The sound of a furious scuffle, accompanied by protesting chattering of the rodent-like creatures - squirrels - caused the chocolate colored Viking to stir, restless in his light slumber, nostrils flaring as he inhaled freshly disturbed dirt where his muzzle was nestled against his forepaws, using them as a pillow of sorts. The pungent scent of earth was tainted with the nut-like aroma of the creatures, and the lingering scent of the pack that clung to the silken tendrils of his fur, conquering what ever had been left of Odinn’s Cove’s scent. Crystal blue eyes peeked open, groggily as he peered at tendrils of sunbeams as they appeared and disappeared, giving the impression that it was cloudy. Breath spilled in a hefty sigh, snaking forth from his lips in a faint, white furl of steam that evaporated as quickly as it had formed. Stiffly, Týr emerged from his den, glaring at the chattering heathens that had scurried up a tree trunk in their quarrel at the sound of his movement (or so he assumed anyway, Týr did not pretend to have any inkling as to how they thought) not sure if he was amused or not as their tails twitched behind them before they continued on with their chase. Týr plopped down upon his haunches suddenly, overcame with a random itch at his neck he paused to scratch at it. After the itch was relieved he rose back up to his paws and presumed to stretch, lingering in the feeling of his muscles extending and contracting, attempting to stretch the stiffness away. His den was cramped for it was a little too small for him, but he had designed that it was more important to help fill the caches than it was to ensure comfort whilst he slept.

The morning was chilly giving Týr the distinct impression that the weather in these …Teekon Wilds was abruptly fickle. How it went from gloriously warm one day to chillingly bitter the next was something of an enigma to the young Nord. Týr was no stranger to harsh cold given where he originated from but the constant flux in weather was deceiving. Yet, despite this, Spring would be upon them soon, he knew. New life would be forming in all shapes and sizes, in the form of flowers, plants, trees, and babies of all species. The next generation was coming, females would be going into heat - if some of them hadn’t already. Though Týr himself had never experienced anything so carnal as a female in heat before (not to mention he doubted he was of the age yet to sire children) he was not naïve to it. Ragnar had never shied away from informing Týr about all the aspects of adulthood -- even if Týr found the whole ‘birds and bees’ talk to be humiliating and awkward. Shaking that awfully unwelcome memory for him his mind, he focused on what was important in the current moment: food. Admittedly, he had intentions of hunting for himself first before he went to work filling the pack’s caches.

After all, he could not exactly function properly on an empty stomach.

Somewhere along the line a light drizzle began out of seemingly no where, noticed only because of the pitter patter of it on the leaves and the cool kiss of each tiny droplet as it splashed upon his black, leathery nose. Confident of his isolation Týr let out a soft, barely audible discontented sigh as he spared a quick glimpse to the offensive monotone colored cloud that had decided to make the day miserable on top of being chilly. Miserable though it was, it remained surprising to Týr for none of the clouds in the sky had spoken of rain though he was, by no means, able to predict the weather. The steady rhythm of approaching footfalls upon the earth, softened by the melting snow and the current drizzle caused Týr’s ears to swivel into an alert position atop his skull, crystal bright blue eyes falling upon the other. There was a hairsbreadth of a moment as Týr studied the other, before he noted the way the other male’s tail was flipped high over his back in a blunt show of dominance, a manner in which Týr took an abrupt offence too. While it was likely true that the other male was higher in the ranks than Týr, whom was only a Lambda, the show was unnecessary, and distinctly reminded Týr of the way a leader would approach a loner or foreign wolf at the borders not the way a pack mate approached another, or so this was how Týr thought at any rate. The musk of the earth flooded the young Nord’s nostrils as they flared and he inhaled deeply, as he debated upon the other’s approach if he wanted to raise his voice to the matter or simply ignore it.

Or challenge him. It was in his blood, after all, the urgings for a battle, for spars - all of which Týr had been extensively trained for.

Though Týr knew his own culture held little to no weight here in these alien lands, it held all the weight in the world with him; however, Týr was not known for being impulsive and irrational, and he did not take the show of dominance as a challenge, if the male’s out of place friendly greeting was anything to go by. “The excessive show of dominance isn’t necessary,” Týr spoke peaceably, for the moment ignoring the introduction that was given to him. “To be honest, I find it insulting for I would have showed you respect regardless.” Týr’s voice was not accusatory, or harsh, for while he would not turn down a chance to rank challenge or spar he was still weary from his journey to the Teekon Wilds. For a serious moment, Týr considered leaving then and there and going about his way to fulfill the task that Fox had assigned to him upon his acceptance, however, his manners dictated differently. “I am Týr,” His given name slipped forth from betwixt his lips easily, like music to the Viking’s ears. “but everyone calls me Sveinn.” It was an affectionate term used by his father, but Týr suspected it caught on because it was easier to say.

Týr could not find it in himself to feel guilt when the other male let out a defeated sigh, and briefly wondered if something was wrong with him as he watched with a stony expression that would have made Ragnar proud as the male moved forward to nudge him in the chest in an apology. Týr knew that he was of the lowest rank, understood that dominance played a key factor within a pack, but there was a line that Týr drew. Ferdie was not his alpha, and Týr would not accept extensive displays of dominance like that from anyone but Fox. It was strange hearing his name come from the lips of someone whom did not hold the Viking’s accent. The attempted accent was noted by the Viking, and for an instance Týr hesitated trying to understand if he was being mocked or not. Ragnar would have taken it as mockery, but Týr was not his father being more… refined that his brutish kin. “As I understand it lone wolves don’t have a hierarchy,” That was why they were ‘lone’. “But I understand the difficulty of the transaction.” Týr, himself, had been the son of the Earl, the ‘Prince’ if that was the word he wanted to associate with himself, but perhaps some had a better time adjusting than others. “You might want to work on it. I am a new addition to this pack so you are likely of a higher rank than me, but a wolf of a higher rank would take that as a challenge, and I don’t think Fox would appreciate a subordinate acting like a second Alpha.” Of course, Týr felt guilty for speaking for Fox, but most alpha’s would not tolerate acts like that within their ranks.

Unless it was a challenge.

The male spoke again, informing Týr that Fox had given them the same task to carry out in their day to day occurrences. “I do not think you are a horrible wolf,” Týr contradicted. “It would seem that Fox has assigned us the same task, and I would be happy to aid you in a hunt to help fill the caches. First, however, I must feed myself.” Týr paused for a moment, thinking over his options for a few moments. “I suppose I could take something from one of the caches to save time and hunt twice as much to replace what I have taken.” It would allow them to get on with the hunt sooner for Týr was not going to budge until his hunger was sated.