WOLF-MASKED.

         AGES AND AGES OF TIME, AS HE RECKONS IT, does not mitigate the deep-felt, shrill laughter that shatters the calm. Presently, it’s not an ash or an elm tree that he warmly breathes upon; he’s not bound by a deity’s duty to recreate earth and sky and sea. The sun is hot on his neck, like a burning, empathetic caress; and Atreus tears a few pieces of parchment from a time-worn—stippled in a billion places from the rain—sketchbook (it, too, reminded him of the beginning of things: his era of tale-bearers), and hands them, enthusiastically, to Clementine; careful not to wrinkle them overly-much.

         HE DOESN’T REMEMBER IF HIS ELBOW HAS GOUGED THE OTHER in the ribcage in passing, or if it was his longbow that made contact; his eyes are like flecks of cooled fire, and each inch of his skin is rippling with competitiveness. “There’s no way you’re gonna beat me,” he declares haughtily, yet, following suit: cheerful—in a toughened, world-weary way. Atreus is calmed in winter; it’s the season in which he persevered back home, feeling the chill seep through the floorboards and into the soles of his boots on more than one occasion (and, really, his primary concern was always his mother’s garden, when he noticed how the sunlight spilled through the frost-wreathed skylight).

         —little mercies: he hasn’t caught an infernal cold, and his sickness is far away; his bones are not withering to an unappealing state due to malaise, this time.

         Air bursts from his lungs with the shocking cold, but he begins to mold his snow-being’s face; using his fingertips to produce his rendition of life; like the firsts of Midgard—but his touch doesn’t bring a ruddy color to its cheeks (and its limbs, wrinkled fingers gnarled like the thorny branches of a ceiba tree—and actually so; cannot embrace). His creation is half of Jason’s, Atreus barely reaching his midsection, height-wise; so he puffs out his cheeks, discontented.

         He’s assigned himself to study his lantern boat, surreptitiously: its venture this great estuary that may surround the world. And caught in his grip is the very instrument to do so: a paintbrush, which, upon discovery, astounded him; for he’s so accustomed to carving with a knife or chisel into stone and wood—to breathe vitality into runic inscriptions.

         Atreus draws his hand from the sea, and thin fingers leave wet prints on the vellum of his miniature vessel; yet he frets not, for he easily instructs his brush to merge its blemished state with a spot of charcoal; recreating at play.

         It’s a Giant’s prayer; soft tongues in an outlandish speech. ‘Guide her home safely—to the north, across mountains and valleys and the great river Ifrig, which lays between Asgard and Jotunheim,’ he chants, all whisper.

         He trembles, pausing his script; and he thinks, ‘What if he fought more for her survival?’—it’s not his call, assuredly; but he contends and contends; and what if he had extended his bony arm, reaching for hale-yet-tender hers? He’d not scream when his appendage would be pulled out, like a weed torn up by the roots—because móðir would be by his side, even now; and he’d peer down at the ground where her tracks accompanied his: the tracks of her livelihood having almost faded to scuffed half-moons.

         —tears; tears of his heart (the excess of wretchedness that deluges his heart) begin to run unchecked down his cheeks, and if his father was towering above him, casting his Grecian shadow (him sensing that habitual anger building inside); he’d blame the dust-laden wind for drying his bared eyes. But he cannot conceal these tears—he cannot.

         As he indulges in memories of mother, his fingers, thrice now, touch the shores of this antique land (his invocation gracing the glittering surface of the water); he knows that he cannot look around on mountain and mountain-stream, and recognize the names that are associated with his lofty ilk; nor catch an earful of the most breathtaking poetry man has ever achieved or written, as by Kvasir’s blood.

         —but he releases the boat, over-weary of thought, and he remembers her hastening toward him with a smile; the warmth of her cheek pressed against his (where, in his peripheral vision, he could acquire a glimpse of her galaxy of freckles—and glory to all those heavens and stars) as she taught him the beginnings of his Talon Bow.

         —and the visiting of the soft breeze already begins to minister consolation.

         THUNDER IN HIS MARROW; there’s very little cure for how footsore and weary he is. It’s by a lonesome bonfire where he sits; and it’s where he begins to revive, life gathering warm in his heart, on his chilled limbs—his freckled cheeks, though still pale, gaining a rosy tinge.

         It’s where his arms once again seem eager to obey his will; and it’s where the crescent moon hangs, while fire-flies (nature’s illuminators) flash among the myrtle underwood; catching and mirroring the reappearance of the earthly stars as night sets.

         —and it’s where a torrent drowns all sound of speech or footfall, except when his ears are most sharp. Instinctively, Atreus thinks that, here, is where one shall find ambush; here, the enemy shall meet their cessation of life. But his bow is propped against a mist-glazed log, and he makes no move to grab it in haste.

         There’s a cold dew on his brow as he mutters, “I guess you can sit here, but I was here first.”

@talonbow·

It was a bit ironic idling in places that held nature. Provided with a safe place to stay and opportunities that should’ve given her hope, one who knew her story would think she’d be grateful and relish in the environment. She wasn’t. Detest for her situation grew by the second, but she had to calm down. The trees, forest, grass.. anything that felt familiar.

‘Don’t let fear take over. It’s fine, Clem. You got this. I hope you’re thinking the same, AJ.‘

“Hey kid. Do you have a minute?”

Her hands tentatively raised in the air a bit to show a sign of good faith. She spotted him only moments ago, yet he was busying himself with.. something else. He may have looked young, but she wasn’t going to take her chances with that bow by his side… whether he was a good shot or not. “.. have you seen any other kids? That were kidnapped, I mean. I’m looking for someone but this place is so god damn big I don’t know where to start.”

         WITH THE UMBRAE OF his native mountains thrown athwart, and he, with his godhood, ensconced into this golden flood of autumn, it’s his surging heart that forces his arrow to twang harmlessly into the air, shot erratic from nervous fingers. The resolute hare he’d been hunting bolts with good measure, and he mutters his displeasure in a far-off language—he’s fed on chestnuts and beechnuts, but chestnuts and beechnuts were mournful fare for a growing boy of eleven winters.

         “It got away. You scared it.”

❝ i’m strong. i’m smart. i’m not what he thinks i am. i know better. i will be better. ❞

ATREUS 「LOKI」 FROM GOD OF WAR.

Curiosity abound and far from satiated; and because of his upbringing (sheltered as he was, only knowing maternal teachings); it is common for Atreus to ask “why,” especially when he’s encountered newfound tales (which he certainly tries to parse) and cultural practices.

He holds, dearly, onto his mother’s stories of the Giants, above all. Atreus is part-mortal, part-god, and part-Giant.

In this setting, he’ll most likely carry around a journal to document his experiences. Will include personal sketches; lore; and snippets of his opinions on all matters that are discussed.

Despite his father’s strictness, he may overshare; too rash when it comes to trusting others. But, he’s learned to be more guarded after meeting Baldur, Magni, and Modi.

—because of his tendency to overshare, he can be rather gullible and naive.

For all of his grown-up aspects that he tries to apply diligently, he is still quite young, and may be prone to talking back or breaking rules. Fiery lil’ god.

Based on the God of War novel, he is eleven.

Despite Atreus having a strong sense of moral rightness (it is not uncommon for him to call his father “sir”; manners and respect extended to beyond his family, even); he doesn’t tend to restrain himself from retaliating (through ire or pride or Spartan Rage) when others are browbeating him; this wrath something he’s acquired from Kratos. He can be prone to temper tantrums.

Routinely does he feel the pang of fallibleness; of unforeseeable growth. He has to prove his worth to his father, and he doesn’t always receive the feedback he desires.

He is also proficient at learning, writing, and speaking foreign languages, even able to converse with various races and animals (of his world).

Atreus likes helping others (as did his mother). It feels good to help others; even the deceased, as he’s claimed. Even now, he maintains a gentle disposition.

The scars on his face are startlingly reminiscent of Kratos’ own; as well as Deimos’ own (his uncle); and the rune(s) on his neck reads “logr (calm) hugr (mind; mood; thought; heart; temper),” which, overall, means “calm mind.” Additionally, “logr” also means “water” or “sea,” and this element is often associated with intuitiveness and sensitivity (included: nurturing souls, and those who are emotional), which are certainly personality traits of Atreus. He’s often demonstrated—and has prophesied events other than calamity—that he feels more intensely than others.

He is overprotective; having little regard for his well-being whilst he defends others. There’s no apprehension: he would die for his father, if necessary. 

On his hand is “hrada (speedy or hasten) hond (hand),” which, rightfully, means “speedy hand/hasten hand.” Throughout his journey, Atreus’ archery expertise is apparent; he’s vastly more confident, and well-assured, in his abilities—there’s glory therein, and he’s not to be underestimated.

It is prophesied that Atreus is meant to become Loki (indeed; the “wily trickster god of Norse mythology”). He has not yet shown his “trickster” characteristics, as is well-known; but, The World Serpent, Jörmungandr, recognized him; stating that “he seemed familiar” (he is also able to speak some of Jör’s dead language). He also uses his blood to write a set of runes to enter Jötunheim, the home of the Giants. Additionally, it’s heavily hinted that he’ll excel at shape-shifting.

Because he is part-god, Atreus has superhuman strength (at the very least, he excels at melee damage; such as kicks and chokeholds), superhuman senses (he can sense others, including their power; their overall smell; as well as hear voices, often from spirits), and heightened stamina and durability (he is able to run long distances without exposing fatigue, as well as jumping down from high vantage points without gaining so much as a scratch), though it’s not as potent as his father’s; for he is still on the path to self-discovery; self-identity (and what powers he has as a god).

         FINGERPRINT SMEARING IS INEVITABLE whilst his hands rest on the once-pristine exterior of a knight’s headpiece, Atreus reveling in the briefest moment of merriment he’s encountered thus far (it seems the blight of misfortune—he is alone; quite alone—has passed over him and hasn’t withered him). Weaponry of various evolutionary periods is on exhibit before him: man-made and otherworldly productions he can scarcely fathom, yet he is eager to learn about; and he is longing to break, further, that adamantine chain that has bound him, once breathing nothing but rapture, ever possessed by a tender love and delight in goodness—to distress.

         As he lifts the helmet, he thinks the effort requires hands stronger than his; stronger than, he believes, any mortal force—pitch-black is his vision once he scrambles, losing grip of the object; and it slipping, quite fervently, over his head. Atreus yelps with a start, enveloped by all that darkness; he fears his tendency to know might become the subject of passersby’s ridicule—his bony arms are positively flailing; an outcry!—and he cannot bear that anyone should condemn him for it (nor glare on him like lightning).

Repost. Don’t reblog!

COLORS ———  red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. violet. gunmetal. icy blue.

ELEMENTS ———  fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. shadow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. fog. lightning. gravity. sunlight. darkness. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops.

BODY ———   claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. average height. muscular. piercing. tattoos. ajna chakra. shadowed features. skeletal.

WEAPONS ———  fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. sickle. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. pistol. slingshots. katanas. words. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. shadows. surrounding environment.

MATERIALS ———  gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. jades. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.

NATURE ———  grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. forget-me-nots. violets. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rainforest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. shade.

ANIMALS ———  lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. butterflies. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. crocodiles. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. monkey. pig. bears. bats. anglerfish. stingray.

FOODS/DRINKS ———   sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. blackberry. cranberry. blueberry. tomatoes. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. sweets. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. mint. burgers. burritos. pizza. ambrosia. apple pie. mayo. waffles.

HOBBIES ———   music. art. watercolors. gardening. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. baking. sewing. knitting. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. poetry. magazines. newspapers. looking up information. cds. records. vinyl. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. running. meditation. taking care of guns. horror movies. collecting the occult/arcane. learning spells. brewing potions. going to “creepy” places.

STYLE ———   lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. tie. necklace. bracelet. ring. suits. pendant. hat. crown. headband. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. robe. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jackets. hood. gloves. fingerless gloves. socks. masks. costume. ruffle collar. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. sleeveless turtleneck. leotard.

@talonbow ♜ ( sc )

Jacob always liked kids. However, kids never seemed to like him.

Case in point, a certain kid who liked to hang around Aloy. 

Only this time, Aloy wasn’t around and the two were forced to hang around with each other. And just like his significant other, Atreus liked playing around in the dirt too. The assassin didn’t mind it all, not anymore at least, and was helping the boy look for herbs they could collect and use. That was all fine and dandy, but Jacob never actually understood the point of collecting them or how to use herbs.

Case in point, the question that flies out of his mouth.

     “So… Do you eat them, or somethin’? Make them in a stew?”

Poor Atreus, having to deal with him and his stupid questions.

         AS THEY SEEK THE sought-after wealth of the land, the sun already touches its western bourne, and the crowns of the trees are gilded by its parting beams. With arrowy speed, Atreus traverses the plain; his mother having taught him, all child as he is, the last vestiges of her kind (her favorite walks and the gardens the flowers of which she had relished to cultivate). His hands seem to glitter in the sun (he feels neither gale nor inclement cold) as he harvests a rhubarb among many, fastidious in his method—he grabs the base of the stalk and pulls it away from the plant with a gentle twist. “—eat these as is? Don’t be stupid.”