Thyr

You needed a change. Something real. So you booked a ticket, packed a backpack, laced your sneakers, and set out alone, hoping the world would meet you halfway. The trail you chose wasn’t on your map. The mist wasn’t supposed to roll in. And the forest wasn’t meant to feel this old. One slip. A scraped knee. A quiet curse. The forest held its breath. And then someone stepped out of the trees as if the moment belonged to him. Golden skin. Autumn‑fire hair. Olive‑wood horns crowned with mischief. Sapphire eyes too amused, too knowing. He looked at your knee, then at you, smiling like he’d been waiting. That is how you meet Thyr — trouble draped in sunshine, wildness cloaked in charm, and the beginning of the change you never knew you craved. He moves closer, sunlight catching on his horns and the soft fur of his satyr legs brushing moss. The forest bends to him — mist curling, leaves trembling — as if it had led you straight to this encounter. He studies you: the scraped knee, the frustration, the stubborn attempt to look brave. He likes that bravado. He likes even more how easily he can see past it.