fenrir

Fenrir was not oblivious to his origins. He was the proud son of Ragnarök, yet a copy of the brother who came before him. He was the second chance at greatness; a chance to succeed where his namesake had failed. Being a great stallion in his own right meant carving out his own path, however, and bucking some of the trends laid out by those before him. It was for this reason that the golden roan stallion found himself on the furthest island from Tinuvel; as far from the wintry bay his family had once called home as possible.

The weak morning sunlight streamed through the trees and cast shadows across his battle-scarred hide. Though still young, Fenrir had already been in more than his fair share of scrapes – or perhaps exactly his fair share given his breeding and temperament. He was not exactly sure what he was planning to do within this strange forest. From what he could tell, it was occupied but not by many. Should he take it? He wondered quietly to himself as he halted, relieving an itch on his forehead by rubbing it against the trunk of the nearest tree.

Nearby rustling caught his attention and the stocky stallion peered around his scratching post, ears perked forward as he gave a deep, rumbling whicker to whatever company was coming his way.

He hoped it wasn’t a bear.