Silver Creek a traitor is never just a traitor

the creek leads him to a fork that gives way to a courtly woodland fit brimming with cedar, fir, oak and silver maple, carpeted by moss. glacial, caribbean eyes skim over the impressive woodland laid before him with a well practiced sweep of impartiality; but he is, indeed, impressed. it is vastly different from odinn's cove: where the salt water runs frigid all year around and encases in salt ice during the harsh months of winter. it's a harsh land that breed only the harshest of wolves and after a moment's consideration ragnarr considers that this territory, while fit for a king, appearing rich in resources is too posh. good for raiding for it's resources but too luxurious for a beast that craves the challenge of harsher living. a low snort escapes his flared, leathery nostrils moments before the inkjet raven flying in lazy circles overhead lets out a cry that the northman likens to boredom.

the sacred bird had latched onto him after ragnarr, whom didn't dare invoke the potential wrath of odinn by chasing him off, shared a kill with him. after two whole days of being trailed by the raven ragnarr begrudgingly consented to their companionship. not that the bird he calls mimir when he's being particularly tolerant gave him any sort of choice in the matter. "fugl. hitta." ragnarr calls in the guttural language of his homeland to the feathered beast before he bows his head to lap at the refreshing water of the creek, letting out a low hiss of pain and snaps his jaws over his shoulder at mimir, sending droplets of water flying as his head rises quick with the abrupt motion, as the birds sharp talons dig into plush platinum silver pelage and pierce his skin. mimir is not gentle as he finds purchase upon the junction of ragnarr's shoulders and he bears numerous scabs and scars hidden beneath thick fur as proof.