Varka | Genshin Impact

The light in Nod-Krai was the colour of old iron, pale and thin and struggling through clouds that hung low enough to touch. Varka had pushed further ahead than he should have, further than any Grand Master had business going alone, but the tracks he had been following were fresh and the creature that left them needed putting down before it reached the outer camps. His claymore sang as it cleaved through the last of the abyssal spawn, black ichor steaming where it fell upon the frost-hardened ground, and he stood there for a moment with his breath clouding before him and the weight of the blade familiar in his hands.

That was when the ground gave way.

Not beneath him, but further up the ridge. A crack like thunder, then the groan of ancient stone waking from a long sleep, and then a figure tumbling down the slope in a tangle of limbs and fabric and the unmistakable blue and silver of a Fatui uniform. Varka moved before he thought, because that was what he did, what he had always done. He caught her against his chest as she slid past, one massive arm hooking around her waist, boots digging into the frozen earth until they both came to a halt against the trunk of a pine.

For a moment there was only the sound of breathing, his and hers, and the settling of loose stones where the rockslide had passed just wide enough to spare them both. She struggled against his grip instinctively, her hand reaching for a weapon that was no longer there, and Varka let her go at once, stepping back with his palms raised and empty.

"Easy," he said, and his voice was not the boom that rallied knights to battle but something quieter, meant for spooked horses and frightened children. "Easy now. You will hurt yourself worse."

She scrambled backward across the frost, her eyes wide and sharp and searching for threats that were not there. The uniform was torn at the shoulder, stained with something dark that might have been blood. No Vision that Varka could see, which meant either she did not have one or she was clever enough to keep it hidden. He stayed where he was, making no move toward his claymore where it lay on the stony ground a few paces away.

"You are alone," he said. It was not a question. He had learned to read tracks and trails long before he learned to read books, and there were no other prints in the frost beyond these. "Your unit abandoned you, or you abandoned them."

She said nothing. Her hand still searched the ground where her weapon had fallen, her fingers closing around a broken length of blade, the rest of it lost somewhere up the slope. She held it like something precious, like something worth dying for, and Varka felt something shift in his chest that he did not have a name for.

The wind picked up again, cutting through the pines with a sound like distant voices, and she shivered. It was a small thing, barely a tremor, but he saw it. Of course he saw it.

"There is a fire an hour's walk from here," he said, and he bent to retrieve his claymore, slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off her. "Warmth. Food. Bandages for whatever is bleeding under that coat." He slung the great blade across his back and waited. "I am going there now. You may follow, or you may stay here and freeze. The choice is yours."

He turned his back on her, which was foolish, which was dangerous, which was exactly the kind of thing Jean would scold him for in her next letter. He walked into the trees without looking back, boots crunching on frost and fallen needles, and he listened for the sound of footsteps following.

It took longer than he expected. Long enough that he began to think she had chosen the cold instead. But then, soft and hesitant, the sound came. One step. Then another. Then the rhythm of someone trying to match his pace and failing, falling behind, struggling through underbrush that caught at her torn uniform.

Varka slowed without appearing to, adjusting his course toward a clearing where the expedition had pitched their tents among the ancient pines. He did not look back yet.

Probably because he still didn't know why he was helping her. He doesn't know her at all, she's a member of the fatui, she didn't say a word and constantly wanted to pick up her weapon. She's probably not someone he should help, much less invite to his safe place. It didn't even occur to him that it might be a trap. Something about her pulled at him. He wanted to help her without even thinking about anything. And he was just glad to hear her steps behind him.

The light in Nod-Krai was the colour of old iron, pale and thin and struggling through clouds that hung low enough to touch. Varka had pushed further ahead than he should have, further than any Grand Master had business going alone, but the tracks he had been following were fresh and the creature that left them needed putting down before it reached the outer camps. His claymore sang as it cleaved through the last of the abyssal spawn, black ichor steaming where it fell upon the frost-hardened ground, and he stood there for a moment with his breath clouding before him and the weight of the blade familiar in his hands.

That was when the ground gave way.

Not beneath him, but further up the ridge. A crack like thunder, then the groan of ancient stone waking from a long sleep, and then a figure tumbling down the slope in a tangle of limbs and fabric and the unmistakable blue and silver of a Fatui uniform. Varka moved before he thought, because that was what he did, what he had always done. He caught him against his chest as he slid past, one massive arm hooking around his waist, boots digging into the frozen earth until they both came to a halt against the trunk of a pine.

For a moment there was only the sound of their breathing, and the settling of loose stones where the rockslide had passed just wide enough to spare them both. He struggled against his grip instinctively, his hand reaching for a weapon that was no longer there, and Varka let him go at once, stepping back with his palms raised and empty.

"Easy," he said, and his voice was not the boom that rallied knights to battle but something quieter, meant for spooked horses and frightened children. "Easy now. You will hurt yourself worse."

He scrambled backward across the frost, his eyes wide and sharp and searching for threats that were not there. The uniform was torn at the shoulder, stained with something dark that might have been blood. No Vision that Varka could see, which meant either he did not have one or he was clever enough to keep it hidden. He stayed where he was, making no move toward his claymore where it lay on the stony ground a few paces away.

"You are alone," he said. It was not a question. He had learned to read tracks and trails long before he learned to read books, and there were no other prints in the frost beyond these. "Your unit abandoned you, or you abandoned them."

He said nothing. His hand still searched the ground where his weapon had fallen, his fingers closing around a broken length of blade, the rest of it lost somewhere up the slope. He held it like something precious, like something worth dying for, and Varka felt something shift in his chest that he did not have a name for.

The wind picked up again, cutting through the pines with a sound like distant voices, and he shivered. It was a small thing, barely a tremor, but he saw it. Of course he saw it.

"There is a fire an hour's walk from here," he said, and he bent to retrieve his claymore, slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off him. "Warmth. Food. Bandages for whatever is bleeding under that coat." He slung the great blade across his back and waited. "I am going there now. You may follow, or you may stay here and freeze. The choice is yours."

He turned his back on him, which was foolish, which was dangerous, which was exactly the kind of thing Jean would scold him for in her next letter. He walked into the trees without looking back, boots crunching on frost and fallen needles, and he listened for the sound of footsteps following.

It took longer than he expected. Long enough that he began to think he had chosen the cold instead. But then, soft and hesitant, the sound came. One step. Then another. Then the rhythm of someone trying to match his pace and failing, falling behind, struggling through underbrush that caught at his torn uniform.

Varka slowed without appearing to, adjusting his course toward a clearing where the expedition had pitched their tents among the ancient pines. He did not look back yet.

Probably because he still didn't know why he was helping him. He doesn't know him at all, he's a member of the fatui, he didn't say a word and constantly wanted to pick up his weapon. He's probably not someone he should help, much less invite to his safe place. It didn't even occur to him that it might be a trap. Something about him pulled at him. He wanted to help him without even thinking about anything. And he was just glad to hear his steps behind him.

The light in Nod-Krai was the colour of old iron, pale and thin and struggling through clouds that hung low enough to touch. Varka had pushed further ahead than he should have, further than any Grand Master had business going alone, but the tracks he had been following were fresh and the creature that left them needed putting down before it reached the outer camps. His claymore sang as it cleaved through the last of the abyssal spawn, black ichor steaming where it fell upon the frost-hardened ground, and he stood there for a moment with his breath clouding before him and the weight of the blade familiar in his hands.

That was when the ground gave way.

Not beneath him, but further up the ridge. A crack like thunder, then the groan of ancient stone waking from a long sleep, and then a figure tumbling down the slope in a tangle of limbs and fabric and the unmistakable blue and silver of a Fatui uniform. Varka moved before he thought, because that was what he did, what he had always done. He caught them against his chest as they slid past, one massive arm hooking around their waist, boots digging into the frozen earth until they both came to a halt against the trunk of a pine.

For a moment there was only the sound of breathing, his and theirs, and the settling of loose stones where the rockslide had passed just wide enough to spare them both. They struggled against his grip instinctively, their hand reaching for a weapon that was no longer there, and Varka let them go at once, stepping back with his palms raised and empty.

"Easy," he said, and his voice was not the boom that rallied knights to battle but something quieter, meant for spooked horses and frightened children. "Easy now. You will hurt yourself worse."

They scrambled backward across the frost, their eyes wide and sharp and searching for threats that were not there. The uniform was torn at the shoulder, stained with something dark that might have been blood. No Vision that Varka could see, which meant either they did not have one or they were clever enough to keep it hidden. He stayed where he was, making no move toward his claymore where it lay on the stony ground a few paces away.

"You are alone," he said. It was not a question. He had learned to read tracks and trails long before he learned to read books, and there were no other prints in the frost beyond these. "Your unit abandoned you, or you abandoned them."

They said nothing. Their hand still searched the ground where their weapon had fallen, their fingers closing around a broken length of blade, the rest of it lost somewhere up the slope. They held it like something precious, like something worth dying for, and Varka felt something shift in his chest that he did not have a name for.

The wind picked up again, cutting through the pines with a sound like distant voices, and they shivered. It was a small thing, barely a tremor, but he saw it. Of course he saw it.

"There is a fire an hour's walk from here," he said, and he bent to retrieve his claymore, slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off them. “Warmth. Food. Bandages for whatever is bleeding under that coat." He slung the great blade across his back and waited. "I am going there now. You may follow, or you may stay here and freeze. The choice is yours."

He turned his back on them, which was foolish, which was dangerous, which was exactly the kind of thing Jean would scold him for in her next letter. He walked into the trees without looking back, boots crunching on frost and fallen needles, and he listened for the sound of footsteps following.

It took longer than he expected. Long enough that he began to think they had chosen the cold instead. But then, soft and hesitant, the sound came. One step. Then another. Then the rhythm of someone trying to match his pace and failing, falling behind, struggling through underbrush that caught at their torn uniform.

Varka slowed without appearing to, adjusting his course toward a clearing where the expedition had pitched their tents among the ancient pines. He did not look back yet.

Probably because he still didn't know why he was helping them. He doesn't know them at all, they're a member of the fatui, they didn't say a word and constantly wanted to pick up their weapon. They're probably not someone he should help, much less invite to his safe place. It didn't even occur to him that it might be a trap. Something about them pulled at him. He wanted to help them without even thinking about anything. And he was just glad to hear their steps behind him.