---

For Asgeir

---

Chewing thoughtfully, Fenrir stared up at the sky.

It had been many moons since the visions had stopped, the dreams had vanished; he still detested thunderstorms, something that may never fully resolve in his psyche. There weren't exactly any therapists around, and anyway, he'd be more likely to turn the other way if someone ever tried.

Father seemed to think fermented strawberries emasculated a wolf. Pah. Slurping up the rest of the fermented juice, Fenrir swallowed noisily as the beginning of a pleasant haze gently washed over him.

He rolled onto his side lazily, head hitting the earth with a dull thud.

Whatever glorious purpose he'd once possessed now lay in ashes, and the lad was just as content to wile away the days with booze.

「 Skill Point ― Ranger 」

It wasn't hard to find the chosen one. Just follow the sweet scent of berries and you're sure to find the drunk, flat out, brain-boggled, and with reaction speeds that of a fish stuck in ice.

For some reason, unknown to even himself, he sought out his blood brother. With his nose to the wind, he navigated the valleys of the isle with precision. Traversing this kind of terrain was second nature to the boy now, even if he still had much to learn, to solidify in his training.

As per, he found Fenrir on the floor. The golden boy paused in his approach at the sight, his lip twitching in a slight grimace. The blue and beige boy was a mess, at least in comparison to himself.

Brother, you stink. Asgeir grunted, never one to be nice, even if seeing his sibling in such a state caused something to stir uncomfortably within him. Feelings weren't something he'd opted in for in this life, nor would it be the next.

Skill: Brewmaster

---

As he lay in the soft grass, his mind enjoyably muddled, Fenrir's thoughts drifted through memories and thoughts of what might have been. He had been born to noble cause, a grand mission, and throughout all of his puphood he'd seen glimpses of that terrifying visage wreathed in thunder and lightning, He Who Was Meant to be Slain - and then, inexplicably, it all vanished.

Literally. His mother; others in his family. Tyr insisted that he and those who remained hadn't been 'left behind', thrown away like an inferior afterthought, but Fenrir wasn't so sure.

He wasn't sure at all.

Evening's gentle embrace quenched the last of the dying light, and Fenrir closed his eyes as the encroaching darkness set in with a comforting familiarity. He felt quite content to spend the rest of his evening this way, and it was only due to the feeling of a presence overhead that he opened his eyes and found himelf startled to see Aesgir's golden head looming into view.

How rude.

Probably, Fenrir conceded by way of response, rolling onto his back. But who cares?

The yearling waved a paw toward the pile of strawberries close by.

Join me. Let us wile away the days in ineptitude and foolish regret, he said flippantly. Behold, Fenrisúlfr Tyrson, born to greatness and so easily fallen to wasteful purposelessness.