Faenrir
A relict that takes the form of a wolf that is forever growing. It is currently chained to the Summit of the World by the fetters named Glepnir, and will not break free until the Twilight of the World.
"The stone structure rose slowly, groaning as if waking from a deep sleep, snow spilling off its sides and to the ground below. It moved one leg and then another, reared its head towards the sky. Two blood-red eyes opened in its head, each as big as a horse, peering about the mountaintop, taking in the armoured men before it. Yellow teeth appeared in the haze.
The creature growled and shook itself. Snow fell off its fur in great chunks, spiralling into the wind, churning the snowstorm into a blizzard. The mountain quaked and trembled, sending everyone to their knees. Somewhere below them, they heard the sound of rocks and ice crashing to the base of the mountain.
“Wyd save us,” Elric said. He craned his neck up and up, trying to take in the sheer enormity of the beast. He had never seen anything so big. It dwarfed the tallest buildings in Aldoran, stretched across the entire mountaintop, rose almost as high as Uldan Keep. Its pelt was a silver so pure it almost blinded him with its majesty.
It was Faenrir the World-Eater, first-born of Asmodon, one of the oldest the relicts, survivor of the Hundred Years War and the Age of the Gods. Down by its feet, Elric saw the fetters that bound it—a gossamer thread of reds and yellows, blues and greens and violets that bound its feet together, preventing it from standing up. Even so, its maw was big enough to swallow them all—it could probably swallow the sun if it wanted to, if it somehow found a way to stand."
"The World-Eater roared, and the mountain roared with it. The earth quaked so violently the men were nearly thrown off their feet. Chunks of the mountain broke free below them, tumbling down to the earth below. The clouds were torn apart, the blizzard itself frozen for a brief moment as yet another crack threatened to split Raginrok."
"Our story begins a long time ago, in a land far far away. Not so long ago as to precede the Age of the Gods, and not so far away as to leave the realm of Faengard behind. The land as we know it today was different back then. Mountains had yet to rise, seas had yet to form, and the great cities and states of now were still fledgeling settlements by the roadside.
Aren scoffed. “By the Wind, this must be the start of every story ever.”
The world had been torn asunder by the Great War, the relicts sealed behind the Ward Tree. The Hundred Years War had begun, though it was more of a massacre than a war. Stragglers from the First Age who’d escaped the Sealing were stalked and slain across the countryside by the Templars, a group of enigmatic demon hunters who answered only to the Three Kings themselves.
One of the relicts left behind was a young wolf by the name of Faenrir. Faenrir was the son of Asmodon the Destroyer himself, the Oathbreaker, the Faceless Ruler. Faenrir found his way into our world by accident, and when the gate to Nephilheim was sealed, he became trapped in an unknown land full of humans and other strange creatures.
The first time Faenrir encountered a human was at a farm, with a pen full of many sheep behind a fence. Faenrir was unsure of why they all shied away from him, even when he just wanted to play. As he sniffed around the edge of the paddock, he saw a wolfhound that looked similar to himself. He barked a greeting, but the animal turned on its tail and fled.
Faenrir visited that farm for many more days, trying to speak to the wolf-like beast but never finding any luck. Every time it saw him it would howl as if it were in great pain and run away, diving through the door of the farmstead. Faenrir tried to ask the sheep, but all they did was bleat in fear.
One day, the beast stood its ground and barked at him. Go away, it said. It told him he was not welcome at the farm. Two taller creatures, whom Faenrir would later learn were called “humans” shot sticks with pointed ends at him, driving him back. One of the sticks pierced his hide, causing him great pain.
As Faenrir fled back into the forest, he wondered why he was treated so. After he pulled the stick from his side and bathed himself in the river, he saw his reflection and realized he was different to the wolfhound. He had eyes the colour of blood and fur the colour of the moon. Although he was the same shape as the beast on the farm, he was not the same.
Hunters came for him that night, humans dressed in the skin of animals and the forest, wielding more of the pointed missiles. Faenrir fled long and hard through the woods, but he could not shake them off no matter how hard he tried. It was not until he was forced into a corner with nowhere to go that he was saved. A pack of wolves emerged from the bushes, great beasts bigger than he was, although still different in appearance. They drove the humans back and took Faenrir in as one of their own, teaching him their ways.
The humans were not to be trusted, they said. They were young and reckless, and did not think of the consequences of their actions. They destroyed forests, usurped the natural order and only cared for their own race. Faenrir spent the equivalent of his childhood with the wolves, learning to hunt and kill, learning the rules of the wild. He had finally found his place… or so he thought.
Rumours of a silver wolf with red eyes in the countryside spread quickly, and the Templars found their way to the forest where Faenrir lived. A terrible hunt ensued, one where humans clad in steel and fire chased the wolves through the trees, mowing them down relentlessly. Faenrir’s pack was killed, and in their dying moments, they turned on him, cursing his appearance and how it had undone them all. Faenrir himself managed to escape, but only barely. He’d killed several men by his own teeth and suffered just as many injuries, and as he lay down to die, he wondered why he had ever been born.
Faenrir did not die, however.
He woke up to find himself inside one of the human houses, tended by a boy with a kind face. The boy’s name was not important, nor where he lived, only that he lived far away at the edge of civilisation. He was a simple shepherd who watched over the sheep on his farm alongside a trusty wolfhound and his widowed father.
It took a long time for Faenrir to realize the boy did not want him dead. Faenrir was always cautious, accepting the boy’s food hesitantly, always eyeing his throat and the door in case things went awry. But as Faenrir healed, his heart began to soften and he wondered if there was kindness in the world after all.
The boy liked to explore the woods in his free time, pretending he was an intrepid explorer navigating his way through an ancient forest. The days back then were longer and brighter than now, but the winters were still the same. Winters are the same no matter where you go—cold, wet and miserable. When Faenrir was able to walk, he and the boy spent many long evenings wandering the woods of his infancy, enjoying each other’s company. Faenrir began to think that maybe not all humans were the same, after all.
Time passed. Faenrir grew like a normal wolfhound, running out to meet the boy whenever he returned from his trips to the market, playing fetch, chasing the pigeons through the summer fields, his tongue lolling towards the ground in a happy grin, and when the boy’s other hound passed away, Faenrir took its place as the sheepherder.
Time passed, and the boy became a man. Faenrir grew to the size of an adult wolf, and the young Mistress who the man brought home often passed him fearful glances. The man reassured her. His wolf was a dear friend and would not harm a soul save the animals in the forest it hunted for food.
Time passed, and the man’s father passed away. He and his young wife moved into the old farm. Faenrir continued to grow; he was the size of a small horse now, and the man often rode him with his wife. He was swifter than the wind and jumped higher than the birds, and a single glare from his blood-red eyes sent wild bears and other wolves fleeing in fear.
The Hundred Years War was nearly over, and the Three Kings made a final push to erase all traces of the relicts from Faengard. Calls were sent across the land for people with information to come forward, so that the last vestiges of evil could be purged. The man’s wife heard them among the rumour mongers in the villages. The relicts were dangerous, they said. Pure evil, demonspawn, tainting the very air they breathed. The seed of doubt grew in her mind, and when she saw the bounty offered for a live relict, she succumbed to greed. On a night with no moon, she approached the King’s men and informed them of the demon wolf residing at her home.
The leader of the Templars himself rode out that night, for the demon wolf had been deemed dead nearly a decade ago. Its name was Faenrir, and it was a child of Asmodon himself, the Forsaken One, the Oathbreaker, the Destroyer. A small army gathered outside the farm that night, and the man was beside himself with grief when he realized he’d been betrayed by his own wife. Faenrir had not stopped growing—he was the size of a small house now, and he could see truth in the words of the King’s men. He was no wolf—he was a demon. The Three-winged Crow herself had deemed him an enemy of the world.
So it came to be. On that night with the enemy at his doorstep, Faenrir fled. He fled across the rolling hills and plains, his powerful strides covering ground faster than a falcon in a full dive. He flew across the treetops, past rivers and lakes, leaping over mountains with a single bound. The Templars and the King’s army were never far behind—they were everywhere, every city and town he passed by, every well-worn road, every roadside inn. There was nowhere for Faenrir to hide. The human race had populated the entire world.
During this time, Faenrir heard more and more rumours about himself. During the string of prophecies the Three-winged Crow announced ending in the “Twilight of the World,” she recited a list of relicts who would ultimately contribute to the demise of Faengard, and Faenrir was one of them. The wolf was to eventually swallow the sun and plunge the world into an eternal darkness. Morene Gylfaginor was the greatest prophet in the land, and her clairvoyance had a record of never failing her. According to her, Faenrir had grown too big to be killed by conventional means—he could only be bound and chained so as to never threaten the world again. Faenrir had always wondered why he’d never stopped growing, surpassing the size of his wolf brothers so long ago. Now, he knew.
The King sent his best men to trap the wolf, and with them they took Glepnir—fetters forged from the sound of a cat’s footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird, pounded together under a dweor hammer. The fetters were as thin as a silken ribbon but stronger than the strongest chain, and according to Morene was the only chain that could bind Faenrir. Even then it would not hold it forever, for the demon wolf would never stop growing until the end of time, and it would eventually burst free from its bonds.
As the hunt reached its climax, the Templars found the man who had once been Faenrir’s friend and offered him a deal. They promised him fortune and fame if he turned in his friend. The man refused at first, but he was only a simple man and with some prodding from his wife, he agreed.
On a night reminiscent of the night they’d met, the man tricked Faenrir. He met the wolf under a full moon and convinced him that the King’s men did not seek to kill, but rather guide him back to Nephilheim where he would be released. However, in order to do so, they needed to bind him so he would not turn on them. Faenrir was heavy with suspicion, but the man had saved his life and taken him in. Faenrir had grown up alongside him, watching him grow from a boy to a man. Faenrir trusted him. He wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in the kindness of the world. As a token of goodwill, he requested the man place his hand within his jaws until they reached Aedrasil and he was freed.
The man placed his hand within Faenrir’s maw, but he could not look the wolf in the eyes. Glepnir was fitted around Faenrir’s legs and pulled tight, so tight that he fell to the ground and split the earth. Instead of leading Faenrir to the Tree, the Templars tethered him to the ground at what is now the Summit of the World and walked away with thoughts of fortune and fame. Realizing he’d been betrayed, Faenrir howled in despair and tore off the man’s hand. He had been betrayed once again.
Faenrir struggled against his bonds with all his might, but alas, the bonds were forged from impossibilities, so escape itself also became impossible. Faenrir still waits today, chained to the very same spot, ever growing in size, never stopping. When the Twilight of the World begins, he will break free from his bonds and devour the sun, plunging the world into perpetual darkness."
Physical Description
Body Features
Silver fur
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