Strangely, the Tundra had seemed to soothe the titan’s temper and at least for now, had sated the sometimes cravings for sadism that weighed on his tongue. Kratos was not shadow-bred; there was no real justification for the creeping, wicked webbing that spun through his thoughts from time-to-time. And despite the viper-sharp coldness that stormed back from his black eyes, there was no real malignity in them, only a strange hunger that reached with aching, electric claws.

He was quick to temper where his father was tolerant, his tongue a too sharp blade gifted to him by his warrior-queen mother. Kratos had inherited almost none of Vanquish’s good traits and nearly all of Lyric’s bad ones, which could make for a frightening soul if it was so inclined to be. But he is not bad just as he is not good, Kratos is easily swept inside the tides of pleasure and morality was not always the reigning value on his list of virtues. Many nights Vanquish had called his titan son to his side and berated him for bodies found left electrified and strewn among the pathways between the kingdoms. He was and is still not the prince his father would have had him to be, but he had been his favorite nonetheless. And just as Vanquish used to call him to scold his sadism, he too called him to stand beneath the king’s shadow and hear his pleads to ready his shoulders to bear the weight of his crown. But he had shrugged away the responsibility, “soon,” he would tell the aging Nightwalker, “I will take your load soon, father,” he had told him, lying. Kratos had been greedy in his want of the liberties of noncommittal life, what king had the time to search the betweenlands for things to inflict his power on? Kratos wanted to enjoy the unrepentant freedom of youth, to traipse the kingdoms at his will and test his strength as he saw fit. Accountability could come later, it could wait for his fun to be had. The young never value the true luxury that time offers, he had been visceral and selfish and now he would have a lifetime to repent for it.

Kratos had been out hunting, nearly three and still wild wrought with the thrills of his power when the news of his father’s death came. Another harsh blow to the foundation of a haphazardly high ego, both of his parents were now strewn to ash and memory. It was then that he turned to the Tundra, a kingdom that sung to his bloodline and filled his linage with generations of kings. Kratos didn’t even pause at the Deserts to visit his stepmother nor siblings and when he heard the drums of the competition he turned his back to its song – the Deserts would never be his path now.

When the mare comes, he recognizes her for who she is and his gaze drapes heavily across her like cold silk. He is neither abashed nor meek when he looks upon her, letting his eyes linger across the shining crook and flail that gleamed from her chest and the delicate curve of her hip. “Queen Camrynn,” he says with a dip of his heavy white head before allowing a wolfish smile to creep across his lips, clearly amused by her research, “it’s just Brother of the Tundra now.” His eyes pause on the adornment of diamonds that lay across her cheek before finding her own, “congratulations, my father’s--” he pauses before correcting himself, “the crown suits you well.” Vanquish had always had a fetish for powerful women and by all accounts so far, Camrynn would have been no exception to his father’s taste. A taste that Kratos had already shown to share, “how do the Deserts fare? And Yael?”

Kratos

the electric titan of vanquish and lyric