@prowessinbattle
Interest beat a quiet rhythm in the war god’s mind; whispering fires at the backs of his eyes, gentle creaks in the sharp planes of his skull, the lean daggers of his shoulders. Many gods had sired children in the turns of centuries, dissatisfied with lacking prayer and finding pleasure in the shouts of carnal humans -- even his own pantheon, ancient and set in their noble ways as they were, had children at their seams, suckling babes nursing at spilling ichor and hiding it in their own sackcloth souls. Friend and comrade had birthed son and daughter, thinking on them as specters of the self while their trueborn children gurgled happily at their feet, but never had Týr found himself in the embrace of a mortal woman.
The death of his wife had been centuries past, and still her memory was honoured. His ring at the hearth of his hall, at his finger occasionally in bouts of great melancholy, the memory of her still fresh and beloved even in death. Only Freyja had succeeded in taking Ásgarðr’s great swordsman to bed, and their’s had been an affair of centuries.
Swift swordplay made a ready warrior, and Týr was pleased, somewhere deep in his hidden heart, to note other pantheons value his divinity as much as he. War would ever be upon the realms, but so would justice. Miðgarðr would need to be prepared for both, lest it burned in the pyre of it’s own failures. “‘Tis good to see Bellona instills her values in her children.” Interrupting words bled from a hidden form, the flame of torches flickering revealing the old god to the side of the training grounds. “Your footwork is good, barn, but your enemies are better.”
