you can't offer your poison to me
in your kingdom of filth

She is small but her eyes are fierce, and normally Wrath would appreciate that in a woman. Instead, he draws his frame taller, lips curling and showing flirting glimpses of his teeth. Not a threat, not yet. A warning. Watch your step, little one, you are too close to the edge. This may be her land, but she assumed of him patience and tolerance, assumed his background and his experiences. Pressed upon him her own ideals, her Hellvoonian themes that she'd grown into. "What I want of this land? I didn't even ask to be here!" he snapped, but his eyes were a little too white. Forgive me, Kratos. I've failed you yet again. It was not the young girl he was upset with, but himself, or perhaps this change, this world he was helpless in and against. How could he protect Kratos in a realm so bright, so alien? How could he adapt quickly enough?

As soon as she started sharing information, he settled, and the girl would surely notice. Hulking frame drew itself smaller, eyes attentive, ears cautiously pricked and mouth silent. He was not a threat, but a vicious predator cornered and frightened, swiping out at everything he had not already known as friend. He did not have the grace to take the time to determine who was neutral and who was foe, and even if he did, Wrath had never had that kind of opportunity in the Rift. He knew nothing else. Fight, fight until you die, don't give anyone the chance to stab you in the back. In some ways, Wrath was glad she was too vapid to see that, because she could not see his weakness. In others, he was pissed that she would dare act so pretentious and all-mighty when it was his world that had been flipped and cracked apart so violently. 

Her own words came flooding out after a pause, demands coming forth - or at least that's how Wrath saw them. Harmless questions, really, since Wrath didn't give two fucks what happened with the lands of the Rift or the inhabitants. He fought for them metaphorically, fought for their freedom, but most of them he did not individually know or care for. "The Rift is a land of eternal sickness, death, torment, rape, war, and slavery. You fight every moment of every day, or you die. Quickly, if you are the few or the lucky. The Gods you saw? They are as weak and helpless as we, in this land. Of course they will fall to your own slave drivers," he snorted, remembering how Kratos had been thrown by the Goddess, his own dark distrust forever tainting the coal block of his heart. 

"They are truly gods, in the Rift. They kill for sport and glory, they curse for fun and mischief. They torment, they torture, and they watch their worshipers try in vain to garner shallow favor before slaying them mercilessly when the fancy strikes." His deep vocals shook with ill-concealed rage, and his eyes could not stop restlessly shifting over the horizon, muscles locked and prepped for war. It would be months, minimum, to ever rid himself of such habits. 

Everything was going well, or well in Wrath's opinion, until he saw her eyes turn to linger on Kratos. His ears immediately fell back, and he stepped purposefully into her line of sight. Was this some sort of trickery? There was no such thing as a nice or gentle soul, these Hellvoonians and their falsely kind deities would not fool him. He would protect Kratos, no matter what world they'd somehow ended up in. His teeth grit with the desire to spit venom as she warned him - fool girl, as if you could ever stop me - but his interest was nonetheless piqued. "Justice does not exist in the Rift," he grunted. "Or, perhaps in animal terms it does." Wrath had participated in that kind of judgment, the fierce, primordial laws of the world. You kill something of mine, so I kill something of yours. Or better yet, you. 

"Who are these vigilantes? What role do you play in this...Hellvoonia?" Yeah, he was never going to get that right.