Ears perked to attention at the soft murmurings of nothing that whispered on the wind, across the bracken and debris of the forest floor beneath his paws as he moved, shrugging it off as imaginations upon the winds. He might have continued his belief that what he heard was the wind moving through the trees, rustling the leaves that hung tall above on the branches if it had not been for the sleek red bodies that seemed to cross to the other side of another, their screeches and giggles nearly deafening in the wake of the whispering silence. Ragnar paused then, taken aback by their odd behavior, drawing back as he looked first left and then right for them. He had seen them. They had not been a mere figment of his imagination — it really wasn’t that vivid so they had to be real. A girlish voice beckoned him with a whisper, and then one by one heads began to poke out of the brambles of bushes, eyes staring at him as he stared back.
For a moment, as they invited him to follow them deeper into the forest, the Viking hesitated. Not out of fear — no he could easily overpower them even though they outnumbered him. He had to have been about ten times their size, and the Berserker turned Jarl turned Warden did not fear death but would, when Odinn came to collect him to Valhalla (when he was about ten and past senile) he would embrace it and begin a new journey training in Odinn’s army for Ragnarök. It was only out of caution that he deliberated in trepidation and even then it lasted a few seconds before he altered his course to follow the three foxes (at least that was what he assumed they were).