That’s the “real” name of the mountain actually - see here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamperokken
It’s the tallest peak in the surroundings of Tromsø with nearly 1400 m above sea level. I climbed it once and i can say- it has been the most challenging mountian hike I’ve made so far. One can barely call it a hike. It’s more a climb.
It’s also close to what I think is a major Siderian metacluster in the Fjordlands; the cluster named the Carnassial. It becomes the nearest metacluster in Stian’s new homeland in the Northern Fjordlands. The mountain Hamperokken is probably called differently by Siderians. I’ve yet to find out what it’s name is.
This drawing is based on my own photo. Made with Ecoline brush pens (black, gray and a blender), black fine liners and white gel pens on a postcard sized water colour paper.
Breathe not the sounds that define,
Lest to this fate words consign.
Titled, it resists the blade;
Name it not, or it shan’t fade.
— From an ancient Sanorum poem
There are many lingering superstitions (particularly within Central Vale) that warn against naming Grimm. Uttering the words is likened to the casting of a spell which wards them against death. Because, suddenly, that Grimm is no longer a faceless, nameless one-of-many; it now bears a title. Distinction. Individuality. Something that separates it from the rest of its kin.
If names are indeed the province of the soul, then what becomes of the soulless when bequeathed one? Or so the argument goes.
Sometimes, though, that distinction is necessary. For the Grimm that have acquired notoriety—either through distinguishable characteristics, outlying behaviors, or sheer danger—after a while it gets tedious saying, “The big Nevermore with the scarred beak that’s missing a talon on its left foot, you know the one.”
If nothing else, a name takes considerably less time to yell when running for your life.
Dossiers
Hoarfrost — [Species: Hartless. Status: Eliminated.] The first documented encounter with this Grimm comes from the writings of the prophet Siþleon. When leading his followers north, toward what would become the eventual site of modern-day Mantle, the group was intercepted. During the thick of a snowstorm, a haunting ululation echoed across the tundra. As the group paused to identify the direction it came from, a Hartless charged from the gale and gored two of his followers. With the still-screaming victims impaled upon its antlers, the Grimm vanished back into the blizzard. Over the next five centuries, dozens of fatal attacks were attributed to Hoarfrost. It became known for its signature tactic of ambushing travelers under the cloak of whiteouts, and carrying them off to die from either blood loss or hypothermia. Sometime after the Great War ended, a Dust excavation team—under the employ of the recently-founded SDC—was stranded during a freak blizzard. While waiting for their transport to arrive, the team was attacked by Hoarfrost. Of the ten workers, only one survived. For the next two weeks, Nicholas Schnee carefully monitored the local forecast, and when the next snowstorm came, he armed himself and marched out onto the tundra. When he returned to the City of Mantle, it was upon the back of a glittering white stag.
Legion — [Species: Ravager. Status: Active.] On a clear day, a person could easily mistake it for a cloud. But amidst the hissing winds of a sandstorm, it’s nigh invisible. Unlike the other named Grimm, Legion isn’t one, but many. Like all Ravagers, they travel in dense colonies, but what separates this flock from others is their degree of coordination. Legion—the name which collectively refers to all members of the colony—has adapted to fly like a murmuration of starlings; controlled, efficient, synchronized. An otherwise mesmerizing sight, were it not for the imminent danger. To try and eliminate Legion is Sisyphean. Each time one is killed, a new Ravager eventually swells the ranks. The most a person can do is periodically cull the flock (which also serves to deter them from attacking any of Vacuo’s cities). For now, Legion seems content to patrol the vast desert, preying upon unlucky travelers and nomads.
Carnassial — [Species: Beowolf. Status: Eliminated.] Carnassial is equal parts a subject of intrigue among historians, and a cautionary tale to the masses. Some four hundred years ago, Petrichor was the base of operation for a syndicate that catered to criminal factions across Vale’s eastern front. Of the activities it helped facilitate, “naturalized” body disposal was perhaps its most sought-after service. When a victim needed to be discreetly killed, the syndicate would arrange for their transport to a nearby area that was known for Grimm activity. The syndicate would then uncage one of their Grimm, and allow it to kill the victim. The body would bear the telltale marks of the Grimm’s handiwork, and thus preempt suspicions of murder. Given that Grimm are predisposed to expiring in their enclosures, the syndicate was forced to frequently replace their stock—with one exception. “Carnassial” was the name affectionately given to the Beowolf that was able to survive containment. Why remains a matter of debate, but it managed to do so long enough that it was sometimes jokingly referred to as an employee. There’s an unspoken truth when it comes to caging Grimm: that it will either perish, or escape. And having yet to die under their watch, perhaps that should have been the obvious warning sign. To this day, no one’s certain how Carnassial freed itself. And with all of the syndicate members being subsequently dead, there was no one left to ask. Not long after, Carnassial was slain by the warrior, Faron.
Sovereign — [Species: Leviathan. Status: Unknown.] Upon being asked which they’d rather face—a maelstrom or a Leviathan—sailors always refuse to answer; for according to them, there is no difference. With teeth the length of a polearm, and dorsal fins that could rival a barque, Sovereign was a ship’s worst nightmare. Although no one has seen this Leviathan in over seventy years, memories of the terror that it inspired are still deeply ingrained in the collective population. Its current range—if it’s even still alive—is the North Polar Ocean, the body of water that encompasses Mistral’s and Vale’s northern coasts, and the waters that encircle Solitas. Its appearances were far and few in between, but when it did surface, the devastation it left behind was incomparable. Sovereign was most prominently seen during the Great War (unsurprising, given that Category 5 Grimm are only drawn by mass panic). In particular, it would disrupt naval battles by dragging ships underwater, or blasting directly through their hulls. If it attacked ships close enough to shore, massive tidal waves would slam into the continent, and flood any nearby settlements. The last recorded sighting came from a fishing vessel, five miles north of Argus.
Shipbiter — [Species: Sea Feilong. Status: Active.] It’s said that when merchant ships come to port, they bring more with them than just their wares. The tradition of depicting sea serpents on maps is often attributed to this Grimm. Cartographers drew inspiration from the countless stories and songs of a beast that cut through the water like a sinewy ribbon, black as sin. Estimates vary on Shipbiter’s current length, but numbers consistently fall between 35 and 40 meters. An analysis of attacks and sightings over the last eight centuries firmly places its geographic range within the southern hemisphere. Shipbiter prowls the waters between northern Menagerie and southern Mistral (known as Seafarer’s Regret), and the sea that separates Vale’s eastern coast from Mistral’s western front (known as the Crosswaters). Its appearance is a testament to its age, with rusted harpoons lodged in its flanks. Shipbiter’s name is a fairly accurate description of its method of attack—that is, sinking its teeth and claws into a boat’s hull, and then waiting for it to founder. Once the helpless crew is adrift in the water, it discharges a powerful electric current. Any person not immediately killed by the high voltage often drowns from paralysis, or is bitten clean in half. In recent years, there’s been talk of a joint Valin-Mistrali naval effort to track it with sonar, but an understandable reluctance to implement it. Not many people (Huntsmen included) are keen to volunteer.
Merlot’s Beast — [Species: Unknown. Status: Unknown.] Virtually nothing is known of the Grimm that destroyed Merlot’s facility. What it was, its age, where Merlot got it from—any records would have been destroyed by the ensuing fires that engulfed the building. Attempts have been made to identify it, of course, but with little success. Both Huntsmen and archotherologists were consulted during autopsies, but with how badly mangled and charred the corpses were, it was impossible to deduce anything. The Grimm’s intended escape route—if it managed to escape at all—likely took it south of Lower Cairn. With the Gossic cities directly along the coast, Merlot’s Beast would’ve had no choice but to flee east into the Cirithel Mountains, if it wanted to avoid detection. Even for Grimm, the mountains are fairly impassable, given their high altitude and steep cliffs. An alternative to summiting the peaks would have been for Merlot’s Beast to navigate the sprawling cave network that runs throughout the range. However, the odds of survival are unlikely—cave openings can be difficult to locate, and without any people to hunt, it’s uncertain how long the Grimm could have lasted underground. Even so, the ambiguity that surrounds it has only added to the mystique, and led to plenty of campfire and bedside stories told late at night.
Ne’er-do-well — [Species: Nevermore. Status: Eliminated.] The largest Nevermore in recorded history that was far and away the most complex of its kind. At nearly 30 meters from wingtip to wingtip, this titan was said to have eclipsed the sun every time it took flight. Its wingspan was already unusual—it’s rare for Grimm to reach such sizes and go unnoticed for as long as this one did—but what made Ne’er-do-well stand out was its behavior. Nearly two and a half centuries ago, Ne’er-do-well crossed paths with a Mistrali airship, and in the ensuing skirmish lost both an eye and a talon. For several months after, the Grimm wasn’t seen, presumed to have retreated and nursing its wounds in some remote lair. Then, just as all concern of its existence had waned, the disappearances started. Entire airships (and their crews) failed to report in at the end of their patrols. In response, the fleet launched coordinated searches, and it wasn’t long before they found their missing pilots—or rather, what was left of them. When the first eyewitness accounts surfaced, people were unsettled to learn that the perpetrator was a single Grimm—a ragged, one-eyed Nevermore. Even more disturbingly, Ne’er-do-well was ambushing ships along their patrol routes, and then pillaging the wreckage for anything bearing Mistral’s coat-of-arms, such as sails, flags, or banners. Not only had it spent months memorizing its victims’ intended paths, but it was taking trophies. In the end, it took the combined might of Mistral’s fleet to bring it down.
Maw — [Species: Hellhound. Status: Unknown.] It bears mentioning that Grimm are not required, but instead choose, to feed. Such was the case of the Hellhound appropriately named Maw. Although no one in living memory has seen it, descriptions of its appearance are vivid and exact—a wolflike Grimm the size of an elk, its muzzle coated in steaming blood as it soundlessly lopes across the fields. Nearly every city and town across Vale has its own stories of Maw, each as distinct and horrifying as the next: a shadowy blur that lunges from the foliage, and pulls travelers off the path; eyes that smolder like baleful coals as it rends flesh from bone. If some of the ghastlier accounts are to be believed, Maw not only developed an affinity for consuming people, but prefers to do so while they’re still alive. Perhaps for this reason, superstitious populations insist on carrying with them talismans carved from aragonite, in the hopes of repelling Grimm such as Maw. And sure, some Huntsman agree, a talisman could protect you—provided it’s sharp enough to stab someone.
This entry was inspired by a conversation I had with @bone-wolves about a pup they traded me! We decided our scouts, Rover and Pietro, could have met to kick off the trade. This is Rover’s account of that meeting-- but she’s got no issues with lying to tell a good story. Assume that pretty much anything she says abt Pietro and the Rowan’s Shade Pack are at the very least extremely exaggerated, if not completely untrue lol
Now on w/ the show!
“And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the ground underfoot-- oh, even the ground was trying to eat me alive!”
Rover swivels to meet the each of the pups’ eyes in turn.
Dane is staring, eyes wide as saucers; his sister, Setter, feigns disinterest, but her ears are swiveled in Rover’s direction, straining to hear. Little Perch has her paws over her nose, peeking up only once in a while.
And Finch-- Finch looks as unimpressed as always. “It was a swamp,” he says. “There was mud.”
Seven whole words-- not a bad record for him.
Rover shakes her head. “Ah but Finch-- you’ve never seen a swamp like this. It was alive, I’m telling you-- mud? Hah! I would have given my tail for some mud right about then! No-- that swamp wanted me dead.
I was picking my way across a log; all rotted by rain and slippery underfoot. I was concentrating just to keep my balance on it-- when, just to distract me, a voice cried out in the fog!
“Enemy,”* it said; “You should have told me before coming here!”
I almost lost my grip on the log-- the cold spirits in the water reached up and clutched at me, their icy claws--”
“Rover,” Finch says, warningly. Perch has her face pressed entirely into his fur, her tail tucked between her legs.
Rover clears her throat. “But,” she says, quickly, “I managed to escape their clutches once again, and turned to meet my new assailant-- a wolf. Or at least, he seemed to be. As I discovered, much about this place wasn’t as it seemed.
“Enemy,” he said again, his strange accent twisting the words, and approached me through the fog. “Stop-- who are you?”
“Rover,” I told him, “Of The Pack at Sanctuary! I’m no wolf’s enemy-- unless they choose to be mine.”
He bared his teeth at me; they gleamed in the night like a shark’s! Rows upon rows of them!”
Setter bares her teeth in imitation and mock-growls, tackling her brother. The two go wrestling across the ground, biting at one another.
Perch peeks up from Finch’s side. “Who was he?”
“Hm?”
“The tooth wolf!”
"The tooth wolf-- he was Pietro, the scout of a pack that called themselves…” Rover pauses, waiting until all three pups are looking at her. “The bone wolves!”
Perch gasps, her fur bushed out like a startled cat’s.
“This- ‘Pietro’ brought me to the lair of his pack; he led me through every switchback and sinkhole he could, hoping I would be pulled away; I was soaked through and muddy, pups, and all clawed about by the waters’ spirits, but Pietro-- he remained dry and safe as can be.”
“So you fell in the water,” Finch says. “And he didn’t.”
“Call it what you will.” Rover sniffs. “It became clear to me that there was some strange magic at work. And clearer still once we reached his lair: a Rowan Tree growing vaster than any I’ve seen in these woods. Unnatural, I tell you.”
The pups are rapt; even Perch has crawled forward, a little, out of Finch’s protection, to sit closer by Rover’s feet.
“And this wolf Pietro-- he began to threaten me. To say that even his new puppies could best me in a fight; that they were strong and clever, and could grind my bones to dust should they choose. And then-- oh pups! And then... the pack’s leader emerged!
She looked normal at first. But I would swear that as she moved through a beam of moonlight, her glamour fell away, and saw what she truly was: a monster of many limbs and many heads, with many mouths and many eyes!
And then, in the space of just a blink, she looked a normal wolf again. Such powerful illusions-- a wolf like her could walk among us even here.”
“There’s no such thing,” Finch says, flat.
Rover she turns on him, voice lowered to a whisper. “It could even be you, Fincher. What secrets do you hide?”
He scowls mutely at her over Perch’s head. The effect is reduced, a little, for his angry face being framed by two floppy puppy-ears.
Rover goes on: “This strange wolf spoke with Pietro a long while- deciding my fate, no doubt! To be fed to this pack of hungry spirits? To be set free to wander the swamps alone, lost, never again to be found?
And then, pups- this is the strangest part. The leader came to me- and gave me a pup of her own litter. She said she was ‘curious’. Well-- I didn’t stay to ask what she meant! I knew it was my first duty to bring this pup to safety, and I fled that place as if death’s hounds where on my heels!”
“But you were OK!” Setter says, a little anxiously. “You’re here!”
“Yes.” Rover noses at her pup; Setter yips in delight and romps a circle around her, flopping down at Rover’s paws. “Yes. After a long journey, carrying the poor, terrified pup in my jaws-- we arrived back at Sanctuary. The strangers couldn’t follow us here-- we’re safe in these mountains.”
Rover bends one foreleg in invitation, and Dane stumbles over to join his sister between Rover’s paws.
“But,” she says. “Be careful not to tread outside of camp-- not without one of us with you. Who knows what creatures still lurk in the shadows outside our territory?”
Well, and Rover had gone and stirred up the pups again. It’s always a chore and a half, getting them settled after her stories. It had taken no small effort, on Finch’s part, to get Setter and Dane to stop re-enacting ‘ghost wolf’ battles and scaring the marrow straight out of Perch.
Finch huffs, turning to take his nightly lap around the camp. One last check, before he goes to bed. Just to make sure everything’s safe.
The night is warm and gentle; a long, purple, summer evening, the bright day fading only slowly into dusk.
“Finch?” Says a voice behind him.
It’s Carnassial. The ‘terrified pup’ of Rover’s inane story. Her eyes shine up at him in the dark, gold and liquid.
“You should be with Saturn.” He sniffs her over; yes. There’s the sharp, herbal smell of the healers’, thick in her fur.
“She said I could go.”
“She did?”
“I’m all better.” Carnassial opens her mouth; her teeth gleam in the dark. Like a sharks’, says Rover’s voice in the back of Finch’s mind. Rows upon rows of them. “See? No more sore throat.”
Finch blinks. Stupid. “Yes. I see.”
Carnassial is looking up at him, still-- and still drooping, her stumpy puppy-tail dragging nearly in the dirt.
Finch noses at her, worried. Is she still sick? Unexpectedly, she leans up and rubs her cheek against his, her little body trembling.
“Nassi,” he says, startled.
Carnassial buries her nose against his neck; he can feel her taking deep, shaky breaths.
“Hey. What is it?”
“--is it true?” She says, muffled against his neck. “Rover’s story?”
Finch blinks. He’s going to kill that no-good wolf, and scat to what Seven has to say about it. A growl builds in his throat, low and rumbling. “You listened to that?”
“Sorry.” Carnassial backs away. “I was gonna say something, but I didn’t--”
“No,” Finch says, low. “Don’t be sorry. It isn’t true.”
"It isn’t?”
“You were born to another pack. Rover brought you here. That’s all.” He grunts, stands. “Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll sleep in my den, tonight.” He pauses. Looks back at her. “If you like?”
Carnassial wastes no time in coming after him, butting his leg with her shoulder as they walk.
She is a tiny, warm thing, curled between his paws that night. Just a puppy; silver fur and outsized ears and a dark, twitching nose.
Perfectly formed.
*Pietro actually said “Enit” here, not Enemy’; he mistook Rover for Enit, the Rowan’s Shade Packs’ leader! Like most of the rest of this story, Rover has misunderstood or deliberately mischaracterized this in order to make her story more ~spoooooky
Adopted in the second summer of The Sanctuary Pack
Mother: Enit
Father: Pietro, Finch (adopted)
Personality: Prankster. Carnassial was shy and reserved at first. Because of her background in a pack of spooky wolves, Carnassial’s yearmates found her a bit unusual or scary, and Carnassial was a lonely pup. As she grew up, she embraced this boogeyman role, and become something of a deadpan jokester, using her reputation to sew mischief.
Naming Conventions: Teeth/None (Finch gives wolves what he considers to be 'wild sounding' names. Having been raised in captivity, he doesn't grasp the nuance of naming legacy and conventions)
Carnassial was adopted from the Rowan Tree pack, a group of unusual wolves that dwell in the Riparian woodland. The wolves of this pack all have something... strange about them, aspects of another world that grant them supernatural powers. Or-- so Rover says. Scout Rover met the Rowan Pack on patrol, and brought Carnassial home with her. Some wolves in the pack are sure there’s something strange about Carnassial; that her teeth are sharper than they should be, that she has... more teeth than she should. More mouths than she should.
But-- surely, there’s no such thing as magic! Carnassial is a perfectly good pack member; a competent hunter, a loyal friend. There’s nothing wrong with her. Right?
haven't been sure what to do breeding-wise w/ carnassial since she's a T1 & doesn't have markings that fit my projects, but I love her look so much I don't want to change anything about her.
but. i mean. obviously I should have been breeding her for mela/alb. she's not a carrier (that i know of) but her pups (well, grandpups) being these 'odd' looking wolves matches her spooky/strange vibes perfectly. kinda mad i didn't think of this before haha!
