real talk: i’m going to be moving fenrir over to my multi. all threads will be kept. this blog will be kept up in case fenrir’s muse ever gets loud enough again but right now, his muse isn’t at the point where he warrants his own blog. i still love him dearly, but his voice just isn’t loud enough and i keep neglecting him over here.

FENRIR CAN NOW BE FOUND AT FONDWORD!

real talk: i’m going to be moving fenrir over to my multi. all threads will be kept. this blog will be kept up in case fenrir’s muse ever gets loud enough again but right now, his muse isn’t at the point where he warrants his own blog. i still love him dearly, but his voice just isn’t loud enough and i keep neglecting him over here.

FENRIR CAN NOW BE FOUND AT FONDWORD!

his fangs are CRIMSON STAINED.

“Hey, sweetheart.” A loose drawl, inhibitions left long ago by the work of arrogance’s hands. The price of ego was steep and large: a belief fortified in iron none were better than he, a fire lit in the soul like a dragon’s pit, a swathe of blood to paint forth the face and drive the warrior’s spirit home. An ego with fame? A dangerous mixture, and none more so in the hands of Fenrir.

A worldwide favourite bastard, a villain adored for how easy he was to hate. Be it in film or reality, Fenrir held true power, and none had been yet brave enough to turn his advances down.

A slapdash grin painted on his face, thick black shirt all but unbuttoned in the name of style, the actor sidled closer to Regina, the look of the wolf about it’s prey lighting in his dark green eyes. “How much brown-nosin’ you reckon’ll be done by the end of the night? Reckon you’ve gotta be on the end of some of it.”

Venom sat firm in the builder’s eyes, poison the thick coat upon his bones. Though it seemed everyone held a key to his rage, everyone a match to throw upon the thirsting pyre -- all save Roni and her medicinal ways, no-nonsense chat and willingness to parlay with a soured wolf -- none provoked rage in Aksel’s breast more than Victoria Belfrey. Whether it was a simple look upon her face -- sour, superior, as though lemons grew behind her gums and bled upon her tongue -- or a mere turn of phrase, the woman held terrible weapons in her arsenal, and Aksel yearned to turn that bitter steel against her.

A low whistle left pursed lips, more a hound’s yap for true. Such an act would bring scorn to his door, Roni’s rage beating upon his head, but the trader knew well he could face aught she meant to throw his way. “Hey, Roni,” Thick words left in a gruff grunt, the meat of his palm fitted snugly about a brimming pint glass. “The fuck’s Lady Belfrey doin’ sniffin’ ‘round here?”

Born in Norway as the eldest son of a prominent politician, Fenrir began his career as a child model through the guidance of his mother, often shot singly or with his siblings. He was raised entirely by his mother, with his father making rare and fleeting appearances, but had a relatively happy childhood. 

At the age of 5, however, he vanished from the public eye. His mother was assassinated in a brutal and unsolved murder, and the children were rumoured to be taken under the wing of the affluent Óðinn Borrson. In reality, the children were separated and only Fenrir was taken in by Óðinn, passed on as a charge to his adopted son Týr. 

Fenrir made very few public appearances until the age of 18, when he stormed back onto the modelling scene and announced he was no longer under the care of the Borrsons. He detailed his plans to break into the acting industry and later appeared in several small fantasy films, where he gained a name as a phenomenal villain and began to be typecast as all things dark and monstrous.

His big break, however, came in the Thor series of films, where he was cast as the voice and actor of his namesake, the Fenris Wolf. Although he had won small awards for his previous roles, it is touted in academy circles where the Thor previews have been seen that he will be nominated for his role as Fenris.

Rumours circulate regularly about Fenrir’s activities both currently and during his 13 year absence from the public eye. He has gained a reputation as a serial flirt and womanizer, and several women have been rumoured to be connected to him in one way or another.

The most prominent rumour concerning him is that he has two children to an unknown woman. It is true, but Fenrir dismisses it as speculation. His sons were taken from him by social services, and he is forbidden contact with them. He does not know if they know he is their father or not.

He did not attend college or any acting schools.

He currently lives in Los Angeles, but regularly travels for the Thor promotions.

He does not speak about his time with the Borrsons, nor what he did during those 13 years.

Fenrir is passionate about his portion of Norse mythology, and is lobbying for an origin movie concerning the Fenris Wolf and the others associated with Ragnarok.

                         GROUP VERSE: FOUNDFAME

What happened with Hook and Regina in the carriage?         “A gentleman never tells… If the carriage is a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.” - Colin.

365 days of Killian Jones ☸ Day 144

So sleep soundly in your beds tonight, for judgement falls upon you at first light

independent, private fenrir of norse mythology heavily triggering and nsfw!

By the mouth of the river | the wolf remains  Till the gods to destruction go 

- The Poetic Edda

Bruised skin slung beneath the god’s eyes, mottled purples and darkened shadows, spoke of the horrors of the night. A myriad of voices, distorted in the far off way of dreams yet sharp and clear enough to drive a blade into the great wolf’s heart, beckoned in his dreams, speaking with haunting clarity the secret fears of his roiling soul.

you failed us, brother! you could have done more! I KNOW, SYSTIR, I KNOW. you could have held tighter; our brother, our defender. I TRIED, BRÓÐIR, I WASN’T– strong enough? oh we know that, child. you let me die, you let them take your brother, your sister, your sons! you left us, faðir, you said you’d be back!

you said, you promised, your word, yousaidyoupromisedyoufailedyoufailed you failed us!

The thoughts of those dearest to him held the most value, yet a tremble struck out to unsettle the beast’s arrogant soul. Should they believe as he did, and find error in his lack of activity ( a hand upon his throat, tearing brother from brother, grasping skeletal hand yanked from the fur of his shoulder and slammed through the floor; a sword at his mother’s throat, warriors surrounding her; a thick fountain of blood, another slump of a lifeless body, and a maternal head rolling in the clinging, bloody, strands of her own thick hair ) to save and preserve as all brothers and sons were to, no aid nor soothing balm existed for the damage that would be done to the furious skin of his immortal soul.

No matter that he had been but a pup, a fledgling warrior in a world of monsters and men; Fenrir’s failure to defend and protect struck deep into the cage of slumber’s nightmares. In that golden hall of dreams and fears, sleep and soulful rest, the worst imaginings of a maddened mind came to light, and so drove Fenrir to face the new day grim of countenance and choking the world in a geyser of it’s own blood.

in his sleep, he dreamt of war. Great gouges of flame and blood spilt upon the earth, jagged-tooth cracks ripped through life and limb, earth and realm, until all lay a devoured mess. The blood of the sun shone between his young son’s teeth, the moon’s ichor stripped as glistening ribbons between the teeth of the other, and all the realms screaming at their paws.

In his sleep, he dreamt of kin. Glistening scales scratching in a familiar patter over an icy floor, the softest hiss flicked out to nestle in the comforting, familiar stone; a young babe’s gurgle, hiccuped humour shining bright in the damp curve of spit-bubble lips, child’s pleasure construed in the smooth curves of grasping, chubby fists ( flesh and bone alike; the tattered memory of infant skeletal fingers smoothing wildly over the curved shell of a playful pup’s ear where he had pounced, careful with his too-large paws and heavy frame, and lapped impishly – once, twice, thrice! – upon her bony cheek ).

In his sleep, he dreamt of a maternal flame, returned to life and bare throat restored. No blood lingered on the pale patter of fresh snow; no steaming gore drove horror into the hearts of babes three; no damage to a countenance fair was there but the crooked creep of a familiar smile, whispered tricks shared exclusively between pup and mother in a bond undecimated in the land of dreams.

In his sleep, he dreamt of family; of mother-brother-sister-sons, and all that had once been his.

Scattered snows flecked the cool grey earth – never cold in feeling, never frigid and unwelcoming in aura to the young pup – fires and passing giants, uncles and aunts not in blood, but bond, nodding and laughing at the winding pup bounding around their feet. Long-standing halls of stone, houses and great chambers rose like great monuments from drifts of snow and forged paths, standing like great Ymir over the stately motions of his descendant kin; a far cry from the whispers heard around gathered meets and fires, venomous roars of Jötunn pride denying all belief that so great a race dwelt in alcoves and caves – the pitched and joyous howls of an excited pup snuck out beneath Angrboða’s watchful gaze oft joining in their chorus, and oft alerting a watchful mother to an escaped babe.

Yet, the stern warnings of a well-meaning mother seemed not to dissuade the adventurous thirst that burned as the brightest star within the wolf pup’s breast.

Days spent learning from a blessed mother, a stern-faced uncle juxtaposed against a joyous, impish one, in matters of the hunt, lessons of the realm and the clans to populate the vast expanse of Ironwood, oft ended in a customary patrol; a bounding run to inform Angrboða, Byleistr, or one who had not been present just what had shaped the young wolf’s mind that day. Devoured meals preceded time with siblings, be it serving the loyal guard to warm his brother’s birthing egg or the inquisitive pup to peer over the edge of his sister’s cradle ( oh, the faces he had pulled to draw laughter from her! ), chanting away what lessons he had learned to pass them onto his younger siblings as his elders had passed them onto he.

It was a time of peace, the pup’s life in Járnviðr , and none knew the storm that was approaching them.

   Keen ears marked the thunder of approaching boots, louder than the purposeful strides of Tyr and the hesitant stumbling of whichever fool boy had deemed that day to be his crowning glory. The morn upon which he would prove himself a lion over a lamb and stare the beast that inspired terror in even the mightiest of gods in the eyes. It was truly a rare occasion wherein the lad survived the tumult of nerves and fear so assaulting his system and made to stand before the wolf as the Lawbringer did without turning tail and fleeing to the relative safety of his mother’s skirts.

        Fenrir would almost have pitied the children, had they and the rest of their miserable kind not wronged him so deeply.

   A call of his name was heard, an arc of lightning throughout the air as false bravery attempted to mask fear’s tremor within hissed words. Such sheep the gods were, gathering about him in a small group as though their shared expression of falsified sternness and simple proximity to one another would thread some commonality of steeled nerve between them, see a rich vein of courage be brought to bear at their feet and grant them valour-wrought pickaxes to drive their mining into the very fibre of their spirit. Disinterest coursed throughout lupine vein, the harbinger’s ever-wandering mind venturing far afield as nervous hands rested upon aged sword pommels, divine fingers curling themselves about beaten metal as a babe’s would it’s blanket — perhaps this would be the sight to greet him upon Vígríðr, a line of tremoring deities clinging to hope and blade alike as fear’s talons entrapped their limbs and saw them delivered unto death as had been prophesied.

   The rattle of chains drew Fenrir from his reverie, mercurial attentions seized and arrested by chilled iron resting in the feeble paws of the lambs before him. A proclamation was heard, though no flicker of acknowledgement crossed wolven countenance, of its strength, an attestation of it being the finest chain in all of Ásgarðr; surely, if howled promises of his own strength were true, Fenrir would have little trouble in shattering such a bind? Thought was given to this, the wolf’s shade-riddled mind mulling over such a supposition as though it were fine wine to wash across his tongue, a battle stratagem to deliberate upon before the first move was struck.

             A pity, then, that Fenrir never had been one for planning and forethought.

   Grumbles issued past sharp enamel, a slew of growled acquiescence of his tongue as inordinate bulk shifted, ever-growing paws bringing the younger Lokason whose presence corrupted Ásgarðr yet still to his feet and seeing him advance upon the set-jawed gods. A quake was marked to run amongst them, shifting shoulders and wide eyes the sole markers of trepidation upon grim faces asÁsgarðr’s greatest fetter was wrapped about him, weaving betwixt fur and muscle and limb and paw in an elaborate dance with a design upon no escape before the Æsir did step back, pleased with their work and seized with the expectation of success. It was a success the wolf would not grant them, however; limbs shifted in their constraints, great shoulders rolling once before a snarl of exertion found purchase upon drawn back lips, great strength turning itself to rippling sinew and seeing the chain shatter about him.

   To loose out of Laeding became something of a saying upon Ásgarðr and Miðgarðr both, much to Fenrir’s satisfaction, a string of words for desperate mothers to cling to as their sons achieved some gargantuan task, and yet naught fed his pride as the sight of the retreating Æsir did, dejection weighing heavily about their shoulders as they returned to their gleaming home in disgrace. He would have offered some small token of comfort, soft words delivered upon a harsh voice as recompense for their slights and wounded pride, had he truly cared for them. Such was their own doing, he thought, the lacerations upon their soul their own creation as they tried to restrain chaos and save their skins.

         Fenrir had to laugh at such a notion — as if they would ever succeed in binding him.

 Though he was, and is, seldom turned to as the first of choice ( they had termed him god of last resorts in their minorities for a reason ), Fenrir can always feel when another being prays to him. The sensation is like a small push in the back of his mind, a nudge against his thoughts coated in gold and calling across the cosmos to him; always he answers, for the sake of pride if naught, and always he keeps the bargains struck, for they are always made in some way that benefits him more than the one who had prayed to him.

   He is not a trustworthy god, however, and often kills if he deemed the sacrifices and offerings made to him too meager to warrant his appeasement. Offerings made with fresh meats, blood, voluntary pain, fear, and freshly killed animals will always be amongst the first to garner his attention, and the most likely to appease him where others have not. He is not typically a god of altars, preferring a platform wrought in a natural, primal, manner ( a tree stump or naturally occurring plateau, to give an example ); those bedecked with red cloth or likewise coloured candles and items pertaining to wolves particularly.

Fenrir’s relationship with morality is nonexistent at best; by all Yggdrasil’s standards, he has no morals at all. He’ll lie, cheat, and fuck his way unashamedly through life regardless of how his actions are perceived, and doesn’t care how people view him because of them. All he cares about is being perceived as the strongest and best in the realms, and fuck anyone who thinks they can teach him to respect morality and change to being good and true. Asgardr tried that much while he was their ward/prisoner and it clearly worked wonders. A surefire way to ignite his temper (beyond breathing or being human) is to try and preach virtuosity to him – he knows what he is and he loves it, fuck anyone who tries to change him and divert his destiny.

He tends to despise people who align with good or have a strong moral compass more from the off. People who are classified as heroes, who practically command sunlight while birds sing along their every path – those are the types he cannot stand. On meeting them, he tends to dive straight into antagonising them and taunting them – bigging up his accomplishments while belittling their’s. People like PRINCE CHARMING from ONCE UPON A TIME, FREYR, TYR in his own pantheon, HERCULES, PERSEUS, ZEUS from Greek mythos – anyone who falls into being distinctly good and in no way morally gray is an immediate receiver of his hatred and ill will.

conversely, he gets on well with people who are morally grey/”bad” and are the only people he deems “worthy” of his time and attention – his relationship with Regina Mills ( @evilscrown ) is built entirely on his being attracted to Regina’s acts and personality as the Evil Queen and then whoops thirty years later and a curse and suddenly two big bads have hearts and really honestly love each other, and his relationship with Larxene is based entirely around both of them being serial killing monsters with no remorse and no desire to stop and ultimately being attracted to one another because of their lack of moral compass, whereas his relationship with Evelyn Trevelyan ( @prophetry ) is based on the dichotomy of their moral alignment. She’s good and moral whereas he isn’t, and a lot of their early relationship is built around the idea of him being intrigued by her because she has so much potential for evil but chooses to do good (plus he thinks the sex is good and bedding a pseudo-messiah in her own mind while slowly trying to manipulate her into a more evil alignment is a-okay in his books.)

Morality is ultimately a deciding factor in what people he does and doesn’t interact with on a personal and emotional level – being “too good” means he will singularly seek out that person just to taunt/mock/bully them when he’s bored.

“Evil” characters who undergo a redemption arc are subject to his scorn too. He’s very much of the idea that evil is the way to go and changing their view on that is a rejection of everything he believes in, resulting in a decrease of their “worthiness” of him. He’ll tease and mock them and try to manipulate them into forgetting about their redemption, citing “what’s so great about being good?” etc. The only person so far who has been exempt from this has been Regina, and that is because he loves her so honestly and deeply, and he understands she is doing it for the sake of Henry and no one else. Threads with @evilscrown too tend to challenge his morality in their verse! Ordinarily, he would kill any “hero types” after an indeterminate amount of time based on whether or not they were entertaining anymore, but with Regina, he is forced to hold back on that and grin and bear it for the sake of Henry. It doesn’t ultimately alter his morality in a massive way, but he won’t kill any of the Charming family for the sake of Regina and Henry.

(Maiming, grievously injuring or breaking a few bones, however, are not part of his agreeing to not kill them)

In essence, Fenrir is without doubt pure CHAOTIC EVIL; he meshes well with those of a similar morality and thinks anyone and everyone who’s good can go and fuck themselves. He won’t change for anyone, but a close enough emotional attachment can make him listen to them (maybe) and not act on the full extent of his moral inclinations.