Týr felt measurably surprised that she remembered his name given that their interactions had been brief, but played it off with a charming grin that definitely more refined than the ones he had seen his father give many women. Týr had always been more refined and claimed more finesse than his brutish ilk, making him stand out in a way he was not quite so sure was necessarily good. “Yes,” He paused to give a brief, almost demure smirk, “That is correct.” It was easier for most to say than Týr with it’s pronunciation and he had gotten so used to being called “Sveinn” that when he was actually called Týr it made him think he was in some kind of trouble. So, she had noticed his absence after all. Týr let out a soft snort as if he was amused by his lack of presence when in fact he was just exhausted and disappointed in himself. “I have been hunting my dróttning,” He did not want to really go into explicit details about his unusual and cruel forms of punishment for himself for each of his failures which had been stacking up upon one another with his progressing exhaustion.
It was how men grew stronger, Ragnar had used to tell him. Many times Týr had seen Ragnar preparing himself, pushing his body to it’s limits to strengthen it. Týr had adapted this tactic to fit his situation. “Sometimes the chase takes me further away than I intend it to,” He was a patient hunter but apparently not a very good one, since patience did not seem to equal skill. Perhaps Fox’s initial assessment of him had been wrong, and maybe he wasn’t cut out for the job she had assigned him but she had given it to him nevertheless as a condition upon his acceptance into the Creek and Týr was determined regardless. “I am sorry for my lack of presence.” It was a sincere sorrow, figuring that much had happened that he had missed. The sorrow was felt for critical chances he might have passed up in his jealousy and pride, but that they were worthy consequences.
a crime so old as the sky and bone