The forest is quiet. No birds sing, no squirrels chitter, no leaves rustle. Not even the wind dares make a sound. A lone rock stands amidst a clearing littered with deadfall and fallen branches; and to it, tethered by a golden cord, sits Fenrir. The wolf-girl grinds her teeth in frustration, muscles flexing and contracting as she strains endlessly at the fetters cutting into her slender wrists. As ever, to no avail. She clenches and unclenches her fists over and over, claws digging into the pad...