09/09/2025 - 10/12/2025 | 11:59:59PM IST

Mangy Mongrel

You stood before Niflheim’s portal, the cold light flickering over your paws as you hesitated. Aurora had vanished into its depths… should you follow? She was your anchor in Helvalla, the reason Sanctuary had been safely declared. If you returned alone to Norn’s Weave, what then? You could not linger there forever, and when Freyja came to return the tomes Fenrir had possession of, she would expect to find you waiting there. Your chest ached with the weight of the choice, worry gnawing at you as you contemplated.

After careful consideration you weren’t leaping into bed with the idea of launching yourself into yet another portal so soon. You turned away from the icy vortex and retraced your steps toward the raft on Lake Frostfall. It still bobbed against the shore right where you and Aurora left it, her satchel resting safely inside. As you climbed aboard, a rustle stopped you cold as you attempted to hone in on the sound. A creature had burrowed into the bag of provisions as it rummaged about. Its coat shimmered silver-white, long fur peppered like fresh falling snow. You cleared your throat, but the sound only startled the creature as it overreacted to your presence. With a sharp hiss the animal spun, ears flat, glaring at you as it popped wildly in place before landing on all fours, legs splayed out rather ridiculously.

It was feline in shape, slender but quite large for its kind. You leaned closer to sniff, and to your shock and dismay it spat words as sharp as its claws. “Don’t you dare touch me, you mangy mongrel.” You froze, disbelief washing over you like waves crashing down on Hongerige. With a flick of its tail the creature seized a sandwich from Aurora’s satchel quite rudely and with more attitude than you’ve ever seen in such a small creature, leapt gracefully from the raft, and padded into the shadows as if nothing at all was amiss. You blinked after it, stunned, until another voice cut through your confusion. “Natty,” came the call. Then with more clear words they spoke again, “Nattnkatt, to be precise.”

Hel emerged from the trees as she trotted over to greet you. How long had she been here? She wasted no time explaining. She had followed Freyja at Fenrir’s command, stowing aboard the ship she was on, and had been trailing her for days. She had heard every word you spoke with Freyja, but the sight of a Nattnkatt derailed her previous intentions. Hel confessed now to you, an act she was most ashamed of. In her rage at both Aurora and Loki, she had opened a portal she should never have dared. She believed she had closed it, yet given she had spotted a few Nattnkatt she feared her attempts to close it might have failed. Worse still, she admitted she had once crossed into that other world herself. Miðhafsey (MEE-oh-hauf-snay), she called it. The island at the heart of the sea.

She missed Freyja’s return to Ulfrheim, nearly caught and forced to remain behind. Now she needed your help, and your boat, to detour south to Ymir’s Maw. What else could you do but agree? Until now you too were uncertain of what direction you were meant to go. The ride across Lake Frostfall was long, filled with Hel talking far too much. If all nine tomes were gathered, she believed she could use the magic inside to throw a wrench in Oracle’s plans. Yet her words trembled with a certain uneasiness that left you chilled, her eyes shifting as though she was hiding truths best left unspoken.

When at last your paws touched the stony shore of Ymir’s Maw, Hel moved with a rather familiar ease, navigating the twisting passages as if she herself had carved them. Hours passed before you reached a chamber so vast you struggled to understand how it fit in Ymir’s Maw at all. At its heart gaped a void, not filled with water but a whirling heavenly mist that danced and swirled beneath glowing crystal-lit walls.

“No,” Hel whispered, ears pinned. “I thought I–” Her voice was cut short by another. The words were venomous and they sliced through the silence of the cavern. “You thought what, Hel?” From the shadows stepped Nightfall. Her gaze burned right through you as she paid you a single glance, now fixated on Hel. “You thought you could shirk our bargain? Run off and play house without consequence?” Hel bristled, lips curled, but Nightfall only pressed harder. “You thought you could close MY in-between and walk away? Do they even know?” Her eyes darted toward you once more, sharp as Stonewall’s blades. “What will Ylva think when she learns the truth?”

“Don’t you dare say her name!” Hel’s snarl caused bats to break free from their peaceful slumber as they scattered about behind Nightfall for a moment before dispersing into the darkness. Nightfall only smiled, cruel amusement twisted alongside every word she had spoken next. “You thought you closed the portal into Miðhafsey (MEE-oh-hauf-snay), didn’t you? You failed. My realm lies in ruin now because of you.” Nightfall turned now as she faced the portal, a side-eye swiveled back to Hel as the words she had spoken next were laced with malicious intent, “Portal for a portal, sister.”

Before Hel could lunge, Nightfall flung something dark into the mist. The void screamed open, and water surged out, flooding Ymir’s Maw in a crushing torrent of violent waves. Hel leapt toward you, slipping against the jagged wet stone as waves swallowed the chamber. Despite her best attempts to usher you towards the exit it was no use. “Hymnlæja (HYMN-in-laya) will haunt you yet,” Nightfall’s voice echoed as she vanished. The tide broke over you both with merciless force, unrelenting, unforgiving. Again and again you were struck, dragged under until your lungs burned as they threatened to seize. Through the blur you saw Hel flailing, eyes wide with fear. Just like Aurora her mouth motioned the words I’m sorry. She shook her head left and right softly as she attempted to speak to them, bubbles rising as she grew weaker with defeat. You watched in horror as her body went limp in the water’s encroaching blackness.

You clawed upward for air, but the weight of Miðhafsey (MEE-oh-hauf-snay) was too great. The silence of its waves claimed you without mercy, until darkness swallowed you whole just as it had swallowed Hel moments prior. When at last your eyes opened, you coughed violently, salt stinging your throat as it spilled out into the pink sand before you. You lay sprawled upon a strange shoreline, unfamiliar yet serene as the ocean poured out into a grand display of many mountains and waterfalls. The storm was gone. Beside you, Hel’s battered form stirred weakly as she groaned. When you finally broke your gaze free from Hel you were met with what you could only assume was Miðhafsey (MEE-oh-hauf-snay), it broke open into a grand display of rolling hills as waterfalls crashed down from every viable surface. Now what have you gotten yourself into? Maybe you should have leapt into Niflheim’s portal after all.

Objective:

Depict or write your character lying upon the pink-speckled shores of Miðhafsey, surrounded by crashing waterfalls that drop from the very clouds themselves and countless splitting streams that rush outward into the ocean. The ocean’s blue is lined with towering mountains, their peaks so high the clouds swallow them whole. All around, white birch trees stretch endlessly, consuming the view as far as the eye can see. This slice of shoreline makes you feel small, with boulders scattered across its surface, busted and broken yet laced with flora.

Reward:

1,500 Felcredits, 1x Chest of War, Peace, Power, Knowledge, 1x Waterlogged Goods, 2x Missing Page: Restoring Niflheim (BoA), 1x Fenrir’s Keepsake

Optional:

Including Hel in your entry will score you 1x Physical Mutation: Claws, paying tribute to the fiery Nattnkatt she released.

09/16/2025 - 10/15/2025 | 11:59:59PM IST

The Mountain Remembers

As the fall months prepare to settle across Helgrimm, Draugfell begins to stir. The volcano, always looming, lets out a low rumble that rolls through the nearby forests and valleys like a warning bell of sorts. To the locals that reside near Draugfell this is no warning at all. It's a call. This particular sound means the hardened cap deep within Draugfell has cracked, revealing the molten heart beneath. The volcano's rumble made it seem as if it was breathing, with each tremor rolling through the ground like a pulse of a slumbering beast. Wisps of thick, black smoke started coiling up towards the sky from the crack in the heart of Draugfell, slowly blurring the horizon and letting only glimpses of light through. For them, this moment is not about fear of Draugfell's eruption but about the tradition they have always participated in, a tradition older than memory, carried on for many generations.

When Draugfell rumbles, the locals here climb. Somefel go because they are brave, otherfel because they are burdened by the weight of something heavy, and some because they are foolish enough to test themselves against the mountain. Whatever the reason, everyone who participates in this tradition understands its purpose. Each participant brings with them an item; something personal, something with weight. Not in gold or silver, but in meaning. It is an object that holds their fear, their regret, or a pain too sharp to carry further.

The climb up Draugfell is not easy. The air grows thin and hot, the ground rough and unyielding. Ash gathers in copious amounts, and each step forward feels heavier than the last. The rocks clatter and shift with each pawstep towards the volcano's edge and each breath of sulfur in the air stings, following a bitter aftertaste. Despite all of this locals press on, because the act of climbing is as much a part of the offering as the casting itself. It demands effort, sweat, and sheer will. To face Draugfell, one must first face oneself through a great many challenges the mountain will offer.

At the rim, the world seems to end. The air burns, the ground shakes, and far below, the lava seethes—alive, hungry. Standing upon the edge, those who have climbed Draugfell feel their burdens heavier than ever. To let go is not so simple. Paws tighten around the object, the weight of memories begging to be held just a little while longer. The lava crackles and hisses below, casting hot steam that is barely tolerable. And then, at last, the object is casted into the fire below. It disappears into a burst of sparks, swallowed by Draugfell's molten blood.

Those who return are never quite the same it seems. Some walk down the mountainside lighter, as if the lava swallowed more than just the object they relinquished within. Others descend with eyes hollowed, or with a new hardness carved into their chest. The volcano doesn't take, it changes. It leaves a lasting mark. To give up pain is to gain something else, though nothing lasting is ever free. Whether you are born of Helgrimm's soil or only a traveler who found themselves tangled in its unique customs, when Draugfell rumbles and its call rises, what will you do?

Objective:

Depict or write your character making the difficult trek up Draugfell in Helgrimm, carrying something of deep personal meaning to cast into the volcano below. Ensure your character is navigating the molten, forest-crested mountain with caution.

Reward:

1,000 Felcredits, 5x Mushrooms, 1x Magical Moonstone, 1x Strange Potion, 1x Cluster of Unakite*

10/03/2025 - 11/02/2025 | 11:59:59PM IST

Syn

It was that time of year, the mountaintops poured their cool mist down the cliff side, bringing with it a refreshing breath of air. It wafted the heat, keeping it at bay with a sense of relief. As you basked in the valley just shy of Fenrir’s Incisor, you sigh as the endless fields of grass rippled in the gentle tug of the wind, their green blades laced in a hue of yellow as the cool air bathed the valley. Then you felt it, a throb in your heart that ached. You look up to see a swirling cloud that looked sickly and grey, the wind howling as if the mountain tops themselves seemed to groan in agony. With the grass softly crunching beneath her paws, Freyja herself appeared from the mist to stand by your side, her face solemn and her eyes heavy with a restlessness that no amount of sleep could cure.

“Fate unbound, taught with a fray that threatens to lose its strained grip,” she whispered with an edge of panic. She lowered her head, her gaze falling on you. “Our recent woes have not only changed the very path our paws may tread, but have put others at risk of losing what once was.” With a flick of her tail, she gestures towards the mountain choked in clouds. “I hear them, their voices wail at the rip of each thread I have woven. Aetla and Svelta need our help,” the alpha spoke, her voice quivering with sorrow. You began to recall the tales of Syn who held the skulls that belonged to those named Aetla and Svelta. It was foretold that should the red strings of fate ever sever, they would fall into a silence that would deafen ears around Ulfrheim. Syn’s wisdom would be lost to time, precious memories from the past, the reflection of what you see before you, and what has yet to reveal itself. “We must repair the strings that hold the skulls to Syn’s Horns.”

Without hesitation you tread the rugged mountain side, each pawstep and clawscrape devoted to reach Syn before the strings succumbed to an awful fate. You squinted your eyes, the wind stinging your face as it plastered your fur against your frame. Hardly able to keep your paws evenly placed, you stop to gain your bearings as a shrine slowly comes into view. The mist now pooled, ebbing and flowing in thick waves. Through the vapor, a glint of red catches your eye. Pressing onward, only guided by the soft flickers of red light that danced like a flame, waiting to roar in confidence once more. As you press through a thick shield of bramble and ivy, you step out into the shrine, its stone surface etched in ancient Leacaruníc that sat dappled in moonlight. Syn’s breath welcomed you, as the beast himself awaited you. Slicing through the haze was the grand bison Syn that walked carefully so as to not disturb the skulls barely clinging to his horns. You quickly run to his side, pressing your forehead into his, the spirit in his eyes fading. Syn lowers his form to the ground, his legs tucked beneath him as he bowed his head low enough for you to reach. The skulls of Aetla and Svelta whisper in harmony, their voices pulling memories from within. You take a deep breath as you allow your mind to traverse your soul, thoughts of the past, the present, and what lies ahead weaving into restorative threads.

Objective:

Depict or write your character presenting the freshly woven red string of fate to Syn, to safely bind Aetla’s and Svelta’s skulls once more.

Reward:

1x Badge, 5x Mushrooms, 1x Shrine, 1x Tattered Rope, and a 50% for 1xPristine Mass of Unakite*

Optional:

Completing the main prompt, and all 3 additional prompts will score you: 1x Bucket of Candies, & 1x Chosen Uncommon Trait

Visually: by presenting additional visuals in a comic-style format (panels)per additional prompt. If supplied alongside the main prompt being ‘Literature’ please include the images at the top of your literature details. (equally matching complex requirements bust or greater)
-or-
Written: by adding an additional 250 words of descriptive writing per additional prompt. If written, include the literature labeling each optional prompt in ‘Extra Literature’ if supplying artwork for your main prompt, or labeled alongside your prompt completion is supplying literature for your main prompt.

Optional Prompt #1: The Past — Aetla’s Whisper Aetla gazes into your eyes in deep reflection. Describe or depict a moment in your past where your choice defined who you became, for better or worse. Display a moment of great pride, shame, or regret.

Optional Prompt #2: The Present — Syn’s Reflection Syn lowers his head so his mirrored eyes reflect into yours. Describe or depict what you see in yourself now. Strength, weakness, or a flaw you attempt to hide. Display acknowledgment of your current self honestly.

Optional Prompt #3: The Future - Svelta’s Prediction Svelta comes to you in a dream. Imagine a path your paws may yet tread. What future do you hope for — or fear? The answer threads the final strand into the red string of fate.