The Frost Giant, Hrym, strode through the blizzards of Niflheim. He was fifty feet of blue ice and ancient hate, carrying a club made from a glacier shard. World-Ice Shaping. He sought to smash the gates of Helheim and release the dead.
But the gate was not unguarded.
Garmr sat in the cave of Gnipahellir. His chest was stained red with old blood. He did not bark. He simply stood up, a singularity of violence in the white snow.
The Red Snow
The Giant laughed, a sound like cracking ice. "Out of my way, dog." He hurled a massive boulder of permafrost. Ice-Boulder Sling.
Garmr didn't dodge. He moved like a shadow. Chainrend.
The boulder shattered against the hound's flank, but Garmr didn't slow down. He launched himself at the giant's throat.
Bloodstain Maw.
Garmr’s teeth sank into the magical ice of the Jötunn’s neck. The bite didn't just pierce; it rotted. The magical rime that held the giant's form together turned black and slushy. Hrym roared, thrashing, but the hound was a prophesied world-ender, and the giant was mere infantry. Garmr tore the throat out, and the snow turned black with foul blood. The giant collapsed into a pile of dirty slush, and Garmr returned to his cave to wait for the Ragnarök.