"Hey! Mister Shorty!" Varin barked, voice ragged but loud enough to cut through the crash of fists and steel behind him. He swayed a little where he stood, jabbing a thick finger toward the suited man still smoldering faintly from the last exchange. "I need another favor from ya, don't kill the princess."
The words hit like cannon fire. Vivi froze, her breath catching sharp in her throat, the duck letting out a distressed quack at her side. Miss Valentine's mocking smirk faltered, her parasol lowering just a fraction as the weight of what he'd casually dropped sank in.
Mister 5's head turned slowly, his bloodied features twisting into something between irritation and dark amusement. He didn't even glance at Vivi, his attention locked wholly onto Varin, sizing up the giant who spoke as if he were asking for another drink at the bar.
"You've got some gall," Mister 5 said at last, his tone calm, almost conversational, but there was heat under it, something sharp enough to cut. "Slurring through your teeth, reeking of whiskey, and you think you can dictate who lives and dies?"
Varin smirked, broad shoulders rolling in a half-shrug. "Aye, well… ''tisn't about thinkin'. It's about askin'. She ain't mine to protect, but she's not yours to butcher either." He leaned a fraction closer, his bulk casting shadow over Mister 5 despite the distance. "And I'm not keen on seein' you make a mess I'll have to clean later."
Miss Valentine let out a high, mocking laugh, tilting her head as she tapped her chin with one white-gloved finger. "Oooh, listen to him! Our big drunken bear thinks he gets a say."
But Vivi wasn't laughing, her eyes were wide, her throat tight, hands trembling against her skirts as the weight of Varin's words hung heavy in the air.
"Well then… let me rephrase it," Varin rumbled, his voice a deep growl wrapped in slurred edges as he straightened himself up and took a slow, deliberate step forward. Each footfall sounded heavier than it should've, the old stone beneath groaning faintly, though whether from his weight or the way his presence pressed down on the square, no one could say. He came to stand squarely in front of Vivi, a wall of a man, broad shoulders eclipsing her completely from the sight of Mister 5 and Miss Valentine.
The duck, however, had no such cover. The duck's wide, panicked eyes darted up at Varin as he drew nearer, feathers fluffing in alarm, legs trembling like twigs in the wind. The poor beast quacked once, low and pitiful, utterly mortified that something so large, so predatory, was standing within arm's reach.
Varin either didn't notice or didn't care. He shifted his stance, planting himself like a fortress, and dragged one arm lazily across his chest as though brushing off the notion of negotiation entirely. His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with the blear of too much whiskey, still carried that strange, cold gleam underneath —a clarity that cut through the drunken haze.
"I won't let you kill the princess," he said, slower this time, words rolling out heavy but unshakable. "Not that I give a damn 'bout her crown or bloodline. She's no business of mine. But…" His smirk returned, faint and crooked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "My navigator thinks she's an investment worth keepin' alive. And if there's one truth I've learned aboard this ship, it's that the lass is a right pain in the arse if she doesn't get her way."
He leaned just enough to crack his neck, the sound sharp in the air, then straightened again, every bit the immovable obstacle he intended himself to be.
Mister 5's lip curled, his hands sliding into his pockets like a man trying very hard not to let his temper fray. The faint smolder of smoke curled from his nostrils as he muttered, "You'd gamble your neck for someone you don't even care about?"
Varin chuckled low, a rumbling sound that could've passed for thunder in his chest. "Aye. But don't mistake me, it ain't for her. It's because I'd rather not have Nami nag me for the next month if somethin' happened to her 'precious princess.'"
Miss Valentine tilted her head, parasol spinning idly in her fingers, her smile sharp enough to cut. "You're drunk off your ass, and you think you can stand in our way?"
Varin's smirk widened, humorless but steady. "Drunk or sober, lass, it won't change a thing. If you want her, you'll have to go through me."
"Besides," Varin drawled, his voice roughened by the whiskey still clinging to his tongue. He rolled his shoulders once, a languid gesture, but the tension running through his frame was unmistakable. His head tilted just enough for the torchlight and fractured moonlight to catch his grin, bared teeth flashing in a way that wasn't entirely human. The unusually sharp canines gleamed for an instant, and it was as though they themselves hungered for the clash to come.
"Can't let the other two have all the fun," he went on, voice dropping lower, edged with something darker than his usual mockery. His eyes, unfocused from drink yet unnervingly sharp beneath it, flicked toward the echoes of Zoro and Luffy's ongoing chaos, where stone still cracked and steel still rang. "Might begin feelin' like they don't need me."
The grin widened, wolfish now. He almost looked amused, no, more than that, like the prospect of battle was entertainment, like it stirred something primal within him.
A terrified squawk cut through the heavy silence, the duck half-shielding its princess while still trembling from head to toe. Its instincts screamed louder now, every feather raised, every nerve on fire. Whatever Varin was, he wasn't something meant to walk beside prey. He was meant to hunt.
Mister 5 stiffened at that grin, his hand balling into a fist in his pocket. The faint hiss of ignition tickled at the edges of the night air, smoke curling like the breath of a furnace. "Big talk for a drunk," he muttered, though his voice lacked the bite of certainty.
Miss Valentine only chuckled, twirling her parasol like it was a toy instead of a weapon. "Ohhh… look at those teeth," she cooed, mockery dripping from every word. "Sharp little fangs on a man who reeks of whiskey. Maybe you're more beast than buffoon, hm?"
Varin's grin didn't falter. If anything, it stretched sharper, the glint in his eye sparking like flint. "Beast, buffoon, call it what you like. I've been called worse before the fight began."
He shifted his stance, no drunken sway in his frame now, as though the very scent of a brawl sobered him. "So," he said, voice low and dangerous as he gestured lazily with one hand, "why don't you two come test if the teeth match the bark?"
The air cracked with the sound of stone splitting as Mister 5 finally lost his patience. His hand came out of his pocket in a blur, knuckles sparking. The punch wasn't a normal punch, it was a bomb, the kind of strike that turned walls to rubble and bodies to char.
But Varin didn't flinch. He didn't dodge. He didn't even seem to move until the fist was nearly on him. Then, with a suddenness that cut through the haze of his drunken frame, his hand shot up and caught Mister 5's wrist. The explosion lit the night, fiery orange flaring like a miniature sun, and for a heartbeat, it looked as though both men would be swallowed whole.
When the smoke cleared, Varin was still standing. His pants were scorched lightly, the scent of burnt cloth curling off his sleeve, but his grip never loosened. He stood amidst the debris, eyes gleaming through the haze, a low rumble in his throat that might've been laughter, or a growl.
"That it?" Varin muttered, voice thick but steady. He shoved the man back, sending him stumbling like he was nothing more than a drunk caught off balance. "All that bark and your bite's no sharper than a pup's."
Miss Valentine swooped in from above, shrieking her own name as though it carried the weight of an attack. "One Ton…!" Her body plummeted from the sky, parasol snapped closed, her frame accelerating with the crushing weight of her Devil Fruit. Air displaced rapidly, creating a hellish whistle as she came down like a meteor.
Varin didn't even step aside. He lifted one arm and caught her by the wrist mid-fall, his boots sliding half a foot across the fractured ground before he stopped her dead. The impact shook the earth, cracked the pavement beneath them, but he held firm. She dangled for a split second in disbelief, her eyes going wide.
"Gravity tricks, eh?" he muttered, twisting his grip until she yelped in pain. "Cute." With a grunt, he flung her like a ragdoll straight into a broken wall. The stone caved in, dust billowing as her parasol clattered uselessly beside her.
Mister 5 roared in frustration and hurled A barrage of…..well, Varin didn't want to acknowledge what they were, small, concentrated explosions, each one enough to blow holes in the ground. Fire and dust swallowed the square, smoke rolling over everything like a living beast.
Through the smoke came a shadow. Heavy steps. Not stumbling, not wavering, steady, deliberate.
Varin stepped out from the lingering smoke, entirely unscathed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His sharp, wolfish grin sent the duck squawking in alarm and made Vivi instinctively step back, a mix of awe and fear in her eyes.
"That all you got?" Varin rasped, tilting his head, sharp canines flashing. "By Thor, I've had Nursery brawls with more teeth than this."
Mister 5 tried one last desperate swing, his fist bursting like a grenade. But Varin closed the distance in a blur, faster than he had any right to be in his drunken state. His hand shot forward, not to block, but to clamp around Mister 5's throat. The explosion went off against his chest, but he didn't let go.
"You talk big," Varin said, voice a low rumble that carried over the fading echoes of fire. His eyes glinted, savage and hungry. "But your bite? Pathetic."
With one brutal motion, he lifted Mister 5 clean off the ground and hurled him across the square. The agent hit the dirt with a wet crunch, rolling into the wreckage beside his partner. Miss Valentine groaned faintly, half-buried in rubble, but neither made any move to rise.
Silence followed. The kind of silence that comes after thunder, when the storm hasn't yet decided if it's finished.
Varin stood in the center of it, shoulders heaving, the firelight dancing across his pale skin and sharp grin. He looked less like a man and more like some predator carved from shadow and flame, standing triumphant over broken prey.
Then, almost anticlimactically, he exhaled through his nose and muttered, "Hells… what a disappointment." He brushed at his dirt covered sleeve, sneering faintly. "Bark louder than a pack of wolves, but bite no better than a toothless hound."
He turned his head, half-expecting Zoro or Luffy to crack a joke, but the two were still in the middle of their own idiotic brawl, tearing what little was left of Whiskey Peak apart. Nami stood nearby instead, arms crossed, her expression a cocktail of irritation, relief, and something that almost looked like unease as she studied him. Vivi clutched Karoo, pale as snow, her wide eyes fixed on the man who'd just torn through Baroque Works assassins like they were drunken thugs in a dockside alley.
Varin only sighed, rolling his neck until it cracked. "By Thor… thought I might actually enjoy meself for once." He glanced down at the unconscious agents, unimpressed. "Guess not."
Varin's next move was to bow.
The mock bow started with all the pomp and drama he could muster, exaggerated enough to seem like a performance in some grand theater, if it weren't for the obvious sway of his legs and the subtle wobble in his knees that betrayed the lingering whiskey in his system. He dipped low, hand extended toward Nami as though presenting a royal gift, though the gesture teetered dangerously into clumsiness. For a moment, it looked as though gravity itself might claim him, and he let out a low, hiccupped laugh, half-pride, half-surprise that he was still upright.
"Job's done, lass," he slurred, his voice thick and uneven, but carrying that characteristic undercurrent of mischievous pride. "All's sorted, your princess is safe, the mess is… mostly contained, and the fools that thought they could, well, they won't be bothering anyone for a while, eh?" His grin widened, crooked and wolfish, as he tried to straighten, only to stumble slightly, catching himself on the railing and letting his other hand hover in the air for dramatic effect, more for show than necessity.
He let the bow linger for another heartbeat, swaying slightly, before straightening fully, or as fully as someone in his condition could manage, and tipped his head in Nami's direction. "Consider it… all in a day's work," he added with a slurred chuckle, the words carrying more humor than arrogance, though the confidence in his posture suggested he believed every syllable. The grin remained, teeth glinting faintly in the muted sunlight filtering over the wreckage of the town, daring anyone to contradict him as he swayed lightly, perfectly content in the knowledge that, for better or worse, the job was indeed done.
Nami pinched the bridge of her nose, dragging in a breath so sharp it almost whistled between her teeth. Her patience, already stretched thin from babysitting Luffy and Zoro's rampage, protecting Vivi, and trying to salvage what little sanity remained in the chaos of Whiskey Peak, finally seemed to snap like a brittle twig.
"You're drunk," she said flatly, her voice cutting like a blade. Not angry, not loud, just the weary tone of someone who had endured too much nonsense for one day.
Varin, still half-bowed and swaying precariously, blinked at her through the haze in his head. The grin never left his face. "Aye, thought that was apparent," he admitted with a mock-solemn nod, his tone dripping with the kind of unearned smugness only a drunk man could muster. "Been drunk since… well, I forget when. But I'm still standin', still swingin', and look at that, lass." He gestured broadly toward the unconscious heap of Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine, their bodies sprawled and broken in the dust. "Didn't slow me down a step, eh?"
Nami's eyebrow twitched. "You nearly tripped over your own feet just bowing."
Varin's grin widened, sharp canines flashing in the late sunlight. "Style, not stumble," he said, slurring around the words, then tapped his temple with one finger. "There's a difference."
The duck, trembling behind Vivi, let out a nervous quack as if disagreeing. Vivi herself looked torn between relief and disbelief, her wide eyes darting between the battered town, the princess's so-called protectors, and the drunken fool who was apparently the one who'd saved her from assassination.
Nami sighed and planted her fists on her hips, glaring down at Varin like an exasperated older sister scolding a particularly troublesome sibling. "You're unbelievable. Do you have any idea how much of a disaster this could've been? If you'd passed out, or if they'd actually managed to hit you properly, "
"Ah, but they didn't," Varin cut in, holding up a finger as if he'd just made an irrefutable point. He leaned lazily against the broken railing he'd caught himself on earlier, his body relaxed to the point of carelessness. "You see, lass, that's the beauty of it. They bark loud, but when the bite comes…" He shook his head slowly, still grinning. "It's nothin' worth losin' sleep over."
Nami clenched her jaw. "You're insufferable when wasted."
"Probably," Varin agreed without hesitation, chuckling low in his throat. "But, " he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward Vivi, who still hadn't found her voice, "your royal friend's still breathin', yea? Mission accomplished. Jobs done. And I'd say that earns me a drink, but… I've already beaten you to it."
Nami groaned, dragging her hand down her face. Her patience with Luffy's idiocy was one thing, at least his chaos came with boundless energy and a strange kind of consistency. But Varin's drunken antics were something else entirely. Something new. The fact that he'd actually won while in this state only made it more maddening. It was as though the world itself conspired to let the men around her thrive in idiocy while she was left to pick up the pieces.
She muttered under her breath, "Steel bones, sharp teeth, endless booze… what the hell are you, Varin?"
He leaned in slightly, his grin turning conspiratorial, though his balance clearly wasn't steady enough for the motion. "I'm the one makin' sure your investment doesn't end up gutted on a cobblestone street, lass. That's what I am."
Nami turned on her heel with a sharp huff, muttering something about headaches and pay raises that would never happen. She stalked off toward Vivi, already brushing her orange hair back as if bracing for yet another sanity-fraying chat. Varin, meanwhile, staggered back into a semblance of posture, smirk plastered firmly across his face.
The job was done, aye. But judging by the way Nami stomped across the ruined street, the real fight, for him at least, was surviving her wrath sober.
Varin's boots scuffed against the broken cobblestones as he trailed after Nami, the swagger of his stride ruined by the faint sway of drunkenness. Still, the grin was there, unchanged, unfazed, as if bruises and blood were just part of his uniform.
Nami didn't even have to turn around to know he was following. She could hear it, the slow, uneven drag of his steps, the occasional crunch of debris underfoot. Her shoulders stiffened, jaw set tighter with every step.
Vivi and the duck, however, did look. The princess had barely steadied herself after everything, her hands pressed nervously together at her chest. The bird stood planted in front of her like a feathery shield, wings outstretched in defiance, though its legs trembled beneath it. Wide eyes followed Varin's every move, and when the drunken fighter's shadow fell across them, the poor duck let out a terrified, strangled squawk.
Varin paused, blinking down at the creature with bleary amusement. "Well now," he said, voice thick but playful, "that's no way to greet a man who just kept your mistress from bein' scattered in pieces. What's the look for, eh? Think I'll snack on ya?" He flashed his sharp canines in a grin, and the duck recoiled so violently his webbed feet nearly tangled themselves.
"Varin," Nami snapped, spinning on her heel to face him. She jabbed a finger toward Vivi, who looked caught between fear and gratitude. "You're scaring them. Back off a little, you're too close."
Varin tilted his head, feigning innocence, though the crooked glint in his eye betrayed him. He took another lazy step forward anyway, closing the space between him and Vivi until the duck practically shoved against her legs to push her back.
"Relax, lass," he drawled, lifting both hands in mock surrender. "I've no mind to hurt her. Just makin' sure the job's tidy, that's all. You said keep her safe, didn't you?" His gaze drifted down to Vivi, his height casting a shadow that swallowed her small frame. For all his drunken sway, the weight of his presence was undeniable, like a wolf leaning over a lamb.
Vivi swallowed hard, clutching her duck's feathers with white knuckles. "I… I understand," she managed, her voice low but steady despite her racing pulse. "I owe you my life. Truly. But…" Her eyes darted between his teeth, his hazy eyes, the faint, unsettling humor in his expression. "…I would prefer if you kept your distance."
Varin chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, and stepped back half a pace, not enough to relieve the duck's obvious terror, but just enough to prove he was listening. "Fair enough, princess. Fair enough. Just remember, if the boss's dogs come sniffin' again, it won't be distance that keeps you safe."
The words hung in the air, heavy with both promise and threat, before he finally turned his attention away, his unsteady gait carrying him a few steps to the side. Nami exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose again as Vivi clung to her feathered friend, the duck glaring up at Varin with the kind of hatred only pure fear could breed.
Varin, of course, only laughed to himself, muttering under his breath: "Duck's got more fight in it than those two clowns did." The words half-lost in the hollow echo of his grin.
That was when he noticed it. A shift, not in the town, not in the aftermath of chaos, but in the air itself. A mist had begun to roll in, faint at first, creeping low along the cobblestones like smoke bleeding from unseen cracks. He blinked at it, sluggish, unsure if it had been there all along. He thought it had, thin tendrils drifting about since the night began, but now it thickened, deliberate, like it had been waiting for the fighting to end, waiting for the revelry to collapse into silence.
It curled at his boots, swirled about his ankles, and yet, no one else seemed to notice.
Nami was a few paces ahead, already in full negotiation mode, her hands flying with sharp gestures as she laid down terms with Vivi. Varin could only catch fragments, "expenses," "danger pay," "triple rate", and her voice was sharp, demanding, the sort of wheeling and dealing she always reserved for situations where money was involved. Vivi, still pale and shaken, answered meekly, her words tripping over themselves as she tried to keep pace with Nami's machine-gun demands.
Through it all, Karoo, he heard the princess call the feathered beast that never looked away. The duck's beady eyes stayed locked on Varin, feathers puffed in tension, wings twitching at the slightest movement he made. It wasn't the look of prey staring down its predator anymore; it was something closer to recognition. As though the creature could see something beneath his skin, something Varin himself only half-acknowledged in moments like these.
The fog thickened again, brushing cold against his calves, and for a heartbeat, he wondered if anyone else could feel it. He glanced at Nami, still bartering like a merchant haggle incarnate, then at Vivi, clutching her hands tight at her chest, nervous but attentive. Neither of them so much as blinked at the creeping haze.
Varin swayed slightly on his feet, trying to decide if it was the whiskey playing tricks on him or if something deeper tugged at the edge of his senses. His grin wavered, but didn't vanish. Figures. Only I'd be the one to see ghosts on a night like this.
The mist climbed higher, ghost-pale ribbons that brushed against his knees, coiling in lazy patterns. It wasn't thick enough to blind, not yet, but it wasn't natural either. It felt alive, like it had intent. He dragged his gaze across the battered remains of Whiskey Peak, shattered stone, splintered wood, the remnants of songs and screams still echoing faintly in the empty air. The fog didn't belong here, but it settled here, claiming the ruins as if they had been made for it.
Karoo let out a low, uneasy croak, feathers shuddering. The sound drew Vivi's attention, her brow furrowing as she glanced down at her companion. She stroked his neck softly, murmuring something to calm him, but her eyes never flicked toward the haze creeping around Varin.
That confirmed it. They couldn't see it.
Varin tilted his head back, exhaling through his nose in something that might've been a laugh. His voice dropped low, muttering so only the mist itself could hear. "So it's just me, then. Figures. Always the drunk bastard that sees the things nobody else will admit exist."
The fog curled in closer at those words, brushing his waist now, cool and damp against his skin. It felt less like weather, more like a presence, like something waiting to be acknowledged. And perhaps, if he'd been sober, it might've unsettled him. But the whiskey drowned fear, leaving only that wolfish grin.
"Don't suppose you're here for the pay negotiations, eh?" he murmured, casting a glance at Nami, who was still hounding Vivi for every last coin she could promise. "No, didn't think so…"
The mist rippled, almost in response, as if amused.
Varin straightened slowly, towering even as he swayed, and Karoo let out another strangled squawk, the duck now trembling visibly, feathers puffed like a storm-battered pillow. Vivi tried to hush him again, but Karoo's stare was locked on Varin, unrelenting, fearful in a way that screamed he saw.
The duck's terror gnawed louder in the silence than Nami's haggling, louder than Vivi's uncertain answers.
And as the fog pressed closer, Varin finally felt the edges of sobriety clawing their way back into his head, not a clear mind, but sharper, like the predator within him stirred to answer a call only he could hear.
The grin remained, sharp and thin.
"Aye," he muttered to himself, just under the breath, "let's see where this little show leads."
The mist pulsed, coiling tighter, like it was waiting for exactly that. Then he saw the shape circling him. Large, the size of a horse, but not a horse. It was a shape he knew all too well. A wolf.
The mist pulsed and twisted around him, curling like living smoke, tightening and loosening in an unsteady rhythm that seemed almost purposeful, as though it had been holding its breath for him alone. Every wisp of fog vibrated faintly, carrying a weight that pressed on the air itself, yet he remained grounded, unshaken. The haze thickened in some places, then thinned, creating a shifting lattice of shadow and pale moonlight, and through it, he caught movement.
A shape emerged, circling deliberately, enormous and fluid, its mass dwarfing even the tallest barrels and carts scattered across the plaza. It was not a horse, though the size was comparable; the way it moved, the way it shifted in the fog, made it feel both familiar and uncanny. Muscles bunched and rolled beneath its shadowed form, legs extending in careful, measured steps that made no sound, yet seemed impossibly fast. And then the unmistakable outline sharpened against the mist, the shape of a wolf.
It prowled the fog, weaving in and out of the pale light, a silhouette that felt carved from some distant memory. The fog wrapped around it, coiling at its feet, rising like steam from hot iron, but not enough to conceal the fluid grace of its movement. Its eyes, gleaming faintly as though catching the moonlight, met his with a weight that was not threatening, nor friendly, simply aware.
Varin's gaze followed every step, every careful pivot of the beast. The fog sank lower around him, swirling at knee height now, curling along crates and broken stalls, allowing the wolf's form to dominate the space. It wasn't blocking him, wasn't trying to intimidate, yet there was a presence, a gravity, in its very being that filled the mist as surely as the air filled the plaza.
The beast prowled lazily, tracing a wide circle, never breaking eye contact for long, then slipping through the fog in a slow, deliberate stalk, disappearing behind a cart for a heartbeat before reemerging with a barely perceptible shift in its bulk. Its fur, or what passed for fur beneath the haze, rippled as if the fog itself clung to it, trailing and curling around the taut lines of its body.
Varin didn't flinch. He didn't step back. Even as the fog thickened around his ankles, curling upward like fingers trying to pull him into the ground, he remained still, watching, studying the rhythm of its approach and retreat. There was no fear here, no threat, only recognition, and the faint, unspoken understanding that this figure belonged in the mist, as much as the mist belonged to it.
The wolf's circling slowed, almost ritualistic, each step measured, deliberate. Its gaze, piercing yet unreadable, flicked toward him, then drifted past, scanning the edges of the fog-draped plaza. The haze thickened again behind it, then fell like a curtain as the shadow moved on, leaving only a lingering sense of weight and awareness in its wake, as if the fog itself had exhaled.
And through it all, Varin stayed rooted, unmoved, observing the dance of shadow and mist, feeling the presence, letting it wash over the plaza with all the quiet, unyielding patience of something older than memory itself.
Then the voice came, slicing through the silence, smooth and teasing, echoing from all directions at once. "Awe? No snarky comeback? And here I thought you were fun when you were drunk, little pup."
Varin's eyes narrowed, and from the mist emerged the creature. A wolf, immense and solid, its form partially obscured by the swirling fog. But it was no ordinary beast. Its eyes glowed a deep black, filling even the whites, with pupils that were unnervingly humanlike. They watched him with a precision and intelligence that was impossible to ignore, a presence that seemed aware of more than just him, aware of everything.
The fog seemed to breathe around it, curling past Varin's boots without touching, carrying a subtle chill and a tangible pressure, as though the plaza itself were bending to accommodate this presence. He tilted his head slightly, lips curling in a half-smile, half-grimace. The kind of smirk that said he welcomed the challenge rather than feared it.
The wolf moved again, a fluid motion that was both graceful and predatory. Its paws pressed into the stone silently, leaving no mark, no sound, yet every shift of its body seemed to carry weight, an unspoken assertion of dominance over the space around it. Its black eyes tracked him unwaveringly, as if measuring, calculating, testing him without a word. The mist swirled faster now, like smoke drawn into a current, weaving around them both and amplifying the unnatural tension.
Varin let out a low, rumbling chuckle, part amusement, part disbelief. "Fun, you say?" he murmured, voice rough but steady, carrying over the hiss of the fog. "We'll see whose idea of fun lasts longer, won't we?"
The wolf's head tilted slightly, ears flicking as if it understood, or perhaps mocked, the intent behind his words. There was a stillness to its stance, a kind of contained power, and the sense that it could strike, or vanish, at any moment. Yet it didn't. It merely circled him, slow, deliberate, each step measured, the air trembling subtly with each silent tread.
Varin's eyes followed it, noting the way the mist seemed drawn to the creature, curling and dancing like it were alive in response to its presence. He could feel it sizing him up, the weight of a predator's gaze pressing into his chest even without touch. But he stayed rooted, legs slightly apart, hands relaxed at his sides. He could feel the alcohol from earlier still lingering in his system, adding a warm haze to his mind, but it didn't cloud his awareness. In fact, it made the moment almost… enjoyable.
"You've got the look of someone who doesn't take fools lightly," he said quietly, half to himself, half to the mist. "Don't worry, I'm no fool. Not entirely."
The wolf stopped moving. Its gaze locked onto him directly, black eyes shining unnaturally bright through the fog. There was intelligence there, awareness, a weight that seemed almost beyond comprehension. The mist around it coiled tighter, pressing subtly against Varin as if testing his resolve, the plaza shrinking around them until the world consisted of him, the fog, and the massive, unnerving presence of the wolf.
"Ah, but you are, everyone is a fool in some right. And fools dream, do they not?" The voice echoed again, So what's your dream, young pup?" The wolf's voice laced through the mist like a blade wrapped in silk, smooth yet cutting, teasing yet heavy with meaning.
Varin's smirk didn't falter. He tilted his head back slightly, the weight of that stare pressing against him, yet he refused to bend beneath it. His hands hung loose at his sides, fingers twitching once as though tempted to draw blood, but he made no move; there was no steel needed here.
"A dream, eh?" His voice was rough, slurred faintly, but steady enough to carry. He let out a low chuckle, a sound half-amusement, half-defiance, rolling out into the mist like he was mocking the thing that dared corner him. "Aye, I've heard the word tossed about… sailors talk of dreamin', kings of dreamin', even the blasted sea itself whispers it to fools with nothin' better to do than chase stars on maps."
The fog pressed tighter, the wolf's eyes unblinking, expectant.
Varin leaned forward just enough to show his teeth, his unnaturally sharp canines catching the faint light seeping through the fog. "But me? I don't deal in dreams. Dreams are for fools who've the luxury to chase 'em. I deal in what is. Blood, steel, the sea itself. The rest, " he flicked his hand through the mist, scattering a tendril like it was smoke, "is naught but piss in the wind."
The wolf's breath stirred the fog, though its jaws hadn't moved. Its voice slithered around him again, threaded with both amusement and something deeper. "And yet here you stand, pup, chasing something whether you admit it or not. No one sails these seas without a dream gnawing at their marrow."
Varin's smirk twitched, hardening into something closer to a snarl. He met the black eyes unflinching, his tone low, rough. "Then maybe my dream's simpler than the rest. Maybe it's not crowns or treasure or fool's tales of glory. Maybe mine's just to keep standin' when the sea itself wants me gone. To spit in its eye, aye, and laugh while it tries."
The silence that followed was heavier than the mist itself, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though the wolf's gaze reached into him, sifting through marrow, weighing the truth of his words. The fog pulsed once, as though the world itself had taken a breath.
Then it laughed.
Not the low growl of a beast, not the baying howl of a wolf, but something far too human. A cackle, jagged and sharp, bursting from everywhere at once. It pressed in from the fog, from the stones underfoot, from the air itself until the plaza seemed to tremble with it. The mist rippled with each peal, wrapping tighter around Varin like chains woven from sound alone.
It wasn't joy, not truly. It was mockery, delight at his defiance, the kind of laughter that had been echoing since the first fool ever tried to stand against something far greater than himself.
The wolf hadn't moved. Its jaws were still, its black eyes unblinking. And yet the laughter poured from it ceaselessly, crawling into Varin's ears, burrowing into his skull, reverberating in his bones until the rhythm of it was nearly in time with his heartbeat.
Varin squinted, jaw tightening. He didn't flinch, didn't recoil, though the weight of the sound was enough to buckle lesser men. He stood firm, shoulders squared, though the whiskey in his veins made the ground sway under him as if the earth itself joined in the wolf's mirth.
"Laugh all ye like," he muttered, voice low but carrying, cutting into the storm of sound. His grin returned, feral, crooked, baring those sharp canines as though daring the laughter to break him. "But it won't change a damn thing."
The laughter surged louder, climbing and climbing until it split the air, until it was less sound and more an assault on existence itself, then it stopped. Cut clean, so suddenly it was as if the world itself had been muted. The silence that followed wasn't peace. It was suffocation. A silence that gnawed, that demanded to be filled.
"But it will, young pup." The voice slithered back into the void, smooth, venomous. It carried no need for volume, its weight sank straight into his marrow. "Your dream is not noble. Not grand. It is simple. To live unbound, free of law, free of rule… free of those you decide are lesser than you."
The wolf vanished in a blink. One moment it was there, mist coiling around its massive frame, eyes boring into him. The next, emptiness.
Then cold steel kissed Varin's throat. A blade, impossibly sharp, impossibly sudden, rested just beneath his jaw, tilting up ever so slightly. Not enough to cut, but enough to promise.
Warm breath ghosted over his ear, humid against the night chill. The voice whispered now, intimate, as though it had leaned in close, too close. "So tell me, pup, what happens if I take that life right now? Would your precious dream change then? Or would you die clinging to it like a child with a broken toy?"
The mist pressed in harder, suffocating. His world narrowed to the weight of the blade, the heat of the breath, the black, unseen presence all around him.
Yet Varin's lips twitched, not into fear, but into that same crooked grin that refused to leave him. His body was still, but his eyes shifted, sharp despite the haze of drink, as if even with death pressed to his throat, he dared it to follow through.
Varin's voice came low, roughened but steady, carrying no fear, only that jagged edge of mockery he wielded like a shield. "So you're not supposed to be the wolf inside me or some sappy nonsense like that." His smirk deepened a fraction, eyes flicking sideways as though to catch a glimpse of the figure behind him, though the mist offered no face. "So tell me, stranger… do I at least get your name?"
The response was laughter, sharp, jagged, far too human. It tore through the silence like claws across stone, each cackle twisting tighter, pressing against him from every direction at once. In the middle of it, the blade bit deeper, not a full strike, but a taunting kiss that pricked skin and drew a bead of warmth to slide down his throat. The laughter shook with the motion, as though the one holding the weapon delighted in the sting.
"Guess, little pup," the voice purred, laced with amusement so thick it was almost madness. The blade nudged harder, just shy of true harm, but insistent. "Guess… and perhaps you'll earn yourself a prize."
The mist around them coiled tighter, shivering like it was alive, waiting to hear his answer, as if the whole world hung on whether Varin dared to play the game.
Varin held himself still, the faint trickle of blood warm against his skin where the blade pressed deeper. His smirk faltered, not out of fear, but from the weight of the demand. He tried to think, tried to conjure something, anything. Names, faces, fragments of stories he'd heard in his years.
But nothing came.
The fog in his head wasn't just from the whiskey; it was heavier now, oppressive, crawling through his thoughts like it wanted to strangle every answer before it reached his lips. He ground his teeth together, the sharp canines catching the faint light, but still, nothing. No name, no identity, no clever retort to throw back in the stranger's face.
His breath left him in a rough chuckle, more growl than laugh. "Hells…" he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse but still defiant. "Can't think of a damned thing."
The mist seemed to tighten at that admission, as though savoring the failure. The blade lingered at his throat, shifting ever so slightly, like the man behind him had tilted his head, studying him with renewed interest.
"You can't name me," the voice crooned, soft and triumphant, echoing like a whisper through every corner of the fog. "And yet here I stand, pup. A thing with no name, a shadow you cannot pin, a truth you cannot touch. How… fitting."
The laughter returned, quieter this time, but colder, close enough that Varin could feel the vibration of it in his bones.
The blade stayed firm at Varin's throat, its edge biting just enough to draw a thin line of heat, a bead of blood sliding down his skin. Then the voice leaned closer, so close Varin could feel the man's lips curl into a grin against his ear, the breath warm, sickeningly intimate.
"Let me help you, pup," the whisper slid in, playful yet sharp, like a knife hidden in velvet. "I'm the shadow between truths, the jest at the end of every prayer. I can unmake all things with a laugh, if I choose." The grin in the voice widened, every word carrying the weight of mockery dressed as wisdom. "In a way…" he lingered, savoring the moment, "…I might as well be your father. After all, who else but me would dare to claim you?"
The laugh that followed was not wild this time, but low, deliberate, dragging itself out, vibrating in Varin's bones. It was the kind of laugh that mocked the very concept of meaning, that reveled in twisting the knife not in flesh, but in spirit. It pressed in from all sides of the mist, layered and echoing, as though countless voices were laughing with him.
And through it all, that blade stayed steady at his throat, as though daring him to laugh back.
Varin stood still, forcing himself not to flinch, not to betray the storm clawing at his chest. He would not give this stranger the satisfaction of seeing fear, not when fear was the very reaction the voice wanted. But the weight of those words lingered, worming their way past his composure. The shadow between truths… the jest at the end of every prayer… father.
It wasn't terror that bit at him, not exactly. It was something worse. Concern, heavy and gnawing. Worry that this wasn't just some phantom conjured by mist, but something ancient, older than the seas they sailed. And beneath it all, confusion, because the puzzle pieces clicked together too well. The laughter, the riddles, the mockery sharpened like knives, the delight in turning every word inside out until truth and lie were inseparable.
The figure's presence seemed to swell in the silence, waiting, savoring his hesitation. Varin's brow furrowed, his jaw set tight, and though the unease sat coiled in his gut, he forced the word out, low and steady, like a curse he could not swallow. He knew who the man was, the father of the wolf.
"Loki."