“Fafa! Faaaaafffffaaaa,” Ein called as he galloped away from the den expecting Ragnar to be back, unaware that his father was in Stavanger Bay working on it’s claiming, and gleefully unaware that the entire pack was on edge with the murderous bear that had claimed the life of their leader days previous. His attempt at saying the old Norse word for ‘father’ a language he was taking too quickly because he favored it over English though he could speak some words in both (but was better at understanding than speaking currently) was butchered having decided to call Ragnar ‘fafa’ as opposed to ‘dada’ as Tveir liked to scream, banshee-like in Ein’s ear, or so it seemed like the Second Born son enjoyed screaming in the eldest’s ear. Ragnar didn’t come and he didn’t come as Ein waited, hesitating at the brush that his father usually shrugged through. His lips pulled into a terse, thoughtful line upon his muzzle as milky blue eyes gazed around him, sneaking a peek over his shoulder to make sure none of his baby siblings had decided to follow him, nor that Thistle was watching him. He couldn’t see anyone immediately in the dimness of the den and with a childish giggle, attempted to be stifled he took off into the brush, propelling himself faster, or at least as fast as his little legs would take him, ready to conquer. To begin fulfilling his Fate.
“SKWWOOOOOLLLL!” Ein bellowed for the Tiny Viking of whom he was growing (in a manner that was perhaps, prophetically like father like son) rather attached to the Flokisson. Not to mention the Tiny Viking taught him words in his favorite language and that made him better in Ein’s book. “SKWOOLL!” The Loðbrók boy screamed for the other boy (admittedly older and much taller, for now) demanding his presence now; but like Ragnar he didn’t come either and some of Ein’s initial zeal was lost as he realized he had breeched the perimeter of the den and had no idea where he was. He wasn’t afraid, no conqueror was afraid, but his fearlessness gave way to caution as he moved, his pace slowed to a curious walk, pausing to sniff at the scents that were new and exciting to him as he went.
She took off at a dead run, her hackles already raising in defense. Another scream rang out and she put all of her muscle into her running. Yet another scream, and she let out a growl as she reached him, coming to a sudden halt to stand over him, shielding him from danger. Her hackles still raised, her head turned from side to side, expecting something, anything, to be there. But, it seemed the only ones where who here were Ein and herself. She turned her head down to look at him upside down. Are you okay?
Ein, fearless, brazen and brave little Ein. He would not remain a small charcoal smudge for long but alas it was the body he was forced to deal with until the metamorphosis of puberty took over. Nothing lasted forever, not even small, round helplessness, he would come to learn. Even his number was only temporary. The curious child was as tough as anything he would boast of and certainly with the hardiness of his legendary genetics (genetics that spanned more wide and vast than he could ever imagine) and the callousness of his acclaimed father he had every right to be! It wasn’t rebelliousness as Ragnar often assumed that had lured Ein away from the known and plunging head first into the depths of their temporary home of Horizon Ridge. It was only curiosity. Odinn was the God of curiosity so if Odinn could be curious why couldn’t Ein? Never mind that it wasn’t the All-Father that fascinated the child, but the one they called Thor; the one who he heard in the thunder, whose anvil striking caused the lightning sparks that lit up the storm ridden skies. The Loðbrók child had not realized this his bellowing had managed to attract attention until it was too late and he turned, quickly, to see the woman when he heard a low growl behind him.
Studiously the child studied her, not knowing her face or even her name but realizing that he knew her scent at least. Of course it was abundantly clear that she wasn’t Sköll or Ragnar. He huffed in response, glaring at her feet when she asked him if he was ok in that language. “já” He responded with a firm nod of his head before he peeked around her as if hoping to find one of the men he was screaming for previously. “Skwooooollll?” He asked her wondering if she might help him look for the Flokisson.
She moved so that she wasn't standing over the pup. Now that she was sure there was no danger, there was no reason to hover over him like that. She sat down on her haunches next to him, Við bíðum, she said in broken Norse, looking down at him. My name's Julooke, she said, introducing herself.