahead.

"But throughout history, the only ones who can truly 'answer' the God of the North Wind have been the Knights of Boreas. Am I wrong?"

"...You've changed, it seems."

The Wolf of the North closed his eyes. For a moment, it was as if he could see that brash young knight once more, a young man who had challenged him time and again in a relentless pursuit of the pinnacle of power.

"In the past, you never would have squandered your own power like this."

"I've found something far more precious than mere power. Something I would defend more dearly."

The morning light filtered through the mist and tangled boughs of Wolvendom, scattering across the knight's armor. Whether a trick of the senses or something more, the wild breeze carried echoes of the distant city.

The playful shouts of children, the good-natured grumbling of elders. The rhythmic strike of hammer on anvil, the clink of glasses over fine wine. The banners snapped in the wind; the knights stood in rank and file.

"Besides, as for this 'power' of mine..."

Varka ran his hand over his battle-scarred greatsword, then hoisted it onto his shoulder one more time.

"—It is every person at my back."

Word is that the first knight to be known as Boreas would hum the same song in the tavern every time he returned from a monster hunt.

The origins of that song, much like the knight's own name, was lost to the ages. Perhaps it was a lingering echo he brought back from a distant land, or a melody he happened to catch drifting on the wind. Or, it might have been a little ditty composed by a destitute musician in place of payment after being rescued by the knight.

In any case, the tune clearly won the knight's heart. He hummed it thousands of times without ever growing weary of it. And since he always hummed the melody upon his return, it eventually became a signal to all. Whenever the tavern patrons heard that song, they knew the knight had returned in triumph. And whenever the townspeople heard it, they knew the monsters beyond the walls had finally been slain.

Later, the knight's companion remained forever in the land of wind, while the knight himself set out on a new journey. Since then, the melody seemed to have faded from all memory.

Years later, the blacksmith's son, Ravenwood, took up the heavy claymore under the name of Boreas once more. As the crowds cheered, they joined their voices in the knight's homecoming hymn once again.

And so, the melody would forever endure in Mondstadt alongside the title of Boreas. Passed down through generations by the bards, it has since been woven into countless versions and a multitude of legends.

Legend has it that the troops of Arundolyn, the Lion of Light, once sang a rousing anthem of victory as they swept across the north, purging the calamities that plagued the land.

Legend tells of how Rostam, the "Wolf Pup," once listened to a tender nocturne beneath the starlight, drifting peacefully into the land of dreams.

And so, the lyrics of the song grew longer and longer with each passing year, as if it were a heroic epic that could never truly reach its end.

It was Varka's first expedition since becoming the Grand Master. Keeping with tradition, the knights gathered on the training grounds, singing ancient songs to pray for victory and a safe return.

After concluding the rally with a brief speech, Varka pushed open the door to his office, only to find that someone had left a long, wide gift box upon his desk.

"The off-hand sword you've been using is beyond repair, right? You might as well replace it with a new one right now."

"With the way you swing a blade, even the finest sword is nothing more than a consumable... I hope this one lasts a bit longer in your hands."

"Also, happy birthday. You may have forgotten, but we certainly haven't."

Turning the letter over, he found the signatures and a postscript scrawled on the back.

"Seamus, Frederica, Valentine, and all the Knights of Favonius."

"P.S. We argued about what to name this sword for the longest time. Unfortunately, we could not agree on anything, so we figured we'd just leave it up to its master to decide."

On the training grounds, the knights' singing had yet to cease. Even through several thick stone walls, their voices remained clearly audible.

Gripping the cold steel of the hilt, he pointed the blade toward the distant moonlight shimmering outside the window. A never-ending surge of poetry and song swelled in Varka's heart, echoing resoundingly:

Triumph! For justice, and chivalry indomitable!

Even without the favor of a Vision, mankind is still capable of monumental feats.

In Natlan, the human king led heroes toward the divine throne. In Fontaine, a genius once mapped the world's fate through numerology. And in Liyue, the grandmaster of spear and blade swept across the lands, unrivaled.

Across vast spans of time, through the endless tides of humanity, there will always emerge those variables who defy the common order of things.

In Mondstadt, too, there was once a knight who was never blessed with a Vision. He reached the pinnacle of strength through sheer power and speed, wielding a claymore in one hand and a longsword in the other, performing a blade dance that verged on the divine.

But a wild card of such raw talent was a mere stroke of luck. Since the Lion of Light's passing, Mondstadt was left without an heir to his genius. Even the one hailed as the "Perfect Knight," the great hope of both the Wolf Pup and the Lion of Light, was lost to a blood-stained crusade before he could ever master the dance.

Among the knights of later generations, many have mastered both the claymore and the longsword. Yet none have ever matched the original, wielding both blades as extensions of their own arms.

When this problem was laid before Varka, even he was stumped.

He certainly didn't lack the raw physical strength to rival the Lion of Light. However, he soon discovered that dual-wielding required not just brute power, but also masterful technique. Without it, even his most forceful attempts left him strained and unsteady, each move offsetting the last. For him, it proved far less effective than the sheer, single-minded speed of a solitary sword.

Within the Knights' records, studies of that blade dance contain no description of its technique. Evidently, Varka's predecessors were so focused on its ferocity that they underestimated its finesse.

But that was of little consequence. While the complete form of the blade dance had already faded from human memory, there was one in Wolvendom who might have witnessed the Lion of Light at the height of his glory.

Back then, the young and brash knight was the type to act on impulse. So, with a jug of wine in one hand and two blades strapped to his back, he marched off into the hills.

One day passed, then two. The Great Wolf King of the North howled and roared, and Varka was thrashed until he was howling right along with him.

Three days, then four. The howling and roaring began to fade, replaced by the increasingly clear, sharp ring of steel clashing against fang and claw.

Even across thousands of years, as far as Lupus Boreas could recall, challengers like this were few and far between.

Though the trial was long won, he continued to charge over and over again. He had won the favor of a god, yet he remained his own harshest critic.

But... Another question gnawed at Lupus Boreas.

After yet another clash that ended in a stalemate, he turned his gaze to the knight, who was tossing back a jug of hard liquor.

"Human... Your strength is absolute, your conviction a raging fire... In this age, the title of Boreas is rightfully yours." Lupus Boreas fell silent for a moment. "...Then why has the gaze of the heavens not yet fallen upon you?"

"The gaze of the heavens? ...Oh, are you talking about my Vision? It's right here."

With a nonchalant shrug, Varka unveiled a brilliant, glowing jewel he had tucked behind his waist.

"I think it just appeared in my cup while I was drinking one day... Or maybe I found it amongst the spoils I gained after an adventure?"

"The eye of heaven has been upon you all this time? Then why do you not draw upon its power?"

"Well, if Arundolyn could create his blade dance without a Vision, then it's only right that I recreate it under the same conditions."

Getting to his feet unhurriedly, Varka shook out his arms and settled his grip on his swords once again.

"As for what happens next... Caught your breath yet, O Great Wolf King?"

His swords crossed. For the first time in forever, the Vision at his waist flared with a brilliant, blinding light.

"—Now, I'm going to surpass him!"

To learn, to inherit, and then to transcend.

This is what humanity has always done best.