It was along the coast that the sigurvegarinn stuck close to, never too far away from the sea. Perhaps venturing further inland, delving deeper into what the Teekons would have offered him might have been proven to be more beneficial for him. Even so, Raynor was not so desperate. The sea did not bring with it discontent for the beast; nor did he harbor any sort of fear towards it. If anything it was a comfort — a piece of home that kept him from missing Odinn's Cove too much, though the territory itself was not what would breed homesickness. 

Regardless, he doubted homesickness was something he would feel any time soon. The Cove had ceased to tell like home to him a long time ago; ruled by arrogant upstarts that couldn't find their butt in a thunderstorm, let alone lead a pack. Raynor was a fighter. Raynor was a killer; and it was a complete waste of his time to run around playing nice and making alliances. The Cove did not belong to the Vikings anymore. It belonged to idiots that dared to insult the Gods by calling themselves Norse. Alas, Raynor digressed. It didn't matter anymore. Their survival or extinction didn't pertain to him anymore.

In the shadows of night the smoke colored, scarred beast made his way up the sand shores of the Stavanger Bay, towards the familiar ash trees that symbolized smaller versions of Yggdrasil. By the glow of the moon's beams he studied it for a moment before he pushed further, aiming to reach the heart of the unclaimed territory.