Frederick, who's true name was FriÐÞjÓfr, stood in his room, admiring all his trophies. The skulls of men he'd slain, the weapons and gear he'd taken as a reward for work and as payment. Even his prized possession, a King Rock Demon head mounted on his wall above his bed, seemed useless now. All his allies, his friends, had died. Ludk had died in battle, Keltyn died in battle too, and Kaela had given herself to the Vinterulv for purposes out of his knowledge. How he longed to run with them in Niflheim. How he wished to see all his allies again.
He stood, grabbing all his armor and weaponry, knowing that he would meet his end before the cold desert night came upon the exiled lands. Leaving the Den was a sorrowing affair, especially since it was where the flames of the Winterwolf were. Knowing that if he did not die in glory and battle, he'd be devoured by the very demon he worshipped, FriÐÞjÓfr set out to work his way up, fighting beasts, then men, then demons.
He slew an old elephant he'd once seen impale a King Rhino, and decided that beasts were no match for him. He tried to try the old enemies he'd once fought and lost to, but all of them seemed to have moved on, forgiving him for his past transgressions. This only inflamed the Aesir more, causing him to move far to the Northwest.
FriÐÞjÓfr came upon the stone city, watching it's inhabitants go about their soon-to-be-ended lives. Frederick thought to himself about how strange it was for them to worship something easily crushed by a half-hearted stomp. But alas, he thought, snakes do have a rather mean bite. Scaling the wall, he entered their city, walking through it as though he were common folk. It did not take long for him to be spotted.
A large, bronze-skinned man appeared, and with him the others rallied. The Stygian warrior was without a shirt, instead he flaunted his scarred body, showing his honor to all those who might dare challenge him. The blonde Fang readied his warhammer, and on it the runes Kaela had inscribed on the metal for him glowed with the Vinterulv's cold flames.
In Asgard, two warriors bearing weapons in front of a large crowd was a duel. Here it was not quite the same. Here, there was but one lone warrior against dozens, nay, hundreds of Stygian warriors, all of whom were led by a man far grander than them all. A black, curled beard covered most of the Stygian Behemoth's face, but in it was peppered light grays and whites. This was noticed by the Fang, who prepared himself to meet the ornamental khopesh of this experienced and powerful man.
Silent had been the streets of the city, but it was suddenly broken and shattered by the battle cry of a warrior, determined to die in this battle, or any that would come after it. FriÐÞjÓfr charged the huge man, sprinting at him with his runic hammer in tow. Loud was the cry of the crowd behind the Behemoth, who's size was second only to the giant-kin Ludk. The man who once worshiped a god of peace now swung low for the shins of the Stygian, though his blow was met only by the dry air of the desert. This would have costed the blonde his head, had he not swung himself around with the momentum of his hammer to block the downward cleave that was coming for him. Frederick had fought many a Stygian before, and their styles were not new to him, however, this man was a legend amongst the Relic Hunters. He had invented a style all to his own, mastering it and teaching it to no one. The Stygian threw his blade up, about to use his snake-pommeled khopesh to gut the Nord before him. This was in vain, however, as the old Fang dodged the stab, using the rest of his momentum to swipe his hammer into the ribs and shoulderblade of the Behemoth.
A loud crack sent out into the Exiled Lands as the hammer smashed through the ribcage of the grizzled Stygian. Recoiling, he grasped his bronze side, gasping for the air that had been thrust out of him. FriÐÞjÓfr gave a wolfish grin to the Hunters, having wounded their champion. This man was with his honor, however, and he allowed the Stygian to rush him again before attacking. Rush this beast did, and he cleaved right into the chest of FriÐÞjÓfr, dragging his blade down and cutting more as his blade left the scarred chest of the pale Nord. The pain from the blow had injured his right side, forcing him to call upon the Vinterulv, offering all of these Stygians in return for giving him the power to kill them all.
The hand that Armand had healed, and that Kaela had re-attached, began to carve into itself a rune, just dissimilar to that of the brands of the Tails. The Winterwolf had heard the offer of Frederick, and did just what he needed to. This rune turned his blood blue, ice cold, like the rivers that glaciers make. His chest healed, allowing him to raise his right arm once more. A flash of blue flame glowed behind the green eyes of FriÐÞjÓfr as his words were laced with those of the Great Wolf himself. Fang Healer FriÐÞjÓfr chose to use this time he had wisely, roaring the words to an Aesir war hymn as he charged into the Stygian legend. Fear, for the first time, was visible on the man's face. Even still he fought back, flailing his khopesh at the possessed warrior to no avail. His sword arms were crippled by the unholy man, who had slammed his warhammer, blazing with ice cold blue fire, onto the forearms of the Behemoth. On the ground he lay, begging in his native tongue. The song was finally finished, and FriÐÞjÓfr had chosen to say one last thing to the man. "All are claimed by the Winterwolf." With this he brought the staff of his hammer down onto the skull of the legend, over and over again until a crater had formed in his head, the walls being the tortured face of the man.
Though the presence of the Wolf had left, Frederick still glowed with a terrifying awe. He smiled, licking the lips that he's covered with the blood and brains and bone flecks of the Stygian Behemoth. "Next."
Hours later, the whole city was filled with corpses, having been ravaged by the Nord warrior. All of the poor souls of the inhabitants were devoured by the Winterwolf upon their death, His last Fang having sent them to Him. Doors were destroyed, houses were aflame, and a lone Nord prowled the streets for any who had survived. Children and pregnant mothers were spared, as they were, or held within them, the next buffet for the Winterwolf. Once it was apparent that all the warriors had been slain by him, FriÐÞjÓfr left the city, killing and nailing to the walls each snake he saw.
The dark presence of the Corrupted City weighed heavy on the body of Frederick. He had been smashing the undead bones of skeletons for what seemed to him to be days, but were mere minutes to everyone outside. Finally, he found the monster he was after, a great dragon of brimstone and fire. The red scales of the demon glinted in the little sunlight that did make it into the City. Snarling and growling, the beast observed the Fang, smoke bellowing out of it's nostrils as it circled him. The undead, even the Snakemen, had left the field to give the battle to the dragon. Sweat poured from the brow of FriÐÞjÓfr, his body aching and tired, having sustained wound after wound on his journey here.
Again the unnatural and terrifying battle cry of Frederick rang out, and some skeletons even flinched. Bat Demons flew overhead, watching with molten-steel eyes as the Fang charged the dragon.
In the belly of the dragon Frederick's body rest, being digested and destroyed after it sustained only minor injury from FriÐÞjÓfr. While his body and physical form had been destroyed by the great jaws and razor-sharp teeth of the wyrm, FriÐÞjÓfr's soul, his astral form, was somewhere far different. The snowstorm around him seemed eerily warm and welcoming.
He was in the realm of the Vinterulv, Niflheim. In the distance the warrior heard the howl of a great wolf, followed by howls from what sounded to be human voices. Voices that he remembered. He smiled, howling himself, telling them, "I am here."