Make ready to slaughter his sons for the guilt of their fathers;

[Kratos]

Let the battle cry be heard in the land, a shout of great destruction

The sand beneath the titan’s hooves quaked softly at his touch as he loped down the fringe of the bedrock wall that had newly risen up and fit perfectly as if it had naturally been born from the Deserts depths. It would have taken nothing more than a slight tendril of thought to send a stroke of lightning to bore himself an entryway through the border – but he doubts neither his king-father nor his magician wife would appreciate such a gesture.

It had been years since the eye of the Deserts’ had been able to lay its prideful gaze across one of the king’s most favored sons. Except it was not the loving, balmy embrace of sun once remembered, once loved in his childhood - now it was a boiling, blistering glare that seemed to only want to burn his failures across his skin.

When the painted titan finally reaches the only break in the wall, a tall archway wide enough for perhaps two horses (or one Kratos) to cross through at a time – his oil and ivory skin is heavy with froth from travel and the sun’s disapproval, his tongue dry from miles without reprieve. Kratos had been raised beneath the dunes of these Deserts but he had never seen it this devoid of resources. There had been neither a drop of water nor a patch of cactus to quench his thirst on his way – well, at least outside the wall.

Kratos passes into the Deserts without hesitation, the mineral smell of oasis water flushing his thirsting nostrils almost immediately as he does so. It doesn’t take him longer than a few long-legged strides before he is wetting his cracked lips and sating his throat with water more crystalline and chilled than any he had yet ever to taste. It tastes of his childhood and a wolf’s smile finds its familiar place on his lips as he eases beneath the palms. A sigh of lightning crackles in his white mouth as thoughts charged through him like electric tendrils of regret – his parents, his siblings, his Rhy.

The drums of war had reached even he in the Farlands and so he had come. Perhaps it is an attempt, one too soft and too late to salvage what respect he could from his king-father. Or perhaps it is only to uphold the pride that ebbed so heavy and thick through his veins – Nightwalker’s blood, Lyric’s blood – a warrior’s bloodline that stirred his soul back home even when his father’s call couldn’t.

For the whole land will be devoured by the fire of his hunger

KRATOS

vanquish x lyric

[Kreios]

kreios don't you tame your demons, but always keep them on a leash I woke up this morning in a cold sweat, dreaming of the Desert. It was not an unusual dream, but it was one that has been occurring with alarming frequency. Today, I tell myself, today I will go back. And so I do, but it takes time. The sun is high and hot on my pale back by the time I reach the wall. This is new, I think. This had certainly not been here the last time I had visited; perhaps the rumors of war are true after all, and the Desert has begun to erect fortifications. It is likely the work of Yael, I assume. I make my way down the length of the wall until I find an archway, and judging from the recently disturbed sand, I am not the only one to come this way. The prints I leave are equal in size to te gargantuan hooves that I pass, though my feet leave four-toed paw prints rather than crescent moons. One through the gateway, I can see my predecessor all too clearly. I have known him since before I was born, but I have lived nearly half my life now without his presence beside me. The last I heard he had gone North, ready to serve our grandfather’s kingdom. Has he been there this whole time, I wonder? Why had he not come with Yael had summoned us? These questions – and a thousand more – swarm like flies around my head, but as I draw up next to him and lower my head for a drink, all I say is: “It’s been a long time, brother.”