Fenrir lived for the hunt.
The forest did not frighten him nor did the darkness unsettle him. In fact, it seemed to motivate the Monstrous Wolf to hunt even better.
The stench of blood, fear, and mana only sharpened his senses.
His paws crushed undergrowth as he moved, massive body flowing between trees with predatory grace that belied his size.
Each breath drew the world into him—every vibration in the soil, every tremor of mana, every panicked heartbeat echoing through the roots of the Forest of Twin Disasters.
This land remembered him.
Or perhaps it was he who remembered it.
Either way, Fenrir did not slow. Even though it's fur was a stark contrast to the darkness that seemed to swallow the forest, Fenrir was a blur that couldn't not be seen.
By the time its victims sensed the white wolf, it was already too late. Their end had come.
