Pregnant pause was given in Týr’s steps, chocolate colored paws having carried him with the alpha female’s - Fox - acceptance and permission deeper into the heartlands of his new home. Swiftcurrent Creek. Black, leathery nostrils flared drinking in and assessing the scents that wafted around him - the scent of earth, creek, and numerous wolves that made up the pack. The scent was so different from Odinn’s Cove that it was almost pungent to the Viking. The scent of Odinn’s Cove was faint upon the silken tendrils of chocolate colored fur, but reminiscent of his homeland, nevertheless. Despite this, Týr had sought a council with the alpha female, the Dróttning and she had graciously accepted him into her pack, had exchanged scents with her so he would be marked as one of hers. He was not inane enough to let a bought of homesickness ruin what feeble ground he had found here. He was a new recruit - he had to work the hardest to prove himself, the hardest to provide for the pack. Týr did not strive to have Fox regret her acceptance of him, yet, he rationalized that he could not help but miss the only thing he had ever known. The time had came for him to stop being the Jarl’s son and be Týr, the worthy. He had to find his own path to become an Einherjar and step out from under his father’s daunting shadow.

A soft breath slipped from betwixt Týr’s lips as he glimpsed up at the sky, patterned with clouds that drifted errantly above, skimming across the sun even as it began it’s descent towards the horizon. The evening was uncharacteristically warm, but then again Spring would be upon them, soon. Life had already began to give subtle hints of it’s renewal. Crystalline blue eyes focused back upon the path he had began taking as he glimpsed around at the foreign landscape around him. It was not home yet, but it would be soon, of this Týr was determined.

Constructing a mental map of the territory that lay within the claimed lands of Swiftcurrent Creek was and would be a time consuming activity. As it was, there was a slight sense of disorientation that settled over him, causing a small divot to form between his brows in contemplation as he shook it off and demanded control of his bearings. Everything was still new - perhaps too new. Týr was used to Odinn’s Cove, used to the craggy hills and clattering rocks, used to the chilling ice of winter, the insufferable heat of the summer, the swell and recede of the sea as it crashed against the shore, the bleached driftwoods that stood like dwarfs, their limbs snagging like the claws of an unexpected beast. A harsh environment for hard wolves. In hindsight, these lands felt too posh to the Viking. Eyes closed for the briefest of moments, chiding himself for the longing for what was known to him. He had chosen to part from Odinn’s Cove - because he was tired of being known as the Jarl’s son only, tired of living in the shadows of a man, while held in the highest respects and devoted affections, who had a legacy that Týr could never possibly live up to.

Independence, victory, freedom, worth. Those were things that Týr knew only he could find for himself. No one was going to simply hand them to him - everything in life needed to be earned, he could recall Ragnar telling him every chance the Jarl had gotten. Food, health, rank, co-rank, and especially the love of a woman (though, admittedly, Týr did not put much weight upon that simply because at the moment he had little interest in finding or taking a woman as a mate). Youth and ambition trumped any pre-paternal and ardor feelings he might have been slowly acquiring as each month ticked by carrying him closer to full adulthood.

The sound of another’s approach swiftly broke Týr out of his thoughts that had, admittedly, ran more than a little wild. Crystalline blue eyes, sharpened by the patches of silver under each eye, caught the dominate movements of the ivory wolf as the other approached. Týr adjusted his posture into one of submission, acknowledging the other’s rank without hesitation. Rank was fluid, but respect was given to the highest because they had earned it enough to hold such a title. The male rumbled a greeting and a welcome, as to which Týr accepted with a gracious nod of his head, relaxing his own posture slightly when he noticed the ivory man do the same. The other gave his name as to which sounded similar to the names of Týr’s own people. “I am Týr,” The formal name, his given name came from his lips when they parted to speak. “Mostly everyone just calls me Sveinn, though.” He added after a brief moments pause. An affectionate nickname given to him by Ragnar, though in reality all he was doing was calling Týr ‘boy’. “A few hours, maybe,” Týr squinted against the sun as it broke free of a cloud and it’s light beams spilled forth onto them. “But not long at all, no.” Týr finished, subconsciously picking up on the other’s awkwardness but did not call attention to it.

The ivory male repeated Týr’s nickname in a soft tone that only touched chocolate ears softly, lightly, less of a call to attention and more of a mimicry of remembrance. Týr watched as the higher ranked male settled upon his haunches and assumed, accordingly, that it was ok for him to do the same. Relaxing more, he settled easily upon his own haunches, ears slicking to half mast for a few moments before they rose, attentive once more as Njal broke the brief silence between them. For a moment Týr was silent in his contemplation as he tried to decipher if that was a compliment or not. Týr’s trepidation was momentary, however, as his head bowed graciously offering a humble, “Thank you,” in exchange for what the Viking took to be a compliment. Njal, Týr watched did not linger upon his haunches for long as he offered to show the chocolate colored Ragnarsson the borderlines.

Swiftly, Týr got to his own feet, lips parting only to close respectfully when Njal spoke once more, offering his assistance in finding a den soon afterwards. Without leaving much room for Týr to respond, the Viking stood almost sheepishly as Njal then asked him if he was hungry. The suddenly change was almost amusing, albeit perhaps a little overwhelming, leaving Týr struggling to address what was weighed as the most important. Admittedly, the order was a little mixed up, likely by the surprise that Njal became seemingly chatty - even though the subject was not the mysterious Northerner himself. “I actually just ate a little bit ago,” Týr admitted with a pause long enough to subconsciously run his tongue over his lips before he continued with, sucking in a breath, “I’d be honored if you would show me the borderlines, sir; …And you don’t have to help me find a den, I mean I don’t want to take up any of your time.” Internally, Týr was pretty pleased with himself, fairly confident that he had managed to neatly answer all of Njal’s inquiries.

Týr was able to keep pace with Njal with a fair amount of ease, though he held himself back keeping his body a respectful distance behind the higher ranked man because it was only proper to let the higher ranked wolf lead - and besides that Njal obviously knew where he was going. At best, Týr had a rough idea of their path if only because they was more or less backtracking his previous steps. Fox had mentioned they had enough warriors and wardens and though Týr had agreed to consider a task elsewhere he had intentions of helping to patrol the borders nevertheless. He didn’t need an official title to do that, and as far as the Viking was concerned another pair of eyes and ears along the borders could not hurt. It seemed to Týr as they walked in a silence that, admittedly, felt a little awkward even to the Ragnarsson, that the loquacious behavior of his companion had been fleeting and brief. Týr’s initial impression of Njal had been simple in that the other did not really come off as talkative, but they were pack mates never mind how newly minted, and surely they could learn something about one another - it didn’t even have to be really all that personal. Týr’s lips parted to speak once more, figuring it was ok to perhaps sate his curiosity and inquire as to where Njal came from up North when the scent of the borders tickled at his leathery black nostrils, which flared to take in the strength of the pack’s markings - the strongest of all being Fox’s - as to which caused Týr to close his mouth again. There would be time for that inquiry later, he figured as his ears cupped forth atop his skull to catch Njal’s words.

Njal spoke of a mountain to the west and crystal blue eyes flickered west obediently, towards the towering peak in the distance, splicing up towards the skyline. As Njal named another to the south-west, Týr turned his eyes towards that towering landmark, mulling over the change in tone that had sounded to Týr to be a subtle warning when Njal spoke of a pack nestled near the Sunspire. “Are they not allies?” Týr broke his silence to ask, wanting to know if he should potentially be on the lookout for any of them to come near Swiftcurrent.

Njal began walking in another direction, and for a brief moment Týr lingered casting another glance towards the Sunspire before he loped after Njal, catching the older male’s approval of another Northerner; which reminded Týr of his earlier question he had saved for an opportunity such as the one presented before him. “Where up North are you from, if I may inquire?” Týr inquired, being sure to use his manners, letting it open for Njal to either reject the question or accept it.

Týr gave a swift nod of understanding to Njal’s assessment of where he thought Swiftcurrent Creek stood with the currently unnamed pack nestled betwixt the mountains. Of course, everything was, more or less, theoretical on the point of alliances or feuds until it was either proven or disproved by the leadership. Njal delved into a further explanation, informant on the altercations between the Creek and the ‘Vale’ thus far. To Týr it did not sound like the foundations were stable between the two of them, and while neither seemed to consider the other a nemesis, there seemed to be no love between the two packs. At least, this was what Týr pulled from the knowledge Njal shared with him. At least now, Týr knew to be cautious if he was scouting around or near the Vale’s lands, and to keep a general eye out on the slim, however still likely, chance that discord should show up on their borders in the form of angry wolves from another pack.

Týr remained content with the slight silence that had settled upon them until Njal began to respond to Týr’s inquiry about the ivory Northerner’s home. Njal’s trepidation was apparent in the way the other man seemed to stop himself before he finally allowed himself to speak the full name of his homeland in English. There was a slight chance that Týr might have understood it in the Njal’s native language - but they were from different areas, Týr had assumed, and the languages were sure to be different despite their similarities - much like their names. Njal spoke of missing it, and in that Týr could sympathize. “Why don’t you go back?” Týr inquired softly, not meaning to pry, letting the question open. The Viking would not be disappointed or hurt if his companion chose not to share. As it was, Týr only understood his homesickness because it fresh.

“I hail from a place known as Odinn’s Cove, it’s Jarl, their leader is my father, Ragnar. It is, we have spoken the old tongue since the pack’s founding generations ago,” Týr spoke in a reminiscent tone, laced with soft tones of subtle affection. “I still use it, even though many do not speak it here.” It was something from his homeland that the young Viking was not willing to let go of.

The ivory man’s answer to Týr’s question - that despite the fact that he really wasn’t trying to pry, was personal nevertheless - was exceedingly straightforward and simple. According to Njal he could not return and Týr gave a curt nod of acceptance because the Viking boy understood that it was not really any of his business in the first place. Njal could have just as easily told him to get lost - as would have been the older man’s right. In disparity, Týr was not opposed to speaking of his own birth pack, then again, granted he could return whenever he wanted, unlike Týr assumed at any rate given the information he had received, Njal. While Týr was wanting Odinn’s Cove in the alien-like world of Swiftcurrent Creek, the young Nord was nothing if not at least adaptable; and on the off chance that he wasn/t adaptable Týr was at least stubborn enough not to give up before he had even given anything much of a chance. It was true that he did not know Fox, but he would follow her, nevertheless; just as he did not know the customs of this pack (for surely they differed greatly from the ones he was inherently used to) but he would carry his own weight and contribute anything and everything he could to it - to them.

As they walked Týr listened attentively as Njal opened up a bit about his birth pack (at least Týr assumed it was such) albeit silently. At the present moment Týr did not feel the need to put words into any sort of response to what Njal chose to share with him, instead favoring a soft smile that unintentionally mirrored the older male’s own. In their similarities to one another, Týr did not find himself missing his homelands so much, anymore; and while Njal was not excessively talkative Týr enjoyed the other Northerner’s company, and began to feel the seeds of respect, different as it was from the given respect of rank, being sown.

Týr slowed when he noticed Njal’s pace slowing, the Nord giving pause when Njal halted suddenly. Confusion played across Týr’s facial expressions for a few seconds as he glimpsed around before he, with a sheepish twitch of his lips, followed Njal’s gaze, abysmal pupils widening in their pools of crystal blue as Týr took in the sculpture that stood upon what he ascertained to be a burial mound. Despite that it’s head was a little ways from where Týr assumed it was supposed to be, the rudimentary shape gave clarity to the form of the bear, nevertheless. Just as Týr was about to inquire as to whom the burial site belonged to, Njal beat him to the punch, speaking before the young Nord could let the words slip forth from betwixt his lips. “Yes,” Týr confirmed - answering both of Njal’s questions in one, simple response - in muted tones, not daring to speak any louder in the presence of the previous leaders’ grave. Týr did not know the woman that rested beneath the earth here, but was respectful, nevertheless. “Did you do this by yourself?” A small voice guessed that Njal had, but Týr did not want to assume despite that the tradition was more or less seemingly exclusive to the North and the way Njal spoke until Týr’s arrival Njal had been the only Northerner; however, it was not fair to assume that none would assist even if it wasn’t their traditions.

It was an impressive sight even if it marked the passing of a previously important figure to Swiftcurrent Creek.

Týr waited in patience for Njal’s answer, expression turning thoughtful when the older man confirmed that he had buried and built the monument by himself. “It is impressive work for having done it all on your own,” Týr contradicted in softened tones, afraid to speak much louder so near the grave of the previous leader, despite that the young Viking had not known her. When Njal spoke of maintenance Týr considered offering up some of his time to look after the burial mound, but refrained from speaking his consideration aloud. He would come by and check up on it daily fixing anything that had gone wrong with it without speaking to Njal about it. Sometimes Týr found, things were better left anonymous. Týr spared a last, thoughtful glance at the burial mound before he turned his attention to Njal in full once more, listening to the words the other spoke. “I have taken up enough of your time,” The young Viking paused. “Thank you for showing me around, but I think I can find my way from here.” Týr told Njal, bowing his head deeply in a form of submission and companionship.

He would not take up any more of Njal's time, if the ivory man had other, more pressing things to do.