The moment Atreus takes his first step into the outdoors, his body morphs and reshapes itself in a shedding of blue and golden light. Black fur sprouts from his body, sword-length fangs protrude from his jaws, and his bones shift to return to the shape of a giant wolf. However, it has been slightly altered. His form is more prominent in size. And along with the reformed Trolls Bane gauntlets granting him sharper claws, ley lines, and veins of lunar blue and orange-red solar energy course through his paws and legs. The Wolf of Midgard disregards this difference in his form, and commences his chase for the Sorceress.
Never has he sped through the plains of Midgard with such speed and desperation until now. The forests fly past his peripheral vision, with mounds, hills, and damp fields breezing away as he tramples through and around them. Yet despite the force of his speed, he's already lost Sigyn's mystical trail. He howls and barks across the realm, and yet, he cannot locate the Goddess of Victory. The longer she's absent from his sight, the deeper the seed of his guilt roots in his chest. Among his many mistakes, his heartless reaction was now written on the massive list.
However, his desperate attempts to find the Sorceress are not fruitless. A shredded clue hangs on a cluster of branches as a piece of her unmistakable silk gown blowing in the wind. Morphing back into his original form, he takes the tattered fabric in his palm. Even while clenching this clue, his resolve dwindles at the prospect of reaching a dead end. There's no indicator where she could have gone from here, not even tracks or other shreds of fabric. Her illuminating trail has long since evaporated from the frozen air. But, not all was hopeless.
From his primal calls prior, out to the wilds in his bestial state, he does receive an answer. Several howls, far less intimidating, respond to his wails to the furthest reaches. He takes a dauntingly aggressive stance with his blades in hand in case the sounds are from an unwelcome source. And yet, his inquisitiveness is met with a prompted answer. A pack of wolves prowls from the offsite of the forest around him. And while many in number, Atreus is the furthest from discouraged by their pack size. He's always been good with animals, hunting alongside many beasts after his father's passing. Perhaps it may be a Jotunn trait or an unnamed godly ability, but the Last Son of Sparta can sense their intentions. With his armaments sheathed onto his back, he passively approaches with an open palm in front of him.
"Vertu rólegur, great hunters," he addresses, lowering himself to their height. The larger of the canines returns his greeting with its snout pressed into his hand. Yet, not even a few strokes across the wolf's head are made, before the animal intriguingly sniffs the fabric in Atreus's other hand. Adamantly, a few of the other wolves approach, also attempting to grab the scent of the Sorceress. "Do you know where she is?"
With a gruff from one of their jaws, he knows they've seen Sigyn. The rest of the pack follows with an identical gesture of acknowledgment. Each of them sniffs and breathes heavily around the area to match the scent of Sigyn's clothing.
The pack synch with an aligned pitched howl in acceptance, dashing off into the trees before Atreus. Without delay, shifting into his wolf form, he tramples after them, blindly loyal as any dog could be. At an even pace, he, along with this pack of wolves, scour and tread swiftly across the land. Minutes to nearly an hour of constant sprinting, and still, non of them tire. Already, he can detect the course that they pave and charge toward. The throat of the world, the great mountain that he and his father climbed soo many years ago. In all too recent memory, experiencing the phantom pains from the scar across his eye, his memories flash back to him. The unsmothered recollection forces itself into his mind, how he had been abandoned by Angrboða, leaving him vulnerable to his enemies. He can still recall the enchanted chains that bound him, as he was faintly conscious while dragged across the snow by a cloaked stranger. And no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't break them. Yet, these memories did not deter him from his search. Instead, he fortified his heart as he was ready to confront a piece of his past to protect Sigyn.
Several miles came and went in rapid haste, as their legs tirelessly carried them to the mountain's base. Only to meet the first sign of resistance, clad in Asgardian metal. The denizens and warriors of the Aesir barred the needed path that the wolves guided him towards. Accompanying the barbarians was one of Odin's elite, an Einherjar. This one dawns a heavy battleaxe, devoid of armor, with only bandages wrapping around her forearms, cloth boots, black trousers, and a fur tunic over her chest. Several sigils across her flesh burn bright blue and purple, the veins around them black and swollen to unnatural proportions. Even her eyes glow vibrant blue with mist bleeding from her pupils.
The two parties lock eyes, each shifting and now pacing back and forth without breaking concentration. Only Atreus and the Einherjar remain idle, bound in place in suspense of who makes the first move. The beasts that prowl at his sides growl and snarl defensively, as the Asgardians scuff and grunt with eager intent. The Wolf of Midgard can ill afford to exhaust much time in these circumstances. If Asgard's influence is on Sigyn's trail, then the God of Darkness could be close by, if not already on the same path. He glances at the wolves about. As if indirectly enchanting them with his own Jotunn qualities, their eyes begin to burn the same topaz yellow as his own irises. A single thought carries to the rest of the pack as he makes the initial charge.
Attack!
Coordinated, as if heavily trained from birth, the wolves follow his lead as he takes the initiative. Blessed by the celestial wolves magic, he closes the gap between him and the Einherjar in the blink of an eye. He brings his jaws down, crumbling the warrior's stance and pinning her between the ground and the handle of her own axe. She grapples him, barring the path of his fangs with her handle in his jaws, and pushes against his illuminated claws. At the same time, the remaining warriors of Valhalla become quickly overwhelmed by Atreus's feat of speed, and the rushing numbers of the canines after. While some catch the beasts and block their initial pounce, others are disarmed and mauled by furious fangs and jagged claws.
Despite the preemptive charge and sudden overpowering pounce, the Einherjar quickly throws the Wolf of Midgard to the side. After tumbling across the frozen sheet, he barely catches himself back onto his four legs before the Asgardian rushes him. The moment her crudely crafted axe is brought down at him, he reverts back to his humanoid shape. The timing of this transformation allows him to barely avoid the razor edge, allowing the oak behind him to endure the critical strike. Even after slashing the old tree in two from its stump, the Einherjar relentlessly, blindly presses the assault on the Last Son of Sparta.
With each rabidly mindless swing, the runes across her flesh burn brighter, and her flesh singes and sizzle with steam. This one is different than the rest before. She's devoid of humanity or civil thinking, broken in the mind like the Helwalkers Atreus faced as a child. Whatever magics Odin is now trifling with, has warped any semblance of decent morality that this warrior could have had. This is not a battle against an imposing enemy, but a mercy killing for a death-warranted pet.
While his purpose is clear, this Einherjar may pose a far more lethal threat. While she's not tactical, even one of her blows may leave Atreus vulnerable to her merciless ire. The Wolf of Midgard keeps his distance, barraging the warrior with several explosive and electrical bolts from his bow. Yet, the vile magic imbued to her flesh grants her stubborn resolve to the many fatal shots. Even as sparks of lightning streak from her body, and liquid flames coat her from head to toe, she presses the assault. Several mindless roars tear from her throat as she charges again. In her relentless fury, Atreus performs his damndest aversions and leaps to weave from her unnaturally strong strikes.
However, briefly distracted by the despairing whines and whimpers of the wolves, he turns away from the danger in front of him. The warriors of Asgard are steadily turning the encounter to their advantage. In that glancing lap of direction, Atreus reverts his focus back too late. The Einherjar, with a built-up swing, hurls her axe in a spiraling swing. While managing to block the blow with the bulwarks of Trolls Bane, the might that carries with the attack is enough to hurl the Wolf of Midgard across the battlefield. He rolls and bounces across the frozen plain before crashing and dislodging an old oak from its roots. The wood cracks and crumbles upon contact, ultimately halting Atreus from his trajectory.
His patience thins, and his ire for the Asgardians' thirst for violence resurface his anger. Even after the heavy blow, Atreus musters himself to make a countercharge. Rushing forward, he alters himself into the monster his enemies have labeled him as. In his feral shape, he darts to the straggling soldiers of Valhalla first and foremost. With the blessing of the celestial wolves, he dashes with solar and lunar light upon his paws. His enchanted claws tear through metal like steel to meat, and with his fangs, cease their lives with swiftness rivaling his arrows. As each foe is silenced, the fellow wolves charge with him, until they become a unified wave of slaughter. They quickly overwhelm the remaining Asgardians with fangs, claws, and weight that few could muster.
Until, at last, the brainwashed Einherjar remains, and challenges the assault head-on. Meeting the pack face to face, she is the first to make a swing with her barbaric axe. However, one of the many beasts interjects from the sidelines, latching its jaws to one of her forearms. While this minor injury does little to impede the warrior, the surprise attack does tear her focus long enough to guarantee defeat. With her one free arm, she shields herself in preparation for the swarm of wolves about to pounce on her. Instead, she is met with the supernaturally large jaws of Atreus, who promptly shreds and hacks the limb from her body. One by one, she is toppled, and brought to heel by the pack. Her poor attempts to wrangle with the beasts despite her grievous injuries and missing limb is fruitless. In the end, her fate is erased by the same pair of fangs that disarmed her, now clenched around her head before snapping her neck.
With the battle won, the wolves reap the rewards of their kills with a feast. Atreus, during their relishing, returns to his humanoid shape. More specifically, his first act is investigating the tattooed limb he tore from his foe. Some of the runes still glow and burn despite no longer being attached to a living subject. Several seconds of studying unfold before he can discern the source of these marks as seiðr magic. And scarily, some of them resemble the same enchanted sigils that Baldur carried. But, before becoming lost in his deduction, he stores the arm away to ask Freya about it later. And his attempts to depart are met with graver hostility.
Three more Einherjar enter the region from the direction of the base of the mountains. They behave far more sensibly than the previous one, and quickly figure out his involvement in their ally's death. As the wolves back away to Atreus's side, their eyes burn with the same yellow glow as the Wolf of Midgard. Both groups take their stances, embracing the inevitable clash. The warriors of Valhalla have the superior advantage, dawning pristine armor and chainmail that covers them from head to toe. Their armaments are appropriately put together and cleanly forged, fresh from the smith by their look. Atreus firmly planted to the gravel, wielding his father's flaming swords in a reverse grip.
"You're in my way!" Atreus spouts with feral frustration.
As if his urgency called upon a saving grace, an unsuspecting intervention would cease the battle before it would begin. Unheard by his ears, unmatching anything he's ever experienced or learned of, is that of a horrifically deep and contorted howl. A roar so mighty and reverberating that the forests quiver from the bass of the cry. The fury behind it shook Atreus to the core of his being, even making the once fearless wolves tremble and whimper to the ground in terror. The Einherjar also froze, frantic and in a panic, their soul-driven attention was now on the trees. They glance and look in all directions to uncover the source of the vociferation. But, they would not discover the answer until one of them meets its blood-stained jaws.
Awestruck, paused in a trance, Atreus observes a wolf of immense size crashing down onto one of the Einherjar. Its fur is black enough to rival the night sky, and matches Loki's feral form in size, but displays far greater strength. In a swift motion, crumbling the ground beneath its claws, the beast bites down with the force to flatten and shred the warrior's skull in the blink of an eye. All the while in a blinded ferocity as its eyes burn with a scarlet red, the terror of the sight even sturs a flinch from the Wolf of Midgard. Even the pack that accompanied the Wolf of Midgard howl as they sprint away in fear.
The two remaining Einherjar are equally stunned by the beast. While one steadily bridges a gap between herself and the monster, the other chatters and rumbles with building courage. The closer of Valhalla's juggernauts charges and brings down his hammer brashly with a hearty howl behind his swing. Only for his sturdy blunt weapon to break in two by the dense skull of the wolf, which growls unfazed by the blow. But, it would not be the canine that would retaliate to the futile strike. But instead, the venomous jaws of another, deathly silent predator.
An albino serpent of abnormally massive size preemptively darts from the snow-coated brush, piercing its dagger-length fangs through his armor and into their shoulder. The snake coils and wraps itself around the brute with lightning-fast speed, enveloping him before being allowed to let loose a lung-crushing scream. The breaking of bones, and the crushing of steel painfully penetrate the ears of all close by. An abundance of terror is finally invoked in the heart of the final Einherjar, who can only stare in rattling dismay. Unconsciously, her legs begin to backstep her from the onslaught occurring. Yet, her steady escape is thwarted by one last foe entering the one-sided fray.
The metal-clad maiden is brought to her knees as her life is siphoned from afar. The moisture drains from her flesh, the blood in her veins evaporates, and the air in her chest is forced out in her pain-stricken scream. A child, a little girl of pale flesh, reveals herself as the culprit of the sickly teal-green energy that steals the life force from the warrior. Her hair is shaggy and long, devoid of saturation, and is blended with silver and black strands. A tattered cloth gown, and a fur cloak that drags in the snow are all that she adorns. Even as her feet are smothered in snow, the numb cold appears unnoticeable to the child. Her focus is undeterred as she dispassionately kills the Einherjar in such a horrific way.
While the slaughter is finalized, there lies no semblance of noble victory. On the contrary, Atreus holds temporary pity for his enemies, despairingly thankful he might not share the same fate. But persists in his battle-hardened stance for a possible altercation with his unsuspecting saviors. But as the seconds drag, with the eyes of the intervening trinity on him, his resolve dwindles at the subsequent events. Before his eyes, the two irregular animals begin to reshape and alter themselves. Yet, while their transformation's audible and grotesque sounds portrayed it as painful, the two children that had emerged appeared undisturbed by the shift. The three kids that stand before him couldn't be more than six years of age. The wolf had become a little girl, slightly larger than the other. Her black hair is also dirty and curly, with a darker skin tone and a pair of scarlet eyes peeking through her bangs. On the other hand, the prior snake had become a bald boy, whose eyes burned unnaturally orange and red. And despite the circumstances, their actions aren't perceived traumatically by them.
The three young ones keep their distance from Atreus, two of whom cower behind the corpses they wrought. But the little girl that was once a wolf was undeterred by the Wolf of Midgard. She stood her ground, growling like an animal and placing herself between the children and him. Loki can only stare back, equally unintimidated but concerned with several questions. There's a tether, an unforeseen connection between them that he hasn't felt in years. And while he's never laid his eyes on these children before, he cannot discourage this sensation of familiarity. With their presence serving as a distraction from his initial goal, he's urged to learn more.
"It's okay," Atreus softly assures, dropping his guard and armaments to the floor. But, even as the flames of his blades extinguish from the frozen floor, and he lowers his stance to meet her feral glare, the child is unmoved. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The girl's stubbornness persists under the calm tone of Atreus's claim. Even in her humanoid form, sharp fangs remain within her clenched jaws. Only when the other two children approach does her fierce obduracy dwindle. The other girl grabs her arms gently, peaking curiously at the Wolf of Midgard with her wide, teal-green eyes. The boy, much larger than the two, also approaches. His arms are already crossed, squinting with his illuminating gaze, impassive and without a word to say. The three varied expressions leave Atreus indecisive on how to approach this situation further. And this connection of familiarity only helps restrain him in his daze of thoughts and questions. The only time he's felt this invisible bond is when he first met Angrboða. What could it mean?
Before his thoughts can wander further, a soft melody plays in the wind. The delicate singing tune allures the children's focus on the surrounding realm. Without delay, only exchanging another curious glance, the little ones sprint off with unnatural speed. In their departure, the winds also carry a fog of frost and snow through the forests of Midgard. Atreus attempts to chase after them, only for his path to be thwarted and barred by the rapid appearance of the harsh winter winds. Even while shielding himself from the merciless winter gusts, he marches forward in desperation.
"Wait!" He cries out, but his voice is muffled by the blast of frigid air.
"Yeah, I don't think they're waiting," a male voice drifts in the now dying breeze.
The tone of those words ripples a chill through Atreus's flesh. His ears become chilled to the brink of numbness as he scours his surroundings. But, not long into his search, the individual reveals themselves, propping nonchalantly atop some of the withered branches above. A slender man, much similar in facial features to the Wolf of Midgard, but has snow-pale flesh, vibrant ocean blue eyes, and hair as pale as spring clouds. His veins are swollen, matching his pupils in color. And compared to such exaggerated features, his attire is dismal and dull. Only a dark tunic over a white shirt, black pants, and leather boots are dawned by this stranger.
"Kids, they never like to hold still," the stranger remarks.
Atreus refrains from answering, concerned over the individual's nature and intentions. And with his blades retrieved, he reverses his grip as a nonverbal threat. Yet, his subtle gesture has no effect on the stranger's temperament. He only smirks pesteringly, remaining cooks up at the peak of the oak.
"Here I thought you were going to be "bigger," he remarks in minor pity. "A shame, really, for the "Champion of the Jötnar" not to be able to walk beside mountains like most of his kind."
"You're testing my patience," Atreus spouts in frustration. "I don't have time for this-"
The Last Son of Sparta refuses to think twice before turning a cold shoulder to his antagonizer. However, when his back is turned, he's puzzled to find the resembling man now face to face with him. Without a sound, even a print to leave behind, the stranger has closed the gap between them with impossible speed.
"Well, I'm fairly confident you can take a break from your game of hide and seek for me," the man condescendingly comments. "Your little goddess friend can wait."
The subtle remark towards Sigyn is what begins to fuel Atreus's anger. Already the Wolf of Midgard has been hard-pressed and thwarted several times to find the Sorceress. Whatever concerns he had before are now turned to cinders by his distasteful perception of this man. Even his thoughts begin to subconsciously blame the stranger for his implication of knowing Sigyn's location. His grip tightens, and the metal of his blades starts to steam and flare blue with his agitation.
"You know where she is?" He asks, his scowl glowing topaz yellow. "What did you do to-"
Atreus reaches out to the stranger, pushing his blade toward his chest. But, without even blinking, the man vanishes from his sight. Again, no audible signs or visual cues occur that could explain such unfathomable haste. No matter how well he hones his focus, he cannot discern how this man can fade with such ease from sight.
"Yeah, I can't let you do that," the stranger comments. "No one has ever laid a hand on me, and I'd like to keep it that way."
Loki rotates toward the direction of the stranger's voice, only for his puzzlement to persist at finding the man atop another tree. He can only stare, his thoughts rambled by the fast-paced events that are occurring in such fast succession to one another. The pale man looks back, passively bored with the silence.
"I suppose introductions are in order," the stranger condescendingly remarks. Before Atreus can even blink, the ice-colored individual has yet again relocated himself within arms reach of the Wolf of Midgard. Loki steps back, his blades held up as he takes a defensive stance. "Hugi is my name, and speed is my game!" As the man monologues about his identity, he is restless, dashing, darting, and warping in all directions. Only allowing Atreus a glance before he changes position and location. "I'm charming like a fox, enchanting as diamonds, and swifter than a thought! Even the world tree itself and the laws of reality it commands cannot keep up with me!"
"That's impossible!" Atreus detests the notion, taking another backhanded swing when Hugi is close enough. But, yet again, he cannot make physical contact with him.
"Impossible for you, but through the mind of Skrýmir, possible by his boundless creativity," Hugi mockingly replies. "And by his decree, he sends I, a dashing messenger, to summon the infamous Loki to him."
Though his antagonistic tone carries behind every word, Atreus absurdly finds himself calming at the knowledge given to him. The name is familiar yet just beyond the reach of his memorized mindscape. Nevertheless, from what he can recall, the aloft title holds weight and significance to his history and perhaps his ancestry. Among his questions, Sigyn's safety prioritizes itself above all others. However, even with the presence of Asgard, whoever this man is, his attitude insinuates that she is safe for the moment. The Last Son of Sparta cannot presume that Hugi holds her hostage, but he cannot rule it out entirely. Therefore, although it may pester his nerves to ask, he entertains the stranger.
"Who is Skrýmir?"
In a deafened dash, Hugi advances to another location. Beneath the bellows and branches of the tallest oaks in the area, he plants himself where he cannot be unnoticed. Trailing behind, Atreus sheathes his blades, but refrains from ultimately lowering his guard to the pale man. Whatever ploy is at work, Loki will play along. For Sigyn's sake, and to learn more about Skrýmir and why he or she is interested in them.
"Only time can tell," Hugi replies. "So it would be wise to lend you ear, for time is of the essence."