The Tundra’s wind had a way of cutting through those not accustomed to it like cool steel through warm flesh, it ate through your fur to freeze your veins and settle into your blood like a virus. And in the winter time it was enough to drive lesser beasts back down to the warm southlands, bleating like scalded lambs. But spring was on the crest and although it was still jarringly different than anything offered by any season in the Deserts, it wasn’t so bad today.
The titan recognized the spicy scent of the Deserts well before he recognized that it was his own blood brother who carried the smell. But when he topped the ridge and laid eyes on Gaza, a vein of grief throbbed hot and hateful through his heart. He looked just like their father, a twin to him by another other description. While Kratos could arguably be an even mix of Lyric and Vanquish, Gaza was the reincarnation of their king father, minus the impressive set of dragonwings Vanquish was often depicted by.
Although born in the Dale under the reign of his mother Lyric, Kratos had spent the majority of his childhood in his father and step-mother’s kingdom. When their parents died Kratos made his way to the Tundra, leaving behind his twin and other siblings. He was not an overtly sentimental soul, he hadn’t even sought any of his brothers or sisters after Lyric and Vanquish were laid bone to dirt. He hadn’t seen Dorne in years, Caius or Tarnished could be added to that same list. And although Kratos had never met the youngest of his father’s brood, there was no mistaking this one for a son of any other than the Nightwalker’s.
The draft was already descending the knoll to receive his brother when Aneku materialized right beside the black stallion. Black ears flick back against his skull and although it only lasts a moment, lightning ripples across his skin like a white-hot wave and leaves the ground steaming and the snow boiled away in his wake. “You don’t exactly blend in with the background here yet yourself,” he says to the chestnut as he pulls up beside the two stallions, while Kratos’ voice is thick with sarcasm there is no real hostility in it. He has a biting, dry sense of humor that he wielded on a sharp tongue, too much like his mother. Aneku would grow used to it, just as the rest of the Brothers had - he would have to.
Turning back to Gaza he tilts his heavy head, gesturing that he cross into the Tundra, “come in, little brother.”
Kratos
the electric titan of vanquish and lyric