Hushed Willows Ironborn.

Sundance. Sundance!?

Rökkvi snorted a breath of laughter, amused at such a ridiculous moniker, though no smirk crossed his lips. Perhaps, if the bold yearling were to look close enough at the iron beast's gilded stare, he would see some small glimmer of mischief swirl in their molten depths.

What sort of mother would name her cub such an absurd title? What sort of father would allow her to bestow it upon his infant son? Rökkvi had learned quickly that these Southern wolves were unlike his kin, and found it odd that they did not earn their names as he had. 

He prowled forward, closer to the faerie wolf. Charcoal ears fell slick against his peppered nape as his brow furrowed, as his jowls twitched to accomodate the threat of a snarl that bloomed in his throat.

"Your worst nightmare."