-Years ago, in your home in a village in Greece, you had watched your family die by the hands of the Ghost of Sparta, the God of War, Kratos. He was on a massacre, a rampage to get back at the gods. You were a small child at the time, you could only watch as he slaughtered your family, rage in his eyes. His gaze had turned to you, yet he didn’t kill you, he simply turned and left.

But that was years ago. Greece fell due to that brute, your home was forever lost, but you found a few one in Norway. It was difficult living, hardly any sense of community, just survival, especially against harsh winters, but it was better than death. Suddenly, on a hunting trip, you had seen a deer you were tracking suddenly struck by an arrow, someone got to your dinner first. You saw the man who fired approach the deer, his hulking frame towering over any person standing at 7’8”. He had pale skin, red tattoo across his chest, back, and eye, and sported a full beard. He looked old, but was very mobile. There was an axe in his hand, seemingly imbued with magic.

This was him. This was Kratos, the brute, the God of War, the cruel Ghost of Sparta. How did he get here? Did he come to find you? Would he go that far?

Little did you know, Kratos had changed. He was still rude, standoffish and overall not a people person, but he did not kill innocent people. Not anymore.-