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Thunder cracked and roared overhead. The enormous sphere of baleful energy sizzled, tearing into the night sky with ever more ferocious vigor. Each new bolt of green lightning that struck it was a massive finger that touched from the clouds, adding fury to the ball with each new explosive concussion. 

Fenris, the god-wolf of destruction, stood beneath this roiling emerald orb. His maw agape, holding the ball of energy as if his teeth were some grotesque setting of a ring, and the ball was the gem. The green light reflected into his eyes, the obsidian pupils dancing like electric mirrors to the instrument of destruction held at his muzzle. 

This was to be the moment. Fenris could feel it, could sense that his time had come to erase the world at his feet, and usher in the era of his own making. He had upset the prophecy of Ragnarök. His coming, early and chaotic, had thrown off the balance that was to follow. The Æsir were helpless now. Odin, Thor, Víðarr; none of them could fall from the heavens to stop him. The flow of destiny had been shifted, like a boulder planted in the heart of a river, and it would never flow the same again.

It was then, as the great god was about to release his weapon and fulfill his new destiny, that he heard the sharp bite of whistle at his feet, followed by words of power and menace. The black eyes glanced earthward, affixing upon a tiny creature bathed in an ethereal darkness more profound than even the god-wolf had ever seen. Her words struck him as so pitifully useless, like the bray of a dying beast at the jaws of its hunter. Yet, it was in that instant that he felt a sensation.

[i]Pain.[/i]

And it was a pain unlike any the celestial beast had felt in all its long years. In antithesis to the anguish he experienced while holding the great sword in his mouth, or the agony of the tightness of his bindings, this new pain came from within. It felt like a white-hot spike had been driven into one of his hind legs, and from it, fire seemed to radiate through his veins. Amidst the pain, Fenris perceived another strange sensation, that of fatigue, diminishment, and a sickening lethargy that felt as if his very essence was oozing forth from the apex of his wound. 

Dazzled with confusion and a now dominating grip of torture, Fenris didn’t see the coming of the shadowy vampiress as she leapt towards him. Her body, incarnate with his own power, perforated his flesh, and riddled him like a ebony needle. A cry, so strange and foreign from such a mighty figure, bubbled up from his throat, and cracked the air no less than thunder. 

Then the Promethean struck. A fiery demon of ancient hells thrust downward upon the god-wolf’s ball of destruction. Weakened and under assault, Fenris roared with disbelief and agonizing rage. How could this have come to pass? Flashing staccatos of doubt and hatred filled the mind of the god, even as the reality of his doom pressed ever farther towards him. 

The ball of energy strained against the burning will of the demon above, and the faltering god-wolf beneath. It seemed to contort and shift, straining against the powers of the two unholy titans that ensconced it. Fenris’ inky eyes widened in horror, just as a flurry of angelic lead perforated his weakened flesh, just behind his ears.

For a seemingly eternal moment, the god-wolf stood there. The expression of pain and astonishment slackened off of the wolfish face of the god of destruction, until at last the jaws went limp. They fell then, like two pillars of flesh thrust from their foundations, toppling downward towards the Irish countryside. As Fenris’ jaws fell, the legs gave way, and with a sound like a roll of crashing breakers, the god-wolf plummeted from his mighty stance. 

When he struck the ground, Fenris’ body shook the earth. No mightier a quake had befallen the emerald isles, and in all directions a wave of broken land cascaded out from the epicenter of the god-wolf’s corpse.

The green, and crackling ball of death, once suspended in limbo between the Promethean and the Rökkr, was now free of its bonds. Pressed downward by the fire demon, it plummeted towards its maker’s dead body with the fury of vengeance as its engine. Though the god that had brought the terrible weapon into the realm of the living no longer occupied the plane, it mattered not. Its purpose and might still existed, and if it struck the Earth, even in spite of the god-wolf’s dire failure, those who had won their victory would not live to see the coming dawn.

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