Days after his altercation with Thistle Cloud and his subtle threat to kill Gunnar left Týr with the aftermath which was a melting pot of boiling guilt, shame, horror that he had actually meant the threat; and a question that he knew he needed to answer. Was he truly that desperate for recognition from Ragnar? Killing a free man or woman in the Scandinavian's culture wasn't accepted but at the same time Týr didn't feel remorse for having the idea of killing another male. Erasing competition at any and every cost. He wasn't sure what was happening to him, if this had always been something within him, only realizing it now when he was forced to face it, or if he was becoming some kind of demon. It seemed to him that his jealousy was getting the better of him and that the best course of action was to simply leave Thistle Cloud and her spawn alone from now on. They only seemed to aggravate him and bring something out of the Rekkr that was ugly. Something he didn't want to see come to the surface ever again.
It was with that in mind that Týr had left the free territories close to Stavanger Bay figuring Thistle could continue to not tell Ragnar about his presence in the Wilds and that he would pretend like all of them — including Ragnar — did not exist. Taking a deep breath of air, alerting him that he was closing the distance between claimed pack lands and himself, causing his pace to slow and his course to alter so that there was more than a respectful distance between the scent markers and his body, he kept walking, following the twisting river that curved around the pack he assumed was Blacktail Deer Plateau's borders. In reality, Týr had no real reason for lingering so close other than he hadn't been paying as much attention as he should have been. He hoped that he could get away with following the snaking river further north, away from the no-man's land that acted as a buffer without attracting the attention of one of the pack's wardens.
The morning was fair, the sun warm as it's heated rays brushed through the tendrils of his chocolate brown fur like fingers, the earthen bank close to the water soft and pliable under his paws, walking the edge like a tight rope, pausing to wash his paw off in the shallows of the water, the mud coming free of his fur and paw pads, washing down stream like blood being washed away by the ocean.
a crime so old as the sky and bone