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.
a crime so old as the sky and bone