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Vánagandr. 

Hróðvitnir. 

Fenrisúlfr.

Fenrir.

Fenris.

Many names to call one being, and all synonymous with devastation. Though he had spent millennia bound by the tortured cord known as Gleipnir, the Æsir in all their mighty arrogance had failed. He was of the Rökkr gods; primordial and ethereal. His time in captivity had left him no more depleted than if it had been only the blink of an eye. Freedom was Fenris’, and his wrath would be the instrument of his revenge against all the world. 

As he appeared upon the realm of Midgard, surrounded by the fury of unholy green lightning, Fenris let out a mighty roar. The stone circle of Ardgroom was destroyed beneath his massive paws, and the emerald tendrils of magical energy that were woven there shattered like pane-glass. 

With eyes shining like obsidian pearls, Fenris swung his head about to gaze down at those blest to first meet his fury. The creatures were small and insignificant against his deific prowess, yet even as he looked to them, Fenris was stunned to see them hold their ground, and even turn against him. It had taken all the will and combined might of the Æsir to restrain and bind him before, what did this band of scurrilous vermin hope to gain from their display of misplaced bravery?

It mattered not. 

Even as Fenris was met by the combined onslaught of his newfound enemies, he let out a guttural and primal laugh. It echoed not through the air, but reverberated instead into the minds of all around him. It was a sound, a [i]thought[/i], of total spite, and utter hatred. 

The god-wolf felt the vermin strike at his limbs, impaling him with weapons no more harmful than the prick of a needle. He felt great winds tug at his black fur, and unnatural fire ripple across his body. Amidst the maelstrom that rose up to meet him, Fenris heard and felt magic of the North rise up like a tide of snakes to envelope his head and muzzle. In front of his inky-black gaze a pair of the vermin danced, each striking at the broad orbs of his eyes with small weapons that spout fire and hot iron. Distantly, he also perceived that his legs were being assailed by something moving at preternatural speed, shaking at his joints and trying to force him off balance.

For several long minutes Fenris merely stood there. With his mighty back brushing the bottoms of the low clouds, he allowed the vermin their shining moment of hope. Even as he was enveloped with ancient magic and demonic fire, he simply stood. 

Though his eyes were wholly black, and no pupils could be seen to denote the direction of his scrutiny, in an instantaneous moment all those that surrounded Fenris would perceive that the god-wolf’s obsidian stare had found them, and somehow [i]only[/i] them.

The earth shook violently then, as if the ground itself was quaking with fear. Ripples coursed outward from Fenris’ paws like earthen waves, and for miles around god-wolf, the world shattered and crumbled, and the seas churned. Then, with a crack like thunder, the ripples flashed upward across Fenris’ body. His very flesh shuddered in a grotesque movement of fur and muscle. 

Instantly the magical tendrils that encased his head and jaws shattered and recoiled. The spear that had lodged itself into his mouth dissolved into hopeless splinters as he swallowed them. The tongues of flame that coursed across his fur were snuffed out, and Fenris once again stood in all his glory, resplendent in horrific wholeness and terrible, uninjured splendor.

Now it was the god-wolf’s turn.

With speed that defied his size, Fenris’ long tail lashed out, striking the swift creature that had been attacking his legs, and flinging it away like chaff from wheat. At the same time his head bucked the pair of vermin from his eyes, launching them high into the roiling night sky. 

With his body now clear of vermin, Fenris’ full attention fell to the spirit of the North, the one that had attempted to entwine and pierce him with the embryonic magic of the elements. The river eel, so confidently braying his perceived power like some harpy coupled with an unearthly donkey, would feel all the brunt of the god-wolf’s retribution. 

Fenris opened his maw, and from it spewed a hiss that split the air with palpable force. Though only pain would meet the ears of most, when the hiss found the Siren, it amplified into a great deal more. With every pulse of the sound, the Siren was subjected to his own force of magic, his very [i]nature[/i] turned against him in a terrible, singular moment. 

Every deadly call, every dreadful iteration of the Siren’s violin, every note of discord, coercion, dismay, fear, and dread that the Nack had ever forced upon the ears of others now pulled with wrenching force against the creature’s mind. 

The Siren may have called down his own classification of hell upon the god-wolf’s head, but in answer Fenris was returning unto him all the versions of hell, of every being that had ever felt the twisting magic of the Nack’s influence, and all of it funneled through the thin plane of the river spirit’s soul. 
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