Fenrirson

He arose from the depths of Hel with fur caked in fire and brimstone. Sharp yellow claws dug into the soft white snow while fresh blood, the same color of his eyes, dripping from his sharp fangs. He growled deeply as she stood on his hind legs. Claws grew into fingers as his fur receded into the follicles of his arms and legs that stretched as he stood tall. The moon glistened off of his glossy black hair and he ran his newly grown fingers through it, feeling the resemblance to his fur. A chill caught his bare skin, and he had the sudden urge to shake clumps of snow from his body, but any that had clung to him now lay in a heap at his now hairless feet. He was not prepared for the chill of the Norse forests and howled into the night sky with lungs that heaved in pain. None of those around him howled back, as they no longer recognized his sound. He growled and began running, trying to find a warmth that was now lost to him. There was anger in his deep red eyes while dark green pines blurred past him. A pack of wolves took chase, but there was no catching him. He was their brother, their savior, their father. He would say his name was Dainn, but those who knew the stories would know his true self. He was Fenrirson, the second coming of the dreaded wolf of Ragnarök.