Duskfire Glacier The king in I died [post-raid gathering]

Pride was an insufferable thing and Týrr's was no different. He could feel the throb of his wounds, of the nerve endings in his neck, close to his throat where the ebony creature's teeth had dragged through flesh as the Rekkr had instinctively attempted to recoil in a feral jerk of his body. Whether he had made it worse by attempting to dislodge the sea man's grip upon him or not was unclear, and a mystery that he had no intentions of solving. Still, he was hard on himself for it, nevertheless. He should have timed it better. It had been in the coil of the ebony man's muscles, in the position he'd been from when he'd came at him. Not all was bad for it, though, because if he had not anticipated the move as the other man had lunged at him he would have been nothing more than a stiffening corpse, in a puddle of his own life blood. He was alive. He had won and for now, that was enough. The ebony man could have his life: for now. After all, Týrr undeniably had a bigger enemy to deal with, first.


Blood had began to dry in the chocolate brown fur of his neck, matting it in thick clumps. There were minor scratches and scrapes upon him, too, but of those he did not bother to rise his concern for. The metallic smell was pungent and hung heavy in the air, and with every move of his head – in the off chance that he happened to forget as the pain numbed momentarily – he would wince and feel the ooze of fresh blood seep into his already stained fur. His muzzle, too, was stained but not with his own blood. The Glacier wolves, against the odds, had came out as the victors; a sure sign that they were indeed strong under Tuwawi's rule, and that better things were to come for them.


It was only after letting a mark upon the borders, distilling the freshly urinated upon earth: a warning should any of their opponents decide to return, he doubled back to where he had left his pack mates. He found them soon enough, his eyes going, naturally, to his wildfire Queen first, crystalline gaze assessing her fiercely to make sure that she was okay. She was alive and breathing, at least, and he noted standing proudly over the body of a child. Unlike the others who seemed to be pointedly avoiding looking at the child's corpse Týrr did not blanch, nor look away. It should have bothered him, he supposed, but on the other side of the coin he couldn't help but feel that a child should not have been meddling in things he did not understand. War was not a game. War was not for children; and the wolves that had allowed him to tag along would suffer the consequence for their believed to be arrogance. Or perhaps, the Rekkr amended mentally, their ignorance. “Are you hurt, Dróttning?” Týrr asked Tuwawi as he approached, lowering himself into submission, cringing visibly as the action tugged at the muscles beneath his wounds, pulling at the lesions. 

He was not yet to focus his attention upon his own injuries, less concerned for himself. His gaze wandered then, seeking out those whom had risen to the call. Two women whose names escaped him, and in the far corner, secluded from everyone else, the Amazon Huntress: Manauia, whom he hoped would avoid fussing over him and in injuries like a mother over a child. Whether he sought medical attention or not he would live, that much he knew. While he could not see Manauia fussing over him, he knew, at the very least, that she would be concerned even if her concern was more or less secondhand. Concerned only because his death would affect a mother that he could not even remember beyond a name and a title. Her loyalty to Quetzalcoatl was unquestionable, whilst her loyalty to him was nothing short of enigmatic at best.