The Skinwalker crept through the canyon, wearing the pelt of a coyote. It was a shapeshifter, a witch of the Navajo lands, looking for power. Skin-Weave. It saw a massive grey shape sleeping in the shadows.
"A giant wolf," the Skinwalker thought. "Its pelt would make me a king."
It crept closer, obsidian knife poised.
Fenrir opened one eye. The eye was the size of a harvest moon.
The Skinwalker froze. This wasn't an animal. This was the End of the World. Lupine Colossus. Fenrir didn't just occupy space; he consumed it.
The Skinwalker tried to run, shifting into an owl to fly away. Nightbound Sprint.
Fenrir didn't even stand up. He just yawned. Ragnarök Devour.
The intake of breath created a vortex that pulled rocks, trees, and one screaming witch into his maw. There was a brief snap as the jaws closed. Fenrir went back to sleep, barely registering the appetizer.