Wolf RPG

Ragnar had taken his patrols out to the Totoka River though this was partially to keep an nose out for scents that might alert him to the presence of the Isle wolves hunting on the Ridge’s hunting grounds but also because he was sticky from the salt water carried on the ocean breeze, his legs covered in sea foam and sand and he wished to wash it off. He wadded through the shallows of the Totoka, daring the deeper ends for a bit to swim under the water though he was careful to stay close to the bank and not get caught in the stronger of the River’s current which he had learned from word of mouth proved to be treacherous. After he had washed his coat free of sand, salt water and residue dirt (he didn’t bathe very often considering I don’t imagine wolves generally care about cleanlieness) he pulled himself onto the bank facing the Ridge and shook his coat free of the water it had collected. He did this twice to try to assist in drying himself off as he made his way back to the Ridge figuring he could take a small break and help Thistle watch the children, or watch them for her if she wanted a break.

The sun was warm on his back, the morning humid which enabled him to dry realtively quickly though he was still a little damp as he approached the birthing den hearing someone — a little someone calling for him. Or at least Ragnar assumed the hollered ‘dada’ was supposed to be him as it was the shortened version of the common tongue word for ‘Dad’ which was another name for ‘father’. Which was definitely confusing to him considering he might have squealed ‘fafa’ as the baby version of Old Norse’s word for father. “Hush child you’ll wake your siblings and mother,” Ragnar chided him as he poked his head in and saw Tveir waiting at the mouth of the den. For a moment he contemplated the child’s obedience and knew that if he did not give him a little something while teaching him what Ragnar expected the boy would become more prone to misbehaving. It was a dangerous thing to do especially when it could anger the Gods as well as the parents.

“I will let you come outside for a bit, son, but you must listen and not leave me,” The last thing Ragnar wanted was for Tveir to run off and beyond that he would not take him beyond the mouth den (he planned to take him just outside of it) in the case that he had to grasp the child’s scruff and shove him into the den quickly at the approach of another. Slowly, Ragnar laid down (figuring if he stayed outside he could dry off some more as well) and beckoned for Tveir to come to the area between his forepaws.

The Second Born’s tail wagged in such a furious manner that Ragnar thought he was going to take off into flight with the way his butt wiggled viciously with the motion. The boy seemed to have (for now anyway) listened to Ragnar’s warning for he slid into the space between Ragnar’s legs, his eyes squeezed shut at what Ragnar assumed was the onslaught of light. He was so used to it that it hardly bothered him anymore and knew that, eventually, it would come to be this way for the children as well. The child’s eyes seemed to have opened again, Ragnar assumed when his body began to squirm with each wave of his tail, the appendage beating against Ragnar’s chest like an overeager drummer boy (hence Ragnar’s chest was the drum) the rhythmic ‘thump, thump’ against the hardened sinew and bone causing the Viking’s eyebrows to rise.

“róa sjálfur Tveir,” Ragnar spoke to the Second Born, working to make his soft, heavily accented voice soothing so the boy might take the calmness and absorb it. Ragnar did not want to have to punish him for becoming overzealous and forgetting the conditions on which he was allowed outside of the birthing den in the first place. “You will have plenty of time to know this world, too.” There was no need to rush and especially no need when Ragnar was afraid it might anger the Gods besides. Tveir head butted Ragnar’s chin then, causing the Viking to lift his head out of Thistle’s mini-me’s reach as the boy attempted to babble out something. “You will learn to speak in time, Tveir. Slow down and enjoy your childhood.” If there was any advice Ragnar had to offer his children it was that.

There was a soft fondness in the Viking’s eyes as he watched his son romp around within the designated area between Ragnar’s paws, a look reserved for his children; the one sign that perhaps showed that he was not a complete monster. That, despite the ruthlessness of his culture (namely the raids and sacrifices as he had been told many times over) that he was still a wolf. Still a man. He had desires, ambitions, sorrows, and perhaps the most unlikely yet: love like everyone else did. The child reared up, small paws pressed against the scarred Viking’s muzzle as Ragnar, obediently, held still so Tveir could study him in the light and wondered if what he saw there frightened him. If the scars bothered the Second Born in any small semblance he didn’t let it show and instead pounced at the shadows and lights cast by the movement of the tree leaves, how the sun played peek a boo using Ragnar and the trees with it’s sunbeams.

“Tveir,” Ragnar repeated slowly, though he did not expect the child to be able to say it anytime soon; when it became obvious his youngest son was attempting to say his own name. Or, rather his own number. Ragnar wondered if giving them numbers as Pump had instructed was a bad move on his part (despite that he secretly named Gyda). Ragnar had grown used to calling the boys by their numbers (and admittedly not calling Gyda by her number enough) that when they chose their names he would have trouble accepting them.

He supposed that their numbers would always be significant to them, that perhaps they would be nicknames as they grew.

Ragnar was silent as the Second Born tried to sound out another word, but then gave up with a frustrated sigh and tried his number again. He had attempted to help him once by sounding it out slowly but Ragnar was stern in that he did not intend to hold hands (paws, technically). They would figure it out on their own, he deduced. It was how Eitri and Kenna had raised him and his brothers and considering Ragnar was fluent in both Norse and Common tongues he thought it was an effective way to learn. Besides, it wasn’t as if he could really assist them with how fast (or slow) they learned how to efficiently speak. That was all on their development. “Keep trying, son. It will come to you soon.” He encouraged pressing his nose against the top of the boy’s head, the silken fur tickling his leathery nostrils.

There was the sound of little paws drumming the earth with approach and Ragnar squinted into the dimness of the den wondering if taking Tveir out had been a mistake. Gyda’s shape took form and he knew that he did not want to have to deal with two of them out at the same time on account of if someone did come along he would have to hastily shove them both in the den. Ragnar loved his children but he did not want to incur the wrath of his Gods. Ragnar was about to open his muzzle to tell her to go back inside, that he would take her out another time when she opened her mouth and let out a word. And then he thought that perhaps it had been Thistle because there was no realistic way that she would have been able to say a word. They were only just beginning to babble…right?

His brow furrowed as he studied his daughters’ shape wondering, perhaps, if it had not been jealousy that had caused her to come this far. “Say it again, child.” Ragnar commanded of Gyda, though he glimpsed down at Tveir to make sure the boy was still where he should have been — it was a sad thing to realize that he did not have enough eyes to keep track of both children at all times and that made the Viking nervous.

Ragnar tried to divide his attention up equally between the three children never wanting one to feel left out as he had been as the middle son. Overshadowed by the two favorites of his parents; only to triumph over the favorites when it came to the end …at least in Eitri’s case. By the time Eitri had discovered that perhaps Ragnar should have been paid more attention too as a child it was too late and he was drawing his last, ragged breath as Björn towered over him, teeth stained with their father’s life blood as it dripped like rain from his muzzle; and now it seemed the case with Váli, too. Ragnar only hoped that Kenna did not make the same mistake as Eitri and wait until it was far too little, too late. Of course his divided attention while schedule-wise equal probably didn’t feel like it to them sometimes. Not a single one of them were, in reality, left out and all loved and praised the same. Just as they would all be punished the same when they stepped out of line.

Ragnar was not into playing favorites, his own childhood was experience enough of how that was a bad idea and so the sigh from Tveir (as if Ragnar had suddenly deduced the Thistle mini-me did not exist) had irked the father. It wasn’t true for after all, Ragnar had brought him outside before the other two, hadn’t he? He didn’t have too, he could have told the boy ‘no’ and that would have been the end of it. “Stop that Tveir,” He chided the child, turning his attention away from Gyda who had stumbled over words screamed ‘DO’ (Ragnar wasn’t sure if that was supposed to mean anything or not) and went back into the depth of the den. They were all important to him and he loved them all with equality. It occurred to him more than once that by all rights he didn’t have to because the boys did not belong to him (though in reality none of them did). He could have spurned them, killed them even because they were of another man’s seed.

He hadn’t. He had claimed them as his and henceforth loved them as his. He did not, selfishly, like feeling underappreciated as Tveir’s ‘woe is me’ sigh implied, even though Ragnar understood he was a child and did not realize he had been doing it in the first place. They only understood their own wants and needs and lacked the capabilities, yet, of understanding what others did for them. They would, in time, and reminding himself of that restored Ragnar’s previously lost patience as he fixed Tveir in his cold gaze. “Gyda wants my attention, too. In time you will learn that you have to share me, Tveir …not just with your siblings but with your mother and the wolves of this pack. Someday, you, too, will have to share your attention equally upon others.” He confided to the Second Born though Ragnar doubted that he understood the words or the meaning behind them.

The Second Born covered his eyes and muzzle with his paws when Ragnar reprimanded him for his sigh, having assumed the implications of such a dramatic and heavy thing for a child to produce. His patience had been lost in that split second, irritation growing at the consideration that he was being the horrible father he had never wanted to be, that he was doing exactly what his parents had done to him. “Neinn child you will have to learn to share and you will learn to whether you like it or not,” Someday, when Tveir had his own children he would understand the stresses of a parent. Ragnar had not meant to lose his patience, of course, never meant to lose it but he was learning just as much as his children were. It was something of a struggle for him because Sveinn had been past this stage, had been a teenager when Ragnar and Floki had captured him and came up with the elaborate tale of who he was when it was apparent his memory had been lost due to the injury he had sustained. The next batch of Loðbrók children would have it easier, and the next after that easier still until Ragnar became a pro at being a father to infant children, too.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Sveinn,” Ragnar told him with a low rumble in his throat, not necessarily an aggressive sound, not exactly stern, either. It border lined with mild amusement at the thought of Tveir telling him what to do. That day was a long way away, and even if his son surpassed him in rank someday even then Ragnar would still be his parent and still, as that alone, would have pull over him, whom would always be his child. That wasn’t something anyone ever grew out of. Tveir attempted to try out some words, admittedly Ragnar’s mind was still reeling on if he had correctly heard Gyda say ‘daughter’ in Old Norse or not. “Keep trying, Tveir.” Ragnar encouraged Thistle’s mini-me impressed with all of his children’s progress.