"If you're here to bitch, moan, whine, or otherwise cry 'bout everythin' that's goin' tits up for humanity, you're gonna have to wait your turn, sweetheart. Your kind's formin' a fuckin' queue."

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"If you're here to bitch, moan, whine, or otherwise cry 'bout everythin' that's goin' tits up for humanity, you're gonna have to wait your turn, sweetheart. Your kind's formin' a fuckin' queue."
"You wanna run that by me again, sweetheart?"
No motion bit upon burning immortal bones, no foul beast of common courtesy and social etiquette to sink erstwhile tooth and claw into an uncaring bestial throat. Humanity was but a plague to one such as he, a disease to creep upon all he held dear and dismiss them as mere fable, sought for company their bane to drive weakness into fabricated steel and see only a pup's whine spill out where murmur of a mighty warrior's cry was touted.
"If I say no," he began, silver tongue lancing across the swell of his lip, "Will you fuck off faster?"
The presence of a child was a rare one where Fenrir lay concerned, an odd occurrence to be branded into the depths of stirring memory and held upon a tentative pedestal as time made to move on. There had been a scattered handful of brave youths, pride blinding them to their own terror and seeing wide eyes fixed only on the poisonous glory of meeting with the Fenris Wolf and returning unscathed, but none had dared venture so close as the child before him.
The clack of wooden blades against padded training armour was a sound missed, hollowly echoing throughout a mercurial mind as though memory alone would bring mirth to balance upon drawn back lips, but the harbinger paid it's absence little mind in the face of glaring at his new form of company, dark-furred hackles raising and a snarl rattling in his throat as though it were a maddened captive, determined to leave it's fleshy prison and shaking it's bars of bone in it's mania. There was something of his kin about the mortal before him, but no question as to why or how sprang to snarling lips.
A test of mettle was the beast's first requirement, an unspoken test of bravery and courage to deem whether or not his company was worthy of lending ear to the voice of a god, and it was a test nearly all had failed.
Dark eyes watched the other intently, blazing distrust a familiar tattoo to surge through the wolf's veins and snap at aught that dared near it. The last to approach with any blade had been cast in gold, a gleaming paragon of self-righteous beliefs and vile injustice to smack upon their blades and see the harbinger delivered from both hearth and home -- the human before him was a pale shadow of such, but Fenrir still bore little beyond a thinly veiled rage toward all who would dare stand in his way.
❝'S'that for, kid? You here to pick my teeth?❞
Lupine interest, though a terrible thing to ensnare, was rare in ceasing upon it's wanderings to drape about a simple human, yet such a fact did little to see a dark gaze delivered from a fur-clad form nor a suspicious growl fettered within it's cage of flesh and bone.
"Þú lyktar eins og bróðir minn, dauðlega."
"If you start singin' Ice Ice Baby, we'll be seein' how well you keep in tune when I'm strummin' along on your heartstrings."