Not mere seconds after their encounter does another clash of gods unfold. Atreus and Ullr dash, the Aesir with a hunger for glory, and Loki with a resolve to stall for time. A flurry of swings, a countless clatter of fire and ice ring and spark within the chamber. Inhumanly fast, the two clash blades in melee range, juggling their dual weapons to gain the upper hand and twirling their bodies in different directions to land the first devastating blow. From thrusts to slashes, to even jabs with their razor armaments, only to be met with cunning resolve and fast-acting aversion. Steam fills the air as the fury of the Blades of Chaos, and the icy edge of the Winter God's axes cloud them in a thin mist.
To the Last Son of Sparta, while baffling to uncover, cannot believe that this Aesir holds his own so effortlessly in the melee. While not of the same caliber as his uncle, Ullr presents himself as more than capable of fighting him on an even footing. Each fatal attempt on one another only fuels their resolve to usurp the other in this duel. No matter their aim or deceptive tactic, the two narrowly thwart or outright avoid each other's attacks. Even when their infernal and frigid blades are locked together, Atreus and Ullr exchange kicks and stomps of their heels to harm the other. Despite both their attempts, the two are locked in a stalemate. A fact finally acknowledged upon hurling one another across different sides of the chamber.
"I can see how my uncle views you as a threat," Ullr compliments, twirling his axes as he stands. "You're no mere mortal as the stories say."
"Stories can be deceiving based on the teller," Atreus replies, swinging his scorching blade in-kind response. "I was told that you were one of the more reasonable Aesir, honorable, was that wrong of me to assume true?"
This moment of philosophical respite forms a gap between them. The duo pace in circles, Atreus spinning his searing blade by its chainlink while Ullr twirls his between his fingers. While the Aesir grins from the adrenaline kick of their duel, the Wolf of Midgard returns the look with a darkened scowl.
"One's honor is based on perspective. Mine comes from serving my clan, to battle with valor and for glory. You can't say the same, so what are you fighting for?"
"Rectification!" Atreus bluntly states, planting himself for another charge.
Blinded by their debate, the Wolf of Midgard is bashed away by the irritable intervention of Thrúd hurling his shielded body against him. This time, the Daughter of Thunder forms a barricade between the older gods. Again, her body emits static from her impatient agitation for being placed on the sidelines. Though Atreus is quick to return to his feet, he can't help but feel shaken by her baffling strength. When comparing himself to her if they were the same age, Loki cannot help but shiver at the thought of losing so horribly.
"What are you doing, brat?" Ullr questions with a scuff.
"I'm a god! I'm taking the kill that I've rightfully earned!" She replies, pompously annoyed.
Atreus's distaste only intensifies at the bitter similarities between her and his younger self when learning of his godhood. Some of his harsh words and memories of his poor mannerisms still stick with him. Yet, knowing the faults of such a mentality, he cannot bring himself to hold animosity for her behavior. Being surrounded by the warmongering Aesir and being a child of Thor would drive anyone to arrogance, including a child. A sensation of hubris the Wolf of Midgard shall never forget.
"Your attitude will be your downfall, girl," Atreus notes, still belittling her.
"Stop patronizing me!" Thrúd yells with a pinched nerve of frustration.
Again, with her wings launching her forward, she makes haste towards Atreus with another shield-held tackle. But this time, the preemptive element is no longer at her disposal in this strike. Atreus is effortlessly smooth as he hurls himself from her soaring path. Her aggravated attempt leaves her disoriented briefly upon landing back on solid ground. Even so, Thrúd's next flurry of strikes is driven by the same brass aggression. Though awe-inspiring to witness her apparent choreographic swings, elevated flips, and lightning-imbued slashes, Atreus remains one step ahead of each blow. With Trolls Bane, he parries her hits, coursing more static through his body. And with many years of experience, he displays their distinguishable skill gap with his well-timed dodges and reflexes. Even so, her brute strength remains a factor that prevents Atreus from being reckless.
Out of a dire desire to usurp victory, the young Aesir rallies the full force of her divine might into the air. Following with a throat-tearing scream, she crashes downward with the fury of the heavens in her trembling grasp. As lightning strikes with her, she regretfully only smites the ash-coated floor where Atreus stood before averting her once more. This time, the Wolf of Midgard stands above her, now with his own seax in hand. In this singular second, the two share an identical thought, an exact plan of attack. Incidentally, with synched motion, Atreus and Thrúd hurl their short blades at one another. A spark, a flash, and a roar of wind and lightning explode outward as the two runic blades clash. The discharge from the collision blasts the armaments back to their users, who proceed with their battle.
However, Atreus is again dealt a staggering blow as Ullr returns to the fray. The older Aesir unleashes a spray of icy arrows toward the Wolf of Midgard. While he can avert and block a majority of the projectiles, this barrage only serves as a distraction from the God of Winter's charge at him. One slash of his axe is parried, while the other spills blood from Loki's bicep.
"Well, dear sister," Ullr comments, speaking down to Thrúd. "If we can't agree for one of us to put down this rapid dog, I propose we, at the very least, cooperate to get the deed done quicker. The last thing we wish to risk is for him to escape or die to his fangs. I can't allow you to fail under my charge."
"I can slay this beast myself!" Thrúd replies with zealous confidence. "But for once, I agree with your blabber!"
In unison, the duo Aesir make their move, charging without hesitation. From differing angles, Atreus is forced into the defensive from the rapid assault of the children of Sif. Neither one grants the Wolf of Midgard an opening to counter, only to frantically divert their blows and sway from their razor arsenal. A dual struggle of ice and lightning collides with his defenses from two ends without relenting. The conflict is consistently fierce as a storm, but the Last Son of Sparta continues to show an unyielding resolve to the grim challenge. But even the mightiest wall can remain tall for soo long.
A single misstep, a minor oversight, and the Aesir gain the upper hand in the confrontation. Before Atreus can register his failings, he is dealt a bone-shattering blow from Thrúd's bulwark. A ripple of force surges through his body as he's thrown to the edge of the chamber. Despite the minimal time he's laid atop the stone floor, Atreus is rendered vulnerable enough for a synchronized attack from the children of Sif. Thrúd, with her runic blade, calls lightning into her grasp while Ullr already loads the string of his bow with multiple arrows. The conjoined fury of ice and electricity surge from the siblings with unstable potency. A single motion and the chaotic energy of their attack hurls with blinding speeds toward the Wolf of Midgard. Neither the time nor a sliver of opportunity is presented for Atreus to move away, forced to watch the devastating attack crash upon him.
A wave of static and violent winds makes contact, with the resulting explosive force rippling like waves through the chamber. A cloud of ash and dust from the blast coat the air in powdery fumes, blanketing the surrounding area. The sparks of Thrúd's might flicker and jolt through the dust-filled air. Anticipation binds the Aesir to their place, and chokes the air with silence and fading ash. Yet, the more they hone their sights on the spot of their assault, their interest becomes mind-rattling confusion.
The Last Son of Sparta lifts his sights forward from a flinch, and shares in his enemy's expression. The very clouds of dust that filled the air have formed into a glamoured sigil in the form of an elemental bulwark. The Aesir's conjoined assault has been thwarted by mystical magic, not of this realm or Seiðr origin. But instead, sown and tailored by familiar hands from Atreus's history.
"You speak of glory, of noble valor, yet what could children of the whore goddess know of civility," the mockery tone of Angrboða carries in the winds of her craft. Her grand entrance heralds a sensation of relief and simultaneous concern in the Wolf of Midgard. Yet, despite her actions, as the enchanted ward of dusty mist ceases, Atreus's stomach turns at her sudden intervention. "What could the bastard brats of Thor know of honor!"
The giantess adorns a far more concealing attire prior to their last encounter. Made up of thick, dark leather with blue and white clothing that creates fewer restrictions in her movement. A tunic of firm yet lightweight materials covers most of her torso, discluding her cloth-wrapped cleavage. Several ceremonial bracelets and nordic charms of stone and metal hang from her wrists, neck, and waist strap.
"Angrboða, but-" Not even a full question can leave his tongue before being interrupted.
"I caught a whiff of the Aesir's stench not long after we parted ways," the maiden frost giant explains, her hand already caressing his chin. "I can't allow the wolf to be cornered by mutts and hounds. You're too special to die here."
Begrudgingly willing to take her aid, Atreus's crucial disadvantage leaves him with few alternatives. Now backed into a corner, the Last Son of Sparta takes his stand, shoulder to shoulder, with his former comrade and mate. A grin of delight smears across her jaw while Atreus remains stern in the faces of their adversaries. The Aesir, in turn, nearly mirror their expressions. Ullr is confident but undeterred by the sudden shift in their battle. Thrúd matches Angrboða's anticipation, but a twitch in her brow displays her frustration from the prior insults.
Before the dust of the previous struggle can settle, the four make their unified valiant charge against the other. But, to the disappointment of the Daughter of Thunder, Angrboða thwarts her path to Atreus with her runic magic. The Wolf of Midgard and God of Winter exchange slashes and clashes of blades once more. This time, utilizing his vast arsenal, Atreus intertwines his techniques with the Blades of Chaos and his gauntlets. However, the Jotunn blessings from the celestial wolves carry behind every swing of his metal cladding fists. Aetherial claws consume his hands and unleash brief but potent blows to Ullr's defenses. The snarls of primal beasts guide the blunt strikes and blocks from Trolls Bane. With those temporary lapses of overlooked openings, the Last Son of Sparta uses his own Seax. As the runic blade hurls, the dashing Aesir diverts his focus to the wind-soaring armament and his assailant. All the while, the giantess makes ill-noble and harsh remarks to the brazen child battling with her.
"So sad, so dull," Angrboða mocks the child Aesir with each failed strike towards the giantess. "Did your whore mother teach you to fight, girl?"
"Shut up!" Thrúd cries out. Each of the Jotunn's taunts cut deeper than the sharpest edges. And every remark only causes the Aesir to become more agitated and act far brasher with each attempt at striking her foe. Even for the blows may come close, Angrboða's array of tricks only foil the Aesir's intentions in the most humiliating way. Such methods include brushing the child away from her target or outright preventing them through persistent conjured winds or the earth itself blocking her swings. Even with the surge of speed from her wings, the Daughter of Thunder is toyed excessively and eluded. As such, the giantess delights in her superior battle experience and tactical advantage over the little girl.
"A drunkard for a father, and an open pair of legs for a mother... There's truly no hope for you, child," the Jotunn claims with a pinch of pity at the end of her insulting tone.
Despite the indifference between the divine siblings, even the stoic Ullr grows distasteful of Angrboða's foul mouth. Though his actions leave him at Atreus's mercy, the Aesir breaks a sliver of a gap between them with a surge of frozen winds from his axes. In that crack of opportunity, he dawns his bow with a frozen arrow in his hand.
"Svell kráka!" Ullr calls out, releasing his frost-coated bolt.
In a flash of glittering ice, his arrow emerges as that of a frozen crow soaring towards the giantess. Instinctually, Atreus hurls himself between the shot, shielding himself with his arms crossed guarding. Upon contact, the Wolf of Midgard is locked in frozen bonds that disable him for the moment from fighting back. Hindered, he is dealt a flurry of razor swings from the God of Winter. While some slashes are averted, his body's heavily marked by Ullr's razor arsenal. Even Angrboða, whose haughtiness has shown to be unwavering in most predicaments, cannot deter her focus for long. Her bravado dwindles the further she glimpses at Atreus's temporary struggle. Enough so that the Daughter of Thunder nearly sways the confrontation to her favor. Again, the child Aesir hurls herself in a violent torrent toward the giantess, her shield leading her furious charge.
Even in her hindered focus, Angrboða is not so easily overcome. An effortless leap sways her from the direct impact of the Aesir. A follow-up charge is also just as negated with equal ease. A rapid formation of random gestures and swings of her hands animates a golden sigil in the air. Despite the unbridling strength of the girl, Thrúd's body is halted dead in her tracks by a wall of golden ice and stone. The child's bulwark shatters from the impact, and the repercussion redirected from the collision hurls her back. Groans and lung-compressed gasps blow from her teeth during her tumble and bash against the wall.
At the same time, Ullr's violent flurry of swings mistakenly leads him to shatter Atreus's binds with a synchronized crash from both axes. The kinetic force is briefly held in the Wolf of Midgards bracers, only to immediately be thrown back at the stoic Aesir. The God of Winter staggers back from the ripple of energy but remains relentless in his quest. Before his feet can be firmly planted, he unleashes a barrage of arrows in rapid succession. Yet, even his blessed bolts soar, Atreus shows equal, if not superior, will to cease this fight. He charges head-first into the line of fire, with each shot slipping beside him or crumbling beneath the might of his father's blades. At last, with the gap between them, he sends his seax toward his foe. But instead of aiming to harm him, Atreus's runic blade slices through the Aesir's majestic bow.
In a valiant last-ditch effort, Ullr throws his frozen axes toward the Last Son of Sparta in an air-chilling spiral. Yet, Atreus reacts unconsciously to the creative method of attack. He leaps forward, his body twirling as he aims his body in between the Asgardian armaments. In the air from his flip, he catches a glimpse of his wrath-fueled reflection from the ice-coated weapons. The moment he lands, Ullr is left open and bare for whatever attack the Wolf of Midgard intends. The God of Winter enters the melee. Though he throws a confident swing, his efforts only lead to a similar armada of slashes and tears through his firm physic. Each of the Aesir's swings is only met with more scorched punctures till the Blades of Chaos impaled his shoulder and abdomen. A rage-carrying roar rumbles from the core of Atreus's being as he musters his strength to launch the Son of Thor over his shoulder. Ullr lets loose a brief cry of pain before his collision with the walls of ore and rigid stone. Mounds of ash and rubble bury him, discarding him from the battle.
Thrúd lifts herself from the bare cracked floor as her brother lies broken and bested. Her guard is loosened, and the guise she adorns of bravado and hunger for battle dwindles to worry and to fear. Her breathing shakes along with her fading courage as she stares unsteadily at Ullr's buried body. But, as though a second wind of enraged flames erupts from ashes, her anger forces her back to her feet. Lighting calls from her eyes and blade as she faces Atreus in a trembling stance.
"I'm giving you one last chance, girl... STAND DOWN!" Atreus barks in an impatient demand.
"NEVER!" Thrúd cries out, once more recklessly dashing in wind-breaking flight towards him.
"So be it..."
In that handful of seconds, regardless of the child Aesir's speed, it proves futile to the Wolf of Midgard. While leading the charge with her blade, Atreus swerves himself from her path. However, he has enough agility to time her location for an opening to strike back. In the split gap in her defenses, he brings his elbow down onto the nape of her neck. The sound of his rumbling blow echoes through the chamber as the Aesir is slammed onto the solid ground once more. In a single strike, Thrúd lies unconscious at his feet. Her wings sparkle and fade from existence in a cluster of blue and white flakes drifting into the air. The temporary display of lights flickers and vanish before them, signifying the silencing of the conflict.
Atreus sighs into the sky above, with his prior tense body releasing tension while expelling his anger. Finally, he sheaths his blades and marches toward the desired ore above. Yet, not many steps forward are taken before he's directed away from his mission.
"What are you doing?" Angrboða questions, attempting to lure him with her soothing voice. "The battle is not over yet."
Atreus turns to her exhausted and ill patient over her antics. But, the moment he directs himself toward her, his eyes widen in shock over her step in cruelty. The unconscious Daughter of Thunder remains helpless, even by Angrboða's intentions. Even when unable to fight back, the giantess lifts the girl halfway off the floor by her hair, her nails itching to slit the child Aesir's throat.
"Do you not remember the cruelty the Aesir displayed towards you when you were a boy?" Angrboða asks rhetorically. "What they showed our kind and all others that opposed them? Do you not recall what Odin did to you, what his son took from you?"
Atreus is silent as the resurfacing memories rebuild his anger, his stance becoming firm and hateful with trembling fists. Each of her words only adds kindling to the fire of his hatred. As if enchanted, her questions and remarks forcibly resurface the memories of his struggles, the moments of loss, and the events of grave sorrow. The helplessness of when he was young continues the build the anger of the present. The steam of his father's cursed blood boils from his clenched arms.
"It's time to repay the blood that was wrongfully spilled," Angrboða tempts with an enticing tone. "Take your vengeance... Kill his last Brat!"