It is a strange thing to be weightless when you, in fact, are the size of several of these horses put together. But Kratos has felt worse, felt the dread of disappointment, the ache of the loss of his parents, the surging need to live up to his father’s expectations. So the triple-beat of a panicked heart does not batter wildly about in his chest for long, he knows that this god means to pit them against each other and so a calm, much like the lull before battle, settles across his thrilled nerves as he idles in the cold clutch of a galaxy his eyes were never meant to see.
Kratos is only as furious as he can be when he feels Rhy’s magnetism pulling them together, he had told her not to follow him, but had he really expected as much? She was no broodmare, no supplicating kingdom mare – he wore the scars on his chest to prove it. So he merely snarls into her head (their words eaten by the crushing silence of space), “you just can’t fucking listen can you?” But his voice lacks any real ferocity, instead his attention is quickly rapt away by the vine that curled about him, pulling he and Rhy both to the iron-grey mare he knew only by sight. The vine was strange, not made of pliable plant but armor – he could of dissolved them away with his lightning skin if he had so been inclined, but it was clear Lagertha moved for them to work together. Kratos is stubborn but he is no fool.
When Kratos sends out his tendrils of lightning, he isn’t exactly sure what he expects – but what spurted out before them was more than what he had. His lightning comes out as a spray, hundreds of little white-hot orbs that came spewing from his mouth like misted droplets. His lightning is “freaking out” in a sense, it does not specifically look for ground, but rather seeks a lower voltage spot to relieve the electromagnetic pressures which were firing off all around them – too many like charges in one place. Kratos watches as the lightning begins to shift and begin forming back together towards a spot of black that seems thicker than the others, more dense if that’s possible, “there,” he says with lips that never move.
“Push us,” he’s speaking to Rhy now, her ability to manipulate electricity in all its forms was (grudgingly) admittedly deeper than his own. He feels waves of intangible undulation forcing them towards the wormhole and as they close the gap of distance he feels teeth sinking into his flank. These teeth were blunt, too blunt to have ever been able to of cut skin – but they did, they gnashed through his flesh and sent an icy streak of pain through his hindquarters. He doesn’t look back (he’ll never know the face of his attacker and isn’t that even more terrifying?), he shifts his lightning to pulse off of his skin – whatever was touching him (Lagertha included, unfortunately) would have received a severe shock. Luckily, if Lagertha was knocked out from the impact, at least the vines bound them together so she would still be attached when they came plummeting to the earth.
He can feel his body being pulled and pressed and squeezed as he enters the wormhole, like being funneled through a vacuum. The warmth enfolds his frame and he comes crashing down, no doubt leaving a Percheron-sized hole wherever he landed and crushing any unfortunate soul that happened to find the same landing spot.
Kratos
the electric titan of vanquish and lyric