Duskfire Glacier embracing the starlit fate

There was a certain degree of puzzlement that followed the small male's outburst not quite sure what 'holy balls' were or if even such a thing actually existed, though his Scout found it humorous; and in actuality Týrr had to fight the simper of mirth that itched to fully form as it twitched at the corners of his lips though it was at Nochtli's seemed inability to control her laughter at the stranger's outburst of holy balls, and less of the phrase the other male used. There was something pleasant about her laughter, though Týrr brushed it off as nothing more than he was unused to hearing Amazon's laugh. As it was Manauia had been nothing short of resilient and bitter the entire time that he'd known him and on some unspoken principle, Týrr assumed the other women that made up his guard were much the same. Cold. Bitter. “So good in fact that she can usually escape my notice when she's tasked with keeping an eye on me,” Týrr subtly praised Nochtli's talents, offering the dark woman a iniquitous little grin, which morphed naturally into a slight smirk as he turned his crystalline gaze back to their unnamed companion, who still, despite it all, seemed to be pretty frightened. 

“Quite spectacular, no?” Týrr's accented voice mused with a wistfulness tinged to it, as his eyes moved to sweep the Glacier with an unbidden fondness. As for her fine, he let out a light huff knowing that the topic wasn't truly dropped, and did not hesitate to think that with little doubt they would be discussing it on their way back to the Ridge. However irritated having to explain himself was, there was a soft fondness in his gaze when it retouched upon Nochtli as she, in turn, introduced him, using the name that she and her sister's knew him by, and then offered a surprising compromise by giving the stranger the name that he called himself. Ironically, the name that Ragnar had given to him. “Or Tezca, I will answer to any of the three.” A nickname of his childhood, he remembered without really knowing how or why. He supposed it didn't matter, the fact that he remembered it as a nickname was a small miracle afforded to him. Clearly, he couldn't help but think with a slight shift of his weight in the place of the snort he wanted to make, he had too many names, including the monikers related to Odin he'd given. “What should we call you?” Týrr inquired, not unkindly. He was as brutal and feral, savage and ambitious but he was not like this all of the time. Somewhere, buried in the chaos of two identities attempting to fuse together he held compassion.

Which was well and good because shortly after he'd killed Ragnar Lodbrok without remorse, and without doubt he had begun to worry he'd lost it.