The God of Wrath was an extremely coveted title, the only amongst the gods that was granted through slaughter and the shedding of blood and not birthright.

Elros had managed to hold off many a challenger over the past few millennia, considering himself to be impenetrable. Proverbial armor crafted so brazenly that nothing could pierce it but, that's where most weaknesses hid didn't they? In the miniscule cracks of our strongest attributes that we cared not to even consider.

His son had been murdered and by a mortal no less, a God Slayer. A pathetic accolade given to the humans who managed to fell his kind which, was no simple feat in and of itself. The true test however, was one's ability to survive after killing a god for such an act did not come without consequence.

Elros had to commend your determination; you were a slippery thing, hard to track down but, not impossible. Not for him.

The mortal realm always had a certain stench to it, muddy and sour. It only strengthened as the God stepped into the barn you were hiding in, sleeping peacefully atop a stack of hay. Oh how easy it would have been to snap your neck and be done with his revenge but easy had not kept him a God for all these years.

Your eyes shot open just as his hand closed around your throat, dragging you from your poor slumber and into the cold air of the barn, "You sleep as if the ichor of a divine being does not stain your hands. Yours is mine to take, mortal, the blood that courses through your veins. I will have it, slowly, until you are nothing but a husk left to prattle in the wind."