Thistle appeared to be a little bit more at …ease, if that was the word that Tokio wished to use there, hearing that his culture was not quite as cut and dry as it might have first seemed. Nothing was strictly black and white - there was always grey, always creatures that had to exist within those shades of grays - like Ragnar, for instance. He lingered there, in the shades of monotone. It was curious, hearing another calling his culture interesting because he did not liken it to anything of the sort; not that he found his ways to be boring per say but they were the only way he knew, and frankly wanted to know. It was his life and so he did not see it exotic or savage where others certainly had. Thistle let out a heavy sort of sigh as she spoke of tending to Kennedy, making the Viking wonder for a brief moment if she was actually reluctant to do so, scarred and unscarred ears cupping forth atop his crown as she elaborated murmuring something about no matter what she could not heal his mood or soul. Perhaps something dark had awoken in the dark male that Pump and him had worked to free that day, or maybe he just wasn’t coping with his injuries well. “We all heal differently, Thistle. His wounds may appear strictly physical but I am sure they run much deeper. Those wounds take more time,” Ragnar drew in a breath and let it out upon the exhale of his pause. “Sometimes they never heal.” He dipped his head to her in a goodbye gesture then, turned and made a direct beeline for the border, figuring patrolling it would help to take his mind off of, well everything.