after the war's won, there's always the next one
i'm not bulletproof when it comes to you

Though the land was supposedly safe - not that Wrath trusted anything anyone said in this wretched land, or anywhere ever - the behemoth had been unable to shake the tendency to travel beneath the cover of night. It was a time of shadows and silence, when the darkness aided his own personal camouflage and only his cracked and molten hide could betray him. But he'd learned to shroud himself, even in his enormity. The nighttime embraced him as it always did, leading him away from where Kratos drowsily stared off into the middle distance. Rules had to be changed as they'd entered Helvoonia - what the fuck kind of name was that anyways? - reluctant though Wrath was to tempt fate after being thrust into the land literally swinging. 

Rounds needed to be taken, Wrath setting a designated radius in as perfect a circle he could manage with Kratos the center point. There were no borders to patrol, not guardsmen to set to their tasks, no armor to help his soldiers don. Wrath was alone, solitary in his efforts, but he would die before he allowed this land to sink its fangs any deeper into Kratos. It was a tiring, exhaustive effort, but Wrath was nothing if not stubborn and consistent. Kratos...he was everything. The new generation, his charge, the innocent colt he'd met so long ago only to foster and help him grow into a stallion worthy of name and prowess. Though he did not hide it as well as he liked to think, Wrath loved him. A sensation he did not like to admit to, as he'd never imagined even being capable of it. In a way he'd loved his men, his troops that he'd stormed into battle with too many times to count. But he had loved nobody and nothing else.

So he showed it in the only ways he could. Protecting Kratos, making sure they stayed safe in this jungle with its yet unseen traps. No land was safe, and Wrath was not stupid enough to believe he was worthy of such salvation. Kratos, perhaps, deserved it. He was still untouched and pure in ways the Rift had not stolen from him, mostly because of Wrath's protection. But himself? No. He was unworthy of this illusory world, and he did not trust it. Miracles did not happen, and certainly not to him.

His rounds had been quiet, mostly. Nobody ever encountered, nothing to raise his hackles or set his teeth on edge. It seemed the pattern had ended however, with a tiny body hidden within the folds of dry, whispering stalks. He was a beast in comparison to the little foal, something of nightmares to prey upon her, glowing with lava cracked within his hide that seeped into his blood and bones. Softly glowing eyes, vessels that were illuminated insidiously by his blood until they glowed orange in the night as they gazed upon her. A wraith, a bloodied figure that loomed above her, only the scariest parts of him visible. But no harm would befall her, not from him. Still he lingered away from her, reluctant to scare her. These Hellvoonians were so much more sensitive than Riftians. 

If Wrath had any weakness, it was the innocence and purity of childhood. He ventured closer, quiet and as unassuming as his frame could manage. "A foal should not adventure unattended in the wilds," he rumbled with his deep, primordial voice, softly glowing eyes staring disapprovingly down at the foal. But they were soft, nonetheless. She would not have lasted a moment, alone in the Rift. And he swept closer to her with that thought, seeing spindly Kratos in her young frame, in dire need of protection. He could offer her that, at least.