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?