He’s trying to decide where to put this on his ‘List of Places’; if it is firmly in the do not return category or not. The Iron Bull is splattered in gore from the brawl and broad chest is heaving as he struggles to get air in. It’s sheer pride that stops him from gulping in air, instead he fights to get his breathing regulated; the thought of these being mere drifters was disconcerting. Axe stays in his hand, his grip is tight, he won’t sheathe it when Kratos has his weapons still displayed, he has background with this terrain, has experience with these adversaries.
His breath hits a more comfortable baseline, finds himself not struggling to get air as much as his breathing returns to normal. It’s aggravating, the fact that he misstepped, that he’s been winded from these enemies is infuriating. He wonders if he’s been relying too much on his comrades in battle, whether he’s gotten soft.
Arm aches down to the bone in a way that’s unpleasant, a continuous reminder of his blunder. He grunts his acquiescence, rolls his shoulder to make sure that nothing in his arm is severely damaged. “Where do we go to now?”
Chin craned high to the sky, a dreary gray smudge of a giant, lording cloud looked as bleak as the ashen man; an impending storm adding heat and humidity to the stench of decay, to the bloodshed of ancient soldiers sticking still to all available senses. The cognizant bull invoked nothing from Kratos’ instincts (an insult to be sure), a sense of apathy awashed his hardened features as he narrowly passes the reddened blade of that weapon, his own stowed across his back.
All indifference and sobriety, Kratos stalked forth; proud trunks for legs steadfast through slick puddles of the fallen, the addition of his weight hitting a creaking glamour-magic just beyond the seemingly endless sand they had traversed. His hand, jingling of wind chapped chains that bound his forearms, knocking a layer of grains from a hip-tall pillar. A golden button glistened dully in the overcast day, his fist impressing it down.
When it sank, all manner of gust simply ... ceased to be.
Before him stretched a wooden bridge as long as the eye could strain. Finally, he spoke to the beast-man. “Across.”
He leads on, regarding not if he was followed. Ahead was bound to be something, and behind was the arid certainty of death. Creaking and bucking, their path seemed no less risky held together by ropes impossibly old. A village would be ideal, but he hoped for nothing than less sand. Water, optimistically.
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