time goes slowly when you're only waiting til the sun turns black

Tyrr's motion to rise to meet Caiaphas head to head instilled a strange sense of confidence in the gangly creature. It showed he either was uncomfortable with the idea of being stood over, or perhaps, that he wished to greet her as an individual. She recklessly studied him, her scrutiny as unabashed as her raw and abrasive nature.

He gave her his name: she weighed the resonance behind it -- the inflection in the word that gave it great Norse weight and importance. She instinctively cast a look to his right paw as if to ascertain it were indeed there -- and a wry, knowing look overcame her dark muzzle. "Tyr, son of Odin -- whose right hand sits a-rot in Fenrisulfr's viscera -- felled by Garmr, the black rag." The words quelled forth and to an outsider she may have looked harridan and mad -- quibbling with relish the bygone gods and their fates.

"But you have your right paw, and I see no blackened cur yet." She rejoined sharply, a lopesided grin cast askance across her narrow muzzle.