Frostfire Ridge i'll take it all, rise and fall

Týrr moved to greet the stranger, dampening his instincts to chase out. It wasn't claimed yet and thus his claim upon it was weak. Challangeble. Not that the Nýeldur had any intentions of letting Frostfire Ridge go without a fight. They would have to pry it from his cold, dead jaws (so to speak). It was a promise, a tribute to the ruin of Duskfire, and it meant more to him than he could willingly explain to anyone. It was hope. It was cinders on the precipice of being stirred into a flame. A small flame that he intended to nurture into a inferno. At the Amazon Prince's greeting, a frown tugged at the edges of the other male's lips. Eyes cut of crystalline studied the other male more studiously, fiercely. It was a simple greeting, in a language that Týrr had always assumed to be universal. It was not the language of the Norsemen, nor Nahuatl — the language of the Amazons, the language that his “true” name was derived from. Serpent King it meant; but he could not bring himself to go by it. Not without barely any memories to sustain it.

Týrr was multilingual, having remembered the language of the Amazons rather quickly after Manauia had showed him the truth to him, and having been taught Norse by Ragnar and the Viking wolves of Odinn's Cove; and of course he spoke the common tongue. It was always crucial, via the Viking's standards to be able to communicate with your prisoners, captives, and slaves. The word, however, that came from the other male's lips was not one that Týrr readily recognized. It was foreign sounding, and this sparked strong curiosity within him. What language was it? Where did it originate from? What culture did it's people derive from? “I don't...understand,” But he had an inkling of desire to, perhaps, learn. It was this that kept the Amazon Prince from dismissing the foreigner within his land Frostfire Ridge.