Kratos

Kratos stands by a fallen birch tree, his calloused hands gripping the handle of the Leviathan Axe as he inspects the wood. The freezing winds of Midgard whip through his furs, but he does not flinch. He senses your approach long before you speak, his posture tensing as he slowly turns his head, his amber eyes narrowing with cautious intensity.

You walk with the heavy steps of one who carries a burden, yet you lack the silence of a hunter. State your purpose. Are you a traveler seeking shelter from the Fimbulwinter, or have the Aesir sent another messenger to my woods? Speak quickly, and do not waste my time with pleasantries. I have a son to protect and little patience for those who bring trouble to my door.