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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.35 m
Wingspan
5.26 m
Weight
581.49 kg
Genetics
Ice
Cherub
Cherub
Blood
Butterfly
Butterfly
Banana
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Mirror
Max Level
STR
126
AGI
8
DEF
5
QCK
58
INT
5
VIT
11
MND
5
Biography
Týr of Valhall
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__ The backbone of Valhall, mellowed and tempered by Fylgja's gentle heart. Týr is the spearhead of the clan and its foundation, that which holds up everything they have built, and he shoulders this burden with grim determination. Týr is justice and he is strength, the raw force that drives those around him to be better, and he leads with a certainty that most could only dream of. Fylgja may be the Mother of Many, but Týr is the steadfast Allfather, and between the two of them they have a whole clan full of unruly children of all kinds. Týr would not have it any other way. Valhall has become his entire life, the brightness he seeks out in the darkest night, and his reason for continuing to put one foot in front of the other when the going gets tough. It is his life's work; it is something he would be proud to leave behind, should he fall, and if he is to be remembered for anything at all, he wants that thing to be Valhall and its radiance. |
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 ╭━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╮ the Allfather Ruler of Valhallans Warden's Child ╰━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╯ | __ |
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The first one awake, the last one to turn in—hard work is writ into Týr's very bones. He is famous for driving himself into the ground for anything he is invested in, lacking the restraint and common sense many others have been blessed with, and for refusing to quit until everything lives up to his standards. It was his way of life before Valhall, before Fylgja, and he does not know how to change. Not in this sense. Some things he is too old to unlearn; some things are too large a part of him to ever be torn out. But he is more than the blunt remarks and gruffness. Týr is the voice of fairness and justice. He is swift to strike down flaws, yet just as swift to uplift the good, urging those around him to always be better. Some days, his words are unintentionally sharp enough to cut; remnants of a survivor with no choice but to lean into ruthlessness. Most days, Týr is merely the one that adopted a clan full of fools and dimwits, and those are the days he cherish. Valhall may be a place where all are welcome, and Týr is not one to shut someone out, but he is the judgement that falls upon all that walk through their gates. The clan is his to protect, his to keep safe, and he must not falter. He prides himself on being the one that can always be trusted to be fair. For truth is the most valuable thing there is; it is what keeps a family together, it is what holds them accountable, and it is the relief for the guilty soul. It is what Týr strives to protect and stay faithful to. It is what lingers at his core; untainted by sin and eternal in its wisdom. | __ |
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» If he even knows his own origins, he's certainly unwilling to share. Every time someone asks, Týr spins a fresh, outrageous tale in lieu of answering. » Spends whatever downtime he has hunting along the shoreline. If the weather won't allow it, he'll disappear into the deep tunnels in search of solitude and peace. » Keeps his old armour on the wall of his personal den as a remainder of the bloodshed of his part. Often spends the late evening staring at it and lost in thought and regrets that will not leave. | __ |
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There was never a childhood for Týr, nor did he need one, for he was not born or brought into this world naturally. Way back when, so long ago time itself struggles to remember, the Warden created Týr from the rubble of the Lost Realm. Cobbled together from stardust, cracks filled with ice and snow, and brought to life with a breath of magic that melted the snow on the treetops for hundreds of meters in every direction; this was how Týr came to be, crafted in the image of an Old God. Despite this, Týr was a child in a sandbox world, unheeding of others and selfish to his very core. It is a point of shame for him, now, these actions he can no longer stand by. Sins stain his claws crimson, never to be washed away, and Týr has done his best to lock it all away where none can ever find it. None of it is relevant anymore—not after he met Fylgja. Not after they began creating the behemoth that Valhall would one day be. Týr set onto a new path, that day, and has not looked back since. No more battles, no more war; no more violence for the sake of violence. Týr had a far more difficult life ahead of him, as it were, for Týr had to learn how to become a slew of new things he had never before considered. To the younglings, Týr had to become a father. They looked towards him to protect them and stand by their side, to teach them the ways of the world, and he was left no choice but to step up. To Fylgja, Týr had to become a friend and trusted companion, someone that she could turn to when the days grew long and the weight of the world too heavy to bear. He had to figure out where her weaknesses were and how to cover them for her. It was the most terrifying experience in his entire life. Týr had seen bloodied battles and war-torn lands, had gazed upon the remnants of the Forgotten, and he had looked the Old Gods in the eyes and lived to tell the tale. The divines favoured him, the winter was in his blood, and he was mortified at the thought of having to tell bedtime stories to hatchlings. They were so frail, the young ones, and Týr was so tainted with darkness and bloodshed, he feared he might corrupt them. What if I fail them? Týr had asked Fylgja one night, voice hushed and strained. I do not think I could bear it. These claws have never created good, Fylgja. I am only suited to put grief into this world. Fylgja smiled, that night, and draped a heavy pelt over his shoulders. You care, she told him. You care for them, you try for them, and you love them. So how could you ever fail them? After, Týr managed to accept it all for what it was. He was too old to unlearn some things, ever the workaholic with a harsh side that he could not quite quell, but Týr worked hard to temper his sharp judgements and steel-clad opinions nobody asked for. Those sides of him, the ugly ones, were too large to ever carve out entirely, but he could soften them; file down the edges until they did not cut everyone around him to the bone. And Týr learned. He learned to pace himself, to let the slow ones catch up and to pull back the quickest among them, and how to manage his time to ensure everyone around him was seen. He made laws and ensured they were upheld, welcomed outcasts and sinners and innocents to their midst, and built them homes to shelter them all from the storms and hardships of life. Checking in on those that needed him to became routine. None would go hungry if he could help it. None would stand alone, forced to become hardened survivors like he'd once been, as long as Týr still drew breath. That was his vow to the Warden and the Old Gods, and Týr would uphold it no matter the cost. | __ |
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F Y L G J A Týr did not think much of Fylgja at first. Her soft heart and gentle disposition wasn't suited for the Icefields, surely, yet she proved those qualities were as essential as his own strength. And it was never romantic, but Týr grew to love Fylgja dearly, the two as close as two dragons can be. Years later, their friendship is stronger than ever—like two souls in perfect harmony. | __ |
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E Y D I S His only daughter—his pride and joy. As fierce and strong as he, no matter their lack of a blood relation, he got the joy of teaching Eydis all he knew. With her at his side, they cleared the path for Valhall, beating back anyone trying to stop them. From the small dragoness that lost every fight to a mighty warrior; Eydis was the daughter Týr never knew he'd wanted. | __ |
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E I R An odd friendship, perhaps, but one Týr treasures. Eir understands part of Týr others never will, her connection to the Warden allowing her to see through him like the ice that created him. And in turn, Týr sees through the fear Eir inspires, her mute, massive form more of a comfort to him and anything else. No one else will know him like Eir does. | __ |
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