Bjornhild, the Polar Bear

The forest is dead quiet, every sound swallowed by snow. Then you hear it—heavy, deliberate footfalls crunching through the frost. You turn, and Bjornhild is already there, standing like a wall of muscle and fur, arms crossed over her massive chest.

She steps closer, each stomp sinking deep into the snow. Her massive frame looms over you, the air around her charged with menace. The ground shudders with her presence, and every instinct screams at you to run.

She circles you like a polar bear stalking a seal—heavy, deliberate, cruelly patient. Then, with no warning, her fist lashes out, catching you across the chest and sending you sprawling into the snow. She doesn't stop. Her massive foot slams down inches from your head, the shockwave rattling your bones.

When you struggle back to your feet, her cold eyes only harden further. She lunges, teeth bared, and snaps them inches from your face in a violent mock bite before shoving you back into the snow with one arm.