Kratos had been an ill sore of a sight across the Tundra in the days since he had been spat from the sky with flesh, temper and hide all wounded. He had been too late, but wasn’t that always the case with him? Too late to sit on a throne still warm from his father’s weight, too late to be there before his bones were burnt to ash, too late to the Tundra, just too fucking late. But he doesn’t pity himself, no, it only makes his fervor wilder, more fevered. It only drives his intensity to a figurative (or perhaps literal) boiling point. He had been idle with his gifts, slothful with his bloodline. His father would have softened it with pampered words but his mother would have called it for what it was, laziness. She would have been dismayed at the squandering of his possibility, maybe even more so than his crown mongering father.
But nonetheless, the other Brothers of the Tundra had steered clear of the volatile, lightning wielding giant lately. And for good reason, his temper was sour and he looked even worse than his mood raged, dried blood still caked on his flanks and legs, a mark of black stone glimmered from his left side like the smudge of an explosion, the skin around it was inflamed and angry - his eyes hooded and searching. He had ran the length of the Tundra to the Amazons more times than he cared to ever again waiting for her return, his throat knotted with lightning and stomach empty and groaning. He was worried.
And worrying pissed him off. So when her call finally came, he sent a lightning storm back into the sky that shuddered the Tundra’s Great Wall and left a static in the air that made his own jaw clench. His steps are heavy and deep as long legs drive him across the summer frostgrass, his nostrils scarlet and wide – he ached for her claws that he knew could sink deep and he ached to dig his own power deep into her flesh, make her feel how he had felt. The pressure of his worry, the depth of his fever for her to be beneath his shelter (like she needed it). When he finally came to her side he reached out with a mouthful of dripping lightning, teeth bared as he reached out and bit down on her chest. Without stopping he strode past her, circling around her backside and finally up around to her other shoulder, wavering at her quest-born scars, “what took you so long?” He demands, as if he wasn’t the one who had been sent back from the Other World, "what happened?" He asks before a low squeal emits past his lips as he continues to ascertain her well-being, nipping her neck, “I worried,” he says, more quietly.
Kratos
the electric titan of vanquish and lyric