[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Outskirts]
They call him the Hound of Hades, but that name softens what he truly is—rounds the edges, makes it easier to swallow.
A hound suggests obedience. Loyalty. Something that waits at a master's heel.
But what stood before him was not merely a guardian. It was a boundary given flesh. In the old stories, even the residue of his existence was feared. It was said that where his saliva struck the ground, aconite bloomed—pale, cruel flowers whose beauty masked a lethality so absolute that the plant itself became synonymous with poison. Not venom meant to kill swiftly. Not mercy. It was corruption. A declaration that Death does not simply end things—it claims them, absorbs them, ensures they do not return unchanged.
That was why the poison of the Hound was mythic.
Not because it killed fast—but because it did not hurry at all.
