Hail Lokis wolfson, mightiest of sorrows, who would devour all, light and dark, with gleaming razors and hot breath, a neverending feast of spilled blood, shining guts, torn and rent flesh there at the threshold of madness.
Hail, child of the Witch Queen, wildest son of the Iron Wood, bloodtinged, redeyed, paindriven beast bound fast and wyrdwrapped in rage, as tears roil around you in a great salt sea there on the underside of the subconscious.
Hail to you who are chaos uncontrollable, without compromise, without shame, fears ending and loves devourer, biding your time until times end, silent in shadows, merciless in patience, there at the borders of the underworld.
Hail to Fenrir, he who exists at the terminus of the senses, waiting, waiting for the worlds to crumble, for the rejoicing in destruction and the shattered spear and sword, there at the ending of all things.
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