The temple of Tyr, even after decades of unkept care, it still stands. Though aged, the glimmering, golden architecture still shines in the morning suns rays. It's torches burn, and the mossy statues give a welcoming sense to the denizens of Midgard. At this time, the Huldra Brothers hammer away. Reinforcing and augmenting their old workshop with their new, mystical tools. Sparks fly and heat the air, flashes of blue and gold flicker from their hammers, bleed from their gauntlets, and radiate from their creations.
"Atreus has been gone for some time," Sindri says with a ponder. "Should we go check on him?"
"I'd rather not be chased off by the local cock twisters again," Brok claims. "Them Elves still don't like me after... "That" incident..."
A revolting shiver courses through Sindri as the disturbing memory resurfaces. A few disgusted gags leave his legs unsteady, forcing him to lean against the closest surface.
"Gods, you made such a mess," Sindri comments, holding back the juices of his stomach.
As all for the moment was serene, it was inevitable for it to come to an abrupt end. Beneath the dwarves' heels, the temple begins to rumble all around them. Though the tremors are mild, the implications behind its activity draw the focus of the Huldra Brothers. The gears and devices of Tyr's temple ring and echo through the many golden halls. Brok and Sindri stand patiently on the other side of the bridge that connects the chambers. The runes and seals on the gateway to the portal room radiate, shifting and moving as it opens.
However, to their surprise, what emerges from the gate is not Atreus. Instead, a fluttering swarm of Alfheim's Dark Elves pour from the entrance. The radiance of the sky becomes blotted by the dark silhouette of their masses. The dwarves, in a panic, take cover, obscuring their form and cowering out of view. The frantic seconds pass like minutes while they wait for the swarm to leave the temple.
Silence eventually follows as the noises of the Dark Elves fades. This time, only peaking at the gate, they watch cautiously at what else may leave the portal room. To their relief, Atreus steps from the shadows, bearing a few remaining marks from his battles in Alfheim. His blades sheathed, bow strapped over his shoulder, he marches triumphantly. Sigyn follows behind, gazing into the sky that the Dark Elves ascended to. Upon entering the chamber with the Huldra Brothers forge, Brok and Sindri excitedly shimmer back into view.
"The Dark Elves are at my command," Atreus proudly states. "The war in Alfheim is over."
"Well shit on Thor's beard," Brok speaks proudly while wiping his nose. "Color us impressed, lad!"
"Indeed, I never thought I'd hear the day the Elves would make peace," Sindri comments, astounded.
"It wasn't easy," Atreus stretches his limbs, cracking the numerous bones in his body with each pull, bend, and turn of his body. His time in the Elven land has taken a stressful toll on his body. One that will empower him and hone his skills to a greater extent.
"But now they're offering their services even beyond their Realm," he tells them. "I've ordered them to do reconnaissance on Valhalla's warriors in Midgard. Given their attunement to the shadows, they should be able to give us weak points and strategies on how to get rid of them."
The excitement of Atreus' victory in Alfheim overflows the Huldra Brothers with cheer. Not even a second thought is formed before the two smack hands. Instantly revolting and inflicting Sindri with regret as he gags.
"That must explain why you were gone for so long, even for the time difference between the realms," Sindri comments.
"Not quite..." Atreus crosses his arms. His body is firm as he recalls the chaos of the last few days within Alfheim. His hands tremble anxiously as the memories of his experience reemerge. The brutal visions of his father, along with his blood raging voice, are still locked in his mind. Yet before he can speak, Sigyn catches up with him. The moment she steps to Atreus' side, the dwarves latch their focus onto her. Upon setting her sights onto the siblings, her fiery eyes widen in wonder.
"Uh..." Sindri and Brok are speechlessly confused.
"Oh my, dwarves," she says, disbelieving the sight. "I've never seen a dwarf before!" Unconsciously, she rushes herself to them with excitement.
Initially, the Huldra Brothers step back with hesitation towards her. Their sudden reaction also halts her. She stays idle, hands held up to show she's not a threat. Her behavior catches Atreus' attention, who stares at her gentle, curious nature overtaking her. A sliver of a grin forms on his face without his knowing. With his eyes set on her as the dwarves glance at him, Brok and Sindri rapidly calm themselves. A lively smile between the two broadens, cheerful of what is incidentally implied.
"Well, sister, you're looking at the peak example of masterful Dwarfhood," Brok boastfully remarks, running his palm along his bald scalp. "The names Brok!" His hand is flung outward to greet the sorceress without a second thought.
"Sigyn," she eagerly shakes hands with him.
"She's got a firm handshake." Brok's words are backed with pride for the Son of Kratos as he looks him dead in the eyes while nodding.
Following after, Sigyn attempts to do the same with Sindri. Flinching at the close, exposed palm of the sorceress, the dwarf steps back. Again, she pulls away, stunned by his attitude towards her approach.
"Uh, Sindri," he greets nauseously while keeping a gap between him and her. "And I don't do... That..." His shaky finger is directed at her hand as he gags.
Intrigued, Sigyn glances between her hand and Sindri. The amount of study, and intuition she deciphers in the situation, leads to a very swift conclusion and answer. A wave of her hand and sparkling, emerald energy bleeds from her fingers. A ring of runes tattooed onto her wrist also glow as she invokes a spell. A transparent, green hand appears in the air, gently grasping the dwarf's fidgety palm.
The three are stunned by her effortless ability to conjure magic. Although Sindri is alarmed by the sudden contact, his worries rapidly die out. Measmurization takes hold of his mind, drawing him to study the animated appendage.
"Solid yet transparent... Weightless, yet firm... Fabricated, but feels natural..." He notes while waving his other hand through the unconnected part of the fabrication. "No beasties could corrode such a thing..." A bright smile protrudes his bushy beard as he looks up to Atreus. "I like her!"
Bewildered by the dwarves' behavior, Atreus looks back and forth between them. Uncertainty prevents him from forming a response to their supportive opinions of her. As Sigyn rises, the spell dissipates within Sindri's grasp.
"Can you believe it?" Brok asks, shaking his brother with excitement. "The boy has brought a girl home!"
Finally, the realization clicks in Atreus' head, what they'd misunderstood this whole time. The Wolf of Midgard is stunned, puzzled by their random notion and absurd belief. Even Sigyn is dumbfounded by what they are heavily insinuating. Her cheeks become red, driving her to shield her mouth with her hand.
"You weren't fighting a war the whole time, I'll take it," Brok jokingly remarks with a wink. "I had a feeling you were taking your time... You know some of my charm had to rub off on the boy for him to get her." He begins nudging his elbow into Sindri.
"Excuse you!" The other dwarf replies, offended. "He clearly took my gentlemanly behavior to heart and charmed this lovely maiden."
"Oh yeah, and what have you ever charmed? You were never really a strapping lad with a woman on each arm." Brok chuckles.
"Well, the only thing you could ever charm is a troll!" Sindri pokes his sibling.
"HEY! That was one time, and you were in on it too!" Brok mimics the action, but with firm force.
"To get its horn!"
"Or to GET horny over something for once in your life!"
Back and forth, the Huldra Brothers bicker, none the care for who is watching the argument unfold. To prevent interrupting the squabble, Sigyn muffles her laughter with her hands. Cheeks bright red in amusement, while Atreus' blushes out of excruciating embarrassment. The more the debate continues, the quieter his thoughts become, prolonging his silence. His mouth hangs open, dumbfounded, and frozen by their absurdity. The moment Sigyn looks over to him, all he can do is smother his humiliation into his hand.
"How dare you say that!" Sindri spouts. "You're embarrassing Atreus in front of his lady!"
"Guys!" Atreus finally speaks out. "What the hel are you two talking about?"
Atreus' impatient snap desists the senseless conversation before it gets out of control. The Huldra Brothers attempt to be nonchalant when splitting off to stop the bickering, but the damage is already done. Sigyn still laughs into her hands, muting her noises of humor.
"Sigyn, could you please give us a moment?" Atreus asks, unable to look her in the eyes.
"Sure..." She replies, steadily walking away with a humored smile.
Sigyn gradually breaking the distance quells the Last Son of Sparta's sporadic heartbeat and unsettled mind. Though he sighs, expelling the tension from his body, Brok steadily approaches.
"We'll talk details later," he whispers to Atreus with a wink and a nudge.
"What details?" He asks, bewildered. "Trust me, it's not what you think..."
"Then, who is she?" Sindri approaches with a whisper. "And why is she tagging along with you?"
Atreus, with a glance over his shoulder, sticks his sights back onto her. Sigyn studies the forge and the architecture of the temple, dazed and distracted by intrigue. Her soft touch grazes across the still smooth, golden metal that forms most of the chamber. Loki stares, unconsciously dozing as his eyes remain fixated on her.
"She's some kind of sorceress, possessing magic unlike anything I've ever seen," he explains. "We met on the battlefield, fought side by side, and learned we have a common enemy. She despises Odin as much as we do, and has decided to lend her aid if I help her."
"How romantic-" Sindri says before receiving an uncomfortable scowl from the mild blushing Atreus. "I mean, her magic is quite fascinating. We've met plenty of magic users, but the way she performs her spells is unique. Similar to Vanir, but with less restraint."
"You definitely found yourself a catch," Brok comments, bringing out Atreus' timidness. "What exactly happened in Alfheim?"
Once more, Atreus hardens himself in body and mind. With arms crossed and body leaned on the nearest surface, Atreus begins explaining his experience.
"Odin is making his move. He sent an entire army to try and conquer Alfheim."
Distasteful hate towards the Allfather escapes the Huldra Brothers throats. Sighs and groans are shared between the forge masters. Even Sindri shakes his head side to side, maddened by the news of these events.
"You gotta be kidden me!" Brok spouts.
"He seemed to desire full control of the Light of Alfheim, either to control the realm or slay the entirety of the Elves," Atreus continues. "It took me, Sigyn, and the combined powers of the two factions to push them back... Which isn't even the worse of worries... Odin sent three Aesir as well..." He turns his sights to Sigyn, who comes closer as the discomforting topic is mentioned. "After her..."
"Why?" The brothers' question, looking up to the sorceress.
Whatever thoughts now lurk in her subconscious, they leave her somber and solemn. She caresses her arms, more specifically the parts of her limbs that are heavily wrapped in white cloth. Even a disturbed shiver rattles her being, prolonging her answer. Atreus gazes at her, empathetic towards her pain without even knowing the source or the reason. Intertwined with her distress, he's incapable of pushing the response.
"Whatever Odin can't control, he'll cage... Or want dead..." She mutters in trepidation. "He wanted me to submit to his rule, to his demands, and I refused and escaped... I've been running ever since..."
"It must have something to do with your knack for magic," Sindri proposes. "Odin seeks to learn everything. Even with his knowledge, he still has his limits. He must want to know how to utilize your natural talent."
"Enough talk about the one-eyed prick! We got ourselves a bigger problem if Ass guardian gods are streaking around!" Brok blurts. "What Aesir are we up against?"
"Thrúd and Ullr," Atreus answers. "The last two children of Thor."
"The pup and the omega of the family?" Brok asks, mildly stunned by the reveal. "I mean, we'd heard rumors that Thor had another kid before Magni and Modi killed over..."
A tense, muscle numbing shiver corrodes through Sindri's body as he recalls the events. Though not present, such rumors and tellings of their brutally ending fates are hard to forget.
"That's one way of putting it," he comments, shaking away the uneasy chill. "But we'd never have thought he'd train her or send her out to do his dirty work... And who's the third?"
"Höðr..." Atreus answers.
Despite the grand details that Atreus knows of this Aesir, Brok and Sindri appear confused at the mention of him. A questioning frown forms on their faces as they look at each other. The same feeling bleeds off onto Loki as he stares patiently at the Huldra Brothers.
"Who?" They ask in synch.
"Höðr... One of the Sons of Odin..." Atreus answers again, puzzled.
The dwarves are unfathomed by this revelation, eyes wide in shock. Even Sigyn can't understand how the infamous Aesir is unknown to anyone outside of Asgard. Though Brok and Sindri think hard, taking a moment of silence to conjoin their thoughts together, they impatiently give up.
"It sounds familiar," Sindri notes.
"But we've been up, down and dirty in Asgards halls," Brok crudely mentions. "If Odin had another kid, I think we'd know about em."
"Can you give us any details?" Sindri asks.
Atreus recollects his information of the Aesir, rubbing the marks inflicted across his armor. The god's heavy reverberating blows are still fresh on his mind. The distinct tattoos and markings on Höðr are so clear that Atreus could draw them near perfectly. However, before Atreus could give his answer, Sigyn steps into the discussion.
"He's Odin's most elite assassin," she confesses. "They call him the God of Darkness because he can manipulate the shadows to his will. He's described as swift as the arrows he fires, silent as the winds, and as deadly as the Aesir come. Even without the ability to see, he rarely, if ever, misses his targets."
"He made that quite clear when I fought him," Atreus adds. "As I am now, I can't say for certain if I can match him."
Immediately, the Huldra Brothers rush over to their workstation. With their magical pouches, they hurriedly cram and pack their belongings. Even chairs and heavier items that shouldn't fit vanish into the endless sacks on their belt straps.
"Well, if we got Aesir roaming around, we can't sit idle!" Sindri claims. "They may be using the temple like we are, and the last thing we need is to cross paths with them here."
"We need a more secure and covert location, somewhere those jackasses won't think to look!" Brok adds, urgently cramming his weapons into his sack. "Konunsgard would be pretty ideal, with some fixing up and getting our hands dirty."
"If you do it carelessly," Sindri says, grossed at the notion.
"Good idea," Atreus agrees, recalling the sturdy foundation of the old fortress. "We'll only come and go to use the Bifrost."
Upon mentioning the functioning teleportation chamber, the brothers halt in their tracks. Something important lingers on the back of their tongues, but neither one can fully remember. They pass and share silent hand gestures and mutter to deduce the needed information. All the while, Atreus and Sigyn watch, uncertain of what's wrong.
"Shit!" The Huldra Brothers shout.
"That's right, Freya found out how to dispel the gate to enter Niðavellir!" Sindri claims excitedly. "She left to her home to get some of the needed ingredients! And wanted us to let you know where to find the most crucial one."
"That's great!" Atreus states. "What is it then?"
The moment the question is asked, Sindri's face becomes pale. The urge to upchuck pries at his throat, forcing him to swallow and gag disgustingly.
"I-It's uh-" again, the instinct to vomit continues to rise and be forced back down his into his stomach.
"Blood," Brok impatiently answers, just as tense towards the topic.
"Blood?" Atreus asks for clarity. "I understand that would gross him out, but why are you worried?"
A moment passes with Brok finding a way to phrase the answer. With his charred black nails, he scratches the deepest parts of his beard and the smoothest reaches of his scalp.
"Well, you see-" Brok claps his hands together, rubbing them as he drives the statement out. "It's not that big of a deal... You just need to get the blood... From a dragon..."
A sigh of discomfort and stress slips through Atreus' mouth. Tiresomely, he rubs his eyelids, knowing that obtaining it won't be easy. Sigyn, on the other hand, is thrilled at the thought. Her ember eyes flare open as she slams her hands down onto the table.
"A dragon?" she asks eagerly.
"Why am I not surprised," Atreus replies. "It couldn't have been blood from an elk or rabbit..."
"And thankfully, we know exactly where you can find one," Brok states. "Fafnir's been lurking around nearby, waiting for something."
Hearing the familiar name alleviates Atreus' concerns. A sliver of hope that he won't need to slay a dragon now stands.
"I remember him," Atreus replies, thinking back to how he and his father freed him and his siblings. The dragons possessed immense power. The howling lightning still bangs in his chest as he delves back into those memories. "Where is he?"
"The Wildwoods," Sindri answers.
The mention of those forests stuns Atreus, halting all words from leaving his lips. Clamping his jaw shut and clenching his fists, the Wolf of Midgard becomes troublesomely quiet. Everyone in the chamber can instantly sense the disturbance that Atreus radiates. Sigyn is puzzled and unable to deduce the reason. And abstains from openly questioning it. As for the Huldra Brothers, the realization of his troubles resurfaces.
"That's right," Brok recalls. "That's where your old home use to be."
"It's fine," Atreus somberly answers. "It was only a matter of time before fate brought me back there..." In a mere second, shaking his melancholy off like a wolf soaked in water, Atreus reinforces his resolve. "I'll bring back the blood, and while I'm at it, I'll head to the Council of Valkyries to speak with Sigrun."
"Valkyries?" Sigyn asks, baffled in awe. "You know them?"
"In other cases, I would introduce you to them," Atreus answers, smirking at her anticipation. "But until Höðr and the other Aesir are dealt with, it would be best for you to stay low and out of sight... The last thing I want is for you to get hurt..."
Brok and Sindri both lightly chuckle to themselves as he says that, prompting the Last Son of Sparta to look to them. The Huldra Brothers, playful and at times overdramatic, give him a silent thumbs up at his comment. Brok, with a bright grin, also huffs proudly and with amusement.
"I-I mean, it would be deplorable of me to put you in harm's way," Atreus rephrases, only escalating the misunderstanding. "I won't let you be harmed by Höðr, or anyone else."
"Thank you," she says, resting her hand on his shoulder. Behind her blessing, however, there's a sliver of relief in her tone, followed by a deep sigh. The small gesture of comfort she gives startles Loki, freezing him for a brief second. "You've been right so far, so I'll trust you and what you believe is best."
The ease of her touch instantly quells Atreus' anxiousness. A light breath of cold air, leaving his lungs, settles him.
"In that case, we'll bring her along with us," Sindri assures. "While we set up base, you'll need these."
While Sindri tosses a silver canister at Atreus, Brok prepares to pass on another batch of dark oak arrows with varying colored feathers. Effortlessly catching each item, Atreus packs up for the journey ahead. Taking a few extra precautions, the dwarves lightly hammer at his equipment. The enchanted tools at their disposal send surges of gold and silver energy across his body. The savage slashes and dents in the plates of armor vanish in the blink of an eye.
"We'll meet you back here when you're done," Sindri confirms. "And when you retrieve the metal, we'll be waiting for you in Konunsgard."
"I'll see you all then, be safe," he says with high hopes before marching to the exit.
As the ancient gates open in his grasp, he takes another glance back to them. His efforts continue to merit reward, with new and old allies joining the fray. Never would he have pictured in his life that fate would play out this way for him. The realms fall into chaos, and he raises an army to stand against it. Yet, even with all the upsides to his quest, there is still much darkness buried. Guilt that eats away at his conviction, teetering him between two paths. Even now, he's uncertain what his destiny is in Ragnarök. With a nod to his comrades, he charges headfirst towards his future. Not knowing what lies in wait for him.
Ever since the clash between Thor and Kratos, these lands have been left in ruin. Not even the dead themselves linger in these woods. Shattered rubble from the hills and bounds litter the forests. Many trees and roots of nature remain asunder and unable to regrow from the cataclysm of the two gods battle. To this very day, as Atreus treads through the thick blanket of snow, the land is still unchanged. Yet, the scars inflicted by this place still festers and burns on Atreus' soul.
With slow steps, plowing through the padded frost on the ground, the Son of Kratos advances steadily. His heart bangs harshly from the emotional struggle, as though attempting to burst from his chest. A portion of his very being drives him to abandon this place before he can venture too deep. With shaken hands, the thought is more tempting than a freshly cooked meal in winter. However, he pushes onward, ignoring the warnings of his mind and body.
Eventually, passing through a valley of moss green and white snow, he stays in place. The winter fog fades in front of him as he stares into his broken past. The remnants of his old home, still torn and devastated, remains. Though little is left from the annihilation of the clashing gods and the World Serpent, some wooden beams and planks are intact. As well as much water damage from the relentless snowfall in this region. He turns his heel, pulled and drawn to leave this place. But his other foot, stomping and sticking to the frozen earth, keeps his hold on the path.
His chest pounds to rival war drums while pressing onward. Each step carries caution when resting inside the home, as though wanting to preserve some of its quality. Although much of his history resides within this home, his memories of this place are hollow, withered. The flashbacks and experiences feel dreamlike, not actual events. The turmoil and discord of these recent years have weighed heavily on him. Preventing him from connecting and sympathizing with the child he once was.
Beneath the frosted floor, a sliver of his father's past peeks. The crimson sash of Greece that used to envelop the Blades of Chaos rests beneath his foot. Gently taking it from the snow, he wipes and examines it. Despite the years in the waste, the color and quality of the cloth remain. Cold to the touch, but still in exquisite quality, even the gold patterns are unfaded. Atreus takes it into his arms, holding the fabric solemnly. In the silent breeze, Atreus embraces this memento of his father, wishing him to be there.
Again
In the distance, what would be outside the home, his father's voice calls to him. Without delay, he rushes to the fields in the front yard, taking the cloth with him. Instead, what he sees is a vision of his history replaying before his eyes. Foggy, faded apparitions of him and his father spar with poorly forged blades. He's much younger, this event only taking place a few days before the end of winter. No matter how his young version swings his sword, Kratos effortlessly diverts, blocks, and averts the strike.
"Father," the young Atreus says tiresome. It's late and getting colder. Shouldn't we do this tomorrow?"
"A spartan can endure any environment," the Ghost of Sparta proudly claims. "The dryest heat, the merciless downpour, or even the relentless winter. There is nothing they cannot withstand, and keep fighting through."
Once more, the two lift up their arms, preparing to train once more. The young Loki is now more motivated, wishing to make Kratos proud.
"Again," Kratos commands.
The two clash blades, the boy being more relentless with his attacks. Yet, no matter how swift and agile his slashes are, Kratos is unfazed. As they spar, a slight smirk from the Ghost of Sparta can be seen. Atreus watches this event unfold, eyes watered by history playing before him. His father looks the same as he was all those years ago. He wipes away the tears, taking this moment to find peace in this vision.
During the duel, the younger Atreus grows angrier. Eventually, charging at the Ghost of Sparta, he incidentally triggers a sliver of his rage. His arms are consumed by intense heat as he brings his sword down onto Kratos. The God of War is stunned by the sudden, mighty blow. A strike with enough power to even push him back a few feet. But before the training can commence, the young Loki realizes his fault. Retreating back, he fights to quell the rage. With hands locked onto the hilt, the searing heat diminishes before their eyes.
"Forgive me," the boy says, disappointed. "I'm letting my rage get the better of me..."
"Anger is not an easy thing to control," Kratos claims. "Though many can use it as a dangerous weapon, if not careful, one could become blinded by it, and it could consume and lead to your undoing."
Though the urge to be strict lingers behind the Ghost of Sparta's voice, he too forces himself to be humble and understanding. He lowers his own sword, placing a calming hand on his son's shoulder.
"It will take time," Kratos assures him. "You must remain vigilant." They pass each other nods, with Kratos grumbling in acceptance. "Let us continue..."
The apparitions return to their places, preparing to commence their practice session. However, the young Atreus appears distracted. A thought on his mind that takes him away from the test before him. Kratos, in his wisdom and intuition, detects this disturbance.
"Boy?" Kratos out of force of habit calls. "What's on your mind?"
"I-I was just wondering," the boy is hesitant to be forward. "Why haven't you used your other blades?"
At the mention of his armaments, Kratos glances back in the direction of their house. A stern, colder than the winter expression is stained upon his face. Even the present Atreus is troubled by the question, now knowing the troubling answer.
"They served a purpose, nothing more," the Ghost of Sparta claims.
"But they were amazing!" the young Atreus says excitedly. "Maybe one day, I could use them-"
"NO!" A sliver of Kratos' rage backs his command.
Even as old as Atreus is now, his father's anger still invokes fear in him. Just as much as he was when younger. All is quiet, with only the winds grazing his ears. Yet, with what he knows, he understands the anger behind his Kratos' disposition.
"Those blades were only used to save you!" Kratos claims. "They are my burden to bear, boy... They will never be yours..."
Atreus lifts his arm, staring at the chains that are bound to his flesh. From his experience in the Light of Alfheim, he knows the burden placed on the wielder of these blades. Not just the searing pain of attaching them, but the weight of all the lives taken. More innocence lost than any god could count.
"I understand now," Atreus says dreadfully. "How many lives have these blades taken? How much suffering have they wrought?"
Hearing the sounds of a crying child, his eyes are drawn back to the enchanted mirage. However, the illusion has changed. This time, he looks down at his younger self, the day Kratos had fallen. The visage of the ashed pyre burns, the smell of it refreshed and now in his nostrils. Only a pile of cinders remains in front of the young Atreus, who weeps with scarred and burned arms. Though his limbs still sear and shake in agony, the young Loki brings himself to his knees. With his unsteady hands, he scoops the remains of his father into a ceremonial bag, like his mother before.
"I'll bring you to mother," the face soaked boy claims with sorrow. "I'll bring you to Jötunheim, so you can be with her..."
Atreus recalls this event all too clearly. How his father's body had to burn for hours before finally becoming ash. Even in death, his body was hard to damage and cremate. The pain on his flesh and in his heart resurfaces, as though he's experiencing the event once more. Instead of sadness, anger begins to build in his chest. The heat of his rage steams from his fists, and hot breath bleeds from his clenched fangs. So much has been taken from him, enduring so much loss and suffering. Where does it end?
"Perhaps I've shown too much?" The voice of a maiden echo in the valley.
This familiar, enchanting tone instantly quells his fury. The steam disappears in an instant, now only wonder and disarray cloud is mind. A presence lurks near one that he knows all too well. Even despite the years that passed, the tone and pitch are fresh to his memory. As if time had not passed since last hearing the maiden's call. His focus darts to each corner of the fields, urgently he searches for the source. Before his eyes, the vision vanishes as the noise also disperses into the distance.
"I'm warmed to see you've broken your shackles," the voice calls again, this time right behind the Wolf of Midgard. "That you've grown and become so much more than anticipated."
Without hesitance, Atreus directs himself to the source of the woman's calm comment. A blanket of frosted fog diminishes, parting way for the one speaking. A woman draped in a brown fur cloak approaches. Feet nearly bare, except for the linen wraps that envelop all but her toes. Beneath the cowl, very little covers her light brown skin with golden markings across each limb. As well as a dark brown fur skirt that only covers her thighs. All but a tan, fur vest and cloth wraps over her breasts, protect her from the winter's frigid winds. Each rune and tattoo on her skin possesses a different quality, size, and magical enchantment. Removing her wolf hood, her thick, black dreadlocks drop down over her neck and shoulders. She smiles brightly, lustful towards the man before her. Her blood-red eyes glued to him with enticement.
Atreus is stunned, frozen in place by the chill in the air that she's called upon. Not in fear, but by her baffling, sudden appearance after all this time. An ally of the past that he never thought he'd see again. He knows her all too well. Even now, her influence has never left him. Every time he has slept or been alone, she's always been there. A ghost on his shoulder, whispering into his mind, compelling him to act, not as himself. A trace of his history that he's hoped to never repeat under her guidance. With a light breath from his lungs, he whispers her name.
"Angrboða..."