It would take some time to get back into the habits of pack life, of remembering that he was not the only one to inhabit the space around him. There was a part of Týrr that was disappointed that he had not adjusted more quickly — after all they were social creatures. Well most of them were social creatures by nature. There was, he amended, always that black sheep that lived for solitude. They were nothing if not adaptable though; they had to be. The Rekkr felt his jaws part in an spontaneous, involuntary yawn before they snapped shut and he blinked sheepishly at his pack mate, hoping the older male did not think that he was boring him. That wasn't the case at all. Apparently, the last traces of sleep had not entirely disappeared from Týrr and subtly the chocolate colored Rekkr stretched again, hoping that it would help to wake him up a bit more.
Týrr's ears cupped forth when his companion spoke again, agreeing that it was fitting. Týrr was not sure if he could take credit for coming up with it, so instead nodded once in a grateful gesture. Regardless of if he could claim the credit for it or not, or if it belonged to Freyja it was his nevertheless. It was almost a strange concept to disconnect himself from Ragnar with the simple acceptance of a name, of an identity, he supposed. Nice to officially meet you Malachi,
Týrr murmured with an amiable bow of his head. I come from a pack called Odinn's Cove, in the farthest reaches of the North.
While being bilingual had been impressive in the Cove, and while it had certainly came in handy in the Teekon Wilds he didn't think it held as much of the necessity that it had back in the Cove. Not many spoke Icelandic here, from what he could tell, and Týrr had adapted accordingly.
a crime so old as the sky and bone