Atreus awoke in absolute darkness, with cold, heavy metal wrapped around his hands and feet, which he quickly learned were chains. He was cold, and the rock-hard floor was damp. About him, there was crying and whimpering, both from men and women. Wherever he now found himself in, it was spacious. The room tilted to one side, then the other, and from a far-off window, the sloshing of water could be heard. The sounds of creaking wood and pounding rain filled his ears.
The crack of a whip, a scream of despair, and a sadistic laugh echoed off in the distance. A drop of ice-cold water fell on Atreus' shoulder. The smell of sweat and soiled clothes stung his nostrils. What hell had he found himself in?
"Hello?" Atreus called out.
"D-don't" A weak voice hissed. "Shhh, please…"
"Where are we?" Atreus called again.
"Who's that who dares open their mortal lips to speak?!" A powerful voice commanded from above.
Suddenly, a great flash of light filled the chamber, and finally, Atreus could see where he was; all around him were walls of black iron, and chained all along it were human, elf, dwarf and skink prisoners, just as cold and terrified as Atreus.
"Well?!" The voice asked again from behind that blinding light. "Who thought it wise to speak out of turn?!"
An arrow flew down, striking the skull of an older woman and killing her instantly. Her body went limp, and her head touched and bled against the shoulder of the panicked boy beside her. The Skinks hissed, and the Dwarves sighed.
"For every time I ask, another arrow comes down!" The voice shouted. "Who spoke?!"
"I-" Atreus started. "Please don't kill anymore people, it was me."
"Pl- please?!" The voice asked, and a chorus of laughter erupted above. "The new boy is so polite! Well, since you asked so nicely…"
Another arrow flew into a dwarf's leg, and he let out a cry of pain.
"Stop that!" Atreus shouted, letting out a weak cough.
"You don't learn, do you?" The voice asked, and another arrow flew into a Skink's chest.
"I'll kill you!" Atreus screamed, but could speak no more from the coughing in his lungs.
"Foolish boy, we can do this all day! Zodah, shoot-"
There was a sudden silence as the voice above abruptly cut, and the final words echoed through the chamber for a moment before falling to complete silence. As the tormentors above grew silent, so too, it seemed, did the storm, and even the rain seemed to grow nervously calm. Suddenly, a heavy footstep thudded against creaking iron stairs, somewhere on the other side of the chamber wall. The steps descended from above, thudding slowly, purposefully, down into the lower levels. The steps halted before a door, which sat across from Atreus, and from behind came a loud rattling of locks. With a heavy click and a distasteful groan, the rusty door swung open.
The figure behind the door was darkened by the shadows, save for its red, glowing eyes. As it stepped into the light, Atreus could feel the terror, not only from the prisoners around him, but from the wardens above, who hadn't spoken a word. The figure was tall and slender, but stood with a posture of nobility about it. Its armour was dark and jagged, yet elegant, and around its shoulders waved a great black cloak. Most prominent, however, was its face, which, aside from its red eyes, was covered by an intimidating golden mask. The visage itself was shaped in the form of a skull, with squid's tentacles protruding from its chin and cheeks, spikes along its forehead, and a webbed sail about its temple.
The figure stepped up to Atreus until he stood over him, then with a slow movement, knelt down to Atreus' level. Its red eyes scanned the boy up and down, left and right.
"What is your name, boy?" The figure asked with a deep, raspy voice.
Atreus remained silent, refusing to look into those eyes, partly out of fear, partly out of rage. The masked man sighed.
"I am Lokjir of the Fellheart house." The man explained. "You are aboard the Tower of the Blessed Dread. It is only polite you tell me your name, now that I've told you mine. I believe the word you used was…"please."
Atreus didn't look, but replied. "Atreus."
"Atreus." Lokhir repeated. "You bear within you a special gift that the Witch King desires, Atreus. The reward for your capture is great, and greater still if no harm comes to you. You can rest assured that you will be fed and watered, however, the same cannot be said for these dregs around you. Your petulance has cost the leg of one creature, and the lives of two others. Look around; those are the eyes not of fear towards me, but hatred towards you. If you cannot behave, more will die, and these slaves will blame no one but you."
Atreus' lower lip quivered, and his head bowed to the ground.
"You have my permission to speak, child," Lokhir grumbled. "One question."
"Where's mother and father?" Atreus asked, fighting to speak past the knot in his throat.
"You shouldn't worry about them." Lokhir grunted. "Dead or alive, your parents have lost you, and you them. In this pit, your life begins anew."
With that, Lokhir stood and strolled out of the leaking chamber, closing the iron door behind him, and the blinding light overhead shut off. Never in his life was he more comforted by darkness than that moment, for in the dark, those faces, those spiteful, terrified faces of the prisoners around him, they were gone, if only for a brief time.
/
The winds whipped at Kratos' face, and the snows at his feet were wet and sticky. Through this harsh snow, nothing but what was perfectly close could be seen, but Kratos knew these lands better than most. He knew the passages through the mountains, and he knew the locations of the Norscan towns along this coast.
He turned the corner around a cliffside, and there it was; his first landmark, the Monolith of Borkill the Bloody-Handed. It was an obelisk of blood-red, marked the skulls and bones of a thousand warriors. Continuously bleeding, continuously pulsing with living organs, and continuously roaring with the war cries of past battles, the monolith stood as a great ugly scar, even in a place like Norsca. It sat at the edge of the cliffside, and all around it stood jagged stones, whereupon sacrifices were chained to be consumed by the strange monolith's pulsing tendrils.
He was moving into the territory of the Skaeling, the infamous sea-reavers and the scourge of Bretonnia. Their ships were sturdy and would be capable of the long journey to Naggarond. And so it was that he arrived at a village of Skaelings, whose ships were docked along their coastline, rocking and bobbing in the windswept waves. As he approached, the Norscans turned from their business and watched. Their eyes met as he came near, and though Norscans are brave, they can also be wise, and the tales told about the "tattooed man with the ghost skin" had spread far and wide in those lands.
The Snow Ghost. The Slayer of All Things. The Wandering God. These were but a few of the titles the Norscans had gifted Kratos. Many great chieftains, each as strong as fifty normal men, sometimes more, had gone in search of the Snow Ghost, to never be seen or heard from again. It soon became an unwritten rule that should the Snow Ghost appear in your village, you grant him no animosity.
Of course, not all Norscans believe or respect the tales, and many still test their mettle against him. It so happened that this particular village boasted a proud and arrogant chieftain. The chieftain stepped forth and stood in Kratos' way, standing taller than even the Snow Ghost himself. The Norscan chief was wide as he was tall, and his furs were decorated with a hundred skulls. His beard was long and braided, and his eyes were stone-cold and stern. The two mens' eyes locked.
"Stand aside." Kratos grunted.
"I am Stirruch." The chief barked. "You are intruding."
"Stand...aside." Kratos repeated.
"I hear tales of you, tattooed one." Stirruch spat. "I don't believe them. I have killed chaos champions far greater than even-"
Before Stirruch could finish his sentence, Kratos had grabbed him by the beard and had pulled his face into the snow, and with one stomp, Stirruch's skull was nothing more than red snow. The villagers said nothing, nor did they react to their chieftain's death with either surprise or concern. Kratos knew their traditions; this disgraced chieftain would receive no honours and no burial. For his failure, he would be left in the snow to be eaten by the creatures of this land. It was what he deserved to die so embarrassingly.
With no further interruption by the villagers, Kratos took a rowboat, rowed to a longship, and let loose its sails. The Norscan cliffs quickly faded into the blizzard behind him, and soon, he was sailing the Sea of Claws, with the hope that this fast little ship might catch up with the massive Black Ark before it reached Naggarond, or worse, the Slaver's Gate.