Björn had been sleeping on and off, pausing to bite at the fur near his wound when it would itch, still caked with dried blood. No amount of his grooming really got it cleaned of matted blood stained fur. The Viking had never asked Thistle Cloud but he suspected the drowsiness was because of the painkillers and fever reducers he was given, or maybe it was her way of keeping under surveillance. If he was asleep, or hindering on the edge of it at most times, he wasn’t going to get up against doctors’ orders and risk doing anything to his wound. Björn was not concerned about it, but it was ….nice to know that someone cared enough to do what needed to be done to make sure he was complacent. Not for the first time, Björn had the idea that Thistle would make a good Shieldmaiden if she were to become a Viking. Not one by blood, but a learned one just as Sveinn was. So long as the Rite of Passage was undertaken and passed anyone could become one of them. It had been hours since his last medicine had been taken and slowly, determined to shake off any left over slumber, Björn rose, mindful of the rudimentary wrappings that protected his wound from further infection, and began in the direction a sickening crack - likely the result of a snapping neck - soon followed by the scent of fresh blood as Björn made his way towards where the noise had originated from.

With the other locked in caribbean blue gaze Björn let out a gruff bark to announce his presence to the other as he moved behind him, subtly trying to hide his limp despite that the wrappings clinging to his fur gave his injury away. Björn would only stop working when he was dead, and Odinn be good to him that would not happen for many years.

While the unknown male - likely a new recruit if the freshness of Horizon Ridges’ and Pump’s scent upon his coat was of any indication to the Viking - seemed consumed with his kill Björn took the chance to discreetly study the stranger with typically cold, caribbean blue eyes, judging that the other was a bear of a wolf, like him. Despite that they could have been evenly matched, Björn did not feel threatened. There would always be someone bigger, pushing further the boundaries of genetics than Björn already had, but size did not equal skill, and Björn was savage and feral on his good days and a downright demon when he fought, consuming the herbs that would put him into a ‘blood frenzy’ that spawned the Berserker warriors. Yet, the way the other bounced towards him left Björn with an impression that would not easily be broken. It was an odd thing to see a fellow wolf built akin to a bear like himself, with a spring in it’s step. For a moment, the Viking was unsure how to take this, simply staring at the male who had dropped the hare with a resounding ‘splat’ the blood oozing out of it’s neck like a crimson river at Björn’s paws, blood splattering up in crimson droplets upon the Viking’s platinum silver legs.

The other male spoke that Björn looked like he needed the hare in a merry tone that left Björn stuck between if he wanted to snicker or growl. Maybe both. “Do I now?” Björn inquired gruffly, understanding that the intentions were good but unable to help taking slight offense nevertheless. It was true that Björn was injured which greatly hindered his other wise second nature hunting skills, but he had not lost weight, for the others had kept the injured well fed. Regardless of the fact that the scent of the hare, of blood and fresh meat had made saliva pool in the Viking’s mouth he refused to eat it. “There are others that are injured more gravely than myself,” His thoughts flickered to Kennedy whom suffered a few broken bones. “They should be fed first.” The Viking was a lot of things - most of them not good but he wasn’t entirely heartless and the more he lingered here, the more he began to think about the well being of his pack mates before his own.

“I am Björn.” The Savage gave his assumed moniker. “You are new here?” Björn inquired in the next breath, though he had already assumed an answer.

Björn wasn’t unhappy, he was stoic by nature, brutish instead of peppy and happy. A happy-go-lucky Viking would have been a humorous thing to see, admittedly. Consequentially, Björn didn’t take kindly to the casual tossing of the word ‘pride’ as if it had anything to do with the matter at hand. Perhaps, in a small measure, it did in an essence, but it was also because Björn was actually being selfless and putting others before himself because that was what good leaders did, what he had done during his time as Jarl of Odinn’s Cove. He was not a leader in Horizon Ridge yet, but he was determined to show Pump and the others that he was worthy of it. “Your offer is generous I am not disputing that,” Björn paused inhaling and exhaling. “I am merely saying that there are others who need this more than me.” One of the injured, or even Thistle Cloud herself who had been working so hard to heal those that needed her medical attention. Her work and dedication should not have gone unnoticed despite that it was momentarily shadowed by the grander scale of the injured.

Moving on, Björn gave a nod when the other confirmed that he was, indeed, new. “I joined a few weeks ago but I have shed blood, and shared a great tragedy with these wolves,” In a way, this created a kinship with Horizon Ridge he would not have felt otherwise. This made him want to protect them, to see them prosper and flourish where if he had come even a day later he would not have, logically, cared, unaffected by the landslide that had claimed the lives of those unaccounted for and brought with it great pain and grief. “Because of this I feel like I have known them for many years.” Even though that was not the case.

Not even the favored of the Gods had been able to escape the landslide unscathed. Few of them did. A couple of them did not sustain more than a few bumps, bruises and scratches. Even Björn’s gash was not as bad as some of them had gotten, and the Viking considered himself among the lucky. In the end the Earth didn’t care who it killed, merely that it wanted blood and bone, and when it demanded the decay of bodies to nourish it, it took what it wanted without a sparing thought. The chipper male spoke about respecting Björn for his decision, a statement which was meant with a firm nod of his head, for Björn did not know what to say. In essence, there was nothing to say, really. “I was counted among the lucky. My injuries will heal in a week or two. Some of them will be healing for months, and others will never heal.” Either because they likely died in the landslide or were already dying. “It did. It is the tragedies that bring us together.” It always had been that way, and likely would always be that way.

Björn tolerated the topic chance, accepting it with a gruff silence that was typical for the Viking. When the male spoke his question, Björn turned it over with careful consideration in his mind, scarred and unscarred ears slicking back slightly before they cupped forth in contemplation. The question was a heavy one, indeed, and for a moment the Savage studied the man wondering, though knowing he would never ask and therefore would never gather an answer, where the question had came from. As far as the opposite gender, in Björn’s culture there was no such thing as ‘fairer sex’. The Shieldmaidens were not seen as weaklings because they weren’t. They were trained in the art of war and could fight beside the men, as good in battle as men were. In a lot of ways, females in the Viking culture were thought of as equals. Only slaves were truly considered possessions. Shieldmaidens bore them strong sons and daughters, nursed their wounds, and looked after the children and while to a degree they had to remain obedient to their husbands, it worked both ways, as well, or so Björn had seen. He had never taken a Shieldmaiden as a wife, or even a pet. So, did he think Pump could lead them? Yes, he did. Did he think she had what it took? He without a doubt did.

“You ask a loaded question,” The Viking began, lips splicing so his words could spill forth. “I do not know much of her but from what I’ve observed she is strong, powerful, and seems capable of making the hard decisions,” All of which were needed in a good leader. “She is a worthy Shieldmaiden to lead us, yes.” Björn spoke, turning piercing and guarded eyes towards the other man, wondering if they question stemmed from doubt. If he did doubt Pump, Björn was ready to defend her.

Björn did not agree with the other male’s dismissal of every other wolf in Horizon Ridge as a potential leader, and though it itched beneath the Viking’s skin he chose not to let the fact of his disagreement or initial irritation show, and henceforth remained stoic. Scarred left ear twitched back to catch the errant call of a blue jay as it flew over head, it’s blue plumage striking and catching the Savage’s eye for a hairsbreadth of a moment before it landed in a nearby tree. Björn’s slight deviation of attention came back to the other male when a personal inquiry was then made. Björn was not fervent on sharing much of where he came from, nor of his customs, though Odinn had drawn him here to make Vikings out of those who wished to adopt their Gods and brutal ways, and to establish a pack be it a created one, or a stolen one - there had not been specifics in the vision the Allfather had presented his faithful follower with - and Björn’s habit of being quiet -- an opposite to his loud and boisterous ilk; in essence the kind of man that would pull the rug out from under another without their noticing, favoring cunning more than bluntness -- would not garner new Vikings. “I come from the far North, where the winters are long, harsh and unforgiving.” He replied, wondering how many more questions the other male might have and in what degree of honesty he should present his answers.

It was easier to garner unease by being the opposite of one expected, Björn had found through the years, despite that he had always been quiet and extremely soft spoken. Not very Viking-esque at all. Or at least, not what everyone tended to expect from a Viking, at any rate. It made him stand apart from his boisterous brothers, isolating him from being the absolute favorite of his parents. Indeed, one had favored the original Björn and the other had favored Váli and the only time Ragnar was proving himself was on the training grounds and further, the battlefield. The lack of favoritism towards him no longer mattered for Björn was above holding grudges. Eikr had favored the wrong brother and had died for it. It was as simple and final as that. The other male stated that he, too, was from the North, and idly the Viking found himself wondering how far. Had they been neighbors? Or were they leagues apart in the frozen tundra? “Another Northerner,” Björn managed a smile of kinship, though he was not sure if he or the other man truly felt it yet. The kinship Björn felt with Pump, Thistle, and Kennedy had been crafted at mother nature’s hand.

This male was still new to the Viking, though his opinions upon him would probably come to matter when Björn approached Pump once more about the Beta rank, but nevertheless, there was time to mend rifts created by unease in time. "Well, I should get to patrolling the borders," Björn remarked softly then, inhaling deeply before letting it out as he limped a few paces to the right before he paused, "Would you join me?" As it was, the Viking was in no fit state to fight if on the odd chance someone or something tried to make a break into their territory and sometimes two sets of eyes were better than one.

The other male accepted the offer to go on a patrol with him, and without further ado Ragnar gestured for him to fall along, perhaps unnecessarily with a flick of his muzzle, as he led the way to the border, not bothering to glimpse back to see if the other was following or not since he had assumed that with Gavriil’s acceptance he was, indeed, following closely behind Ragnar. It was uncomfortable, as it always was, to let his back exposed to someone he didn’t know, but Ragnar rather though that if Gavriil’s intents were insincere he would have been attacked by now. It was not so much paranoia on the Viking’s part as it was judicious training. The Berserker in him did not like leaving any vulnerable part of his body exposed when in the presence of strangers - even if said strangers were pack mates, but the Jarl in Ragnar reasoned that he had to show some semblance of trust towards them. A question, no, the question that always seemed to pop up came from the other male close to his left flank then. What was his previous pack like, there seemed to be some sort of fascination with his origins that were likely spurred by Ragnar’s own actions, accent, and unbending will and beliefs. In truth, he did not know what kept this question reoccurring for he had never really asked, but Ragnar assumed simply upon what he had to work with.

For a brief moment there was trepidation, a tiny part of the savage that was unwilling to speak about Odinn’s Cove to outsiders. The customs of his culture were not widely accepted he had came to learn abruptly during his brief time in these posh summer lands and while it wasn’t as if he cared either way, he felt caution nevertheless. “Like any other pack, I guess,” Ragnar said with a careful shrug, reminiscent of the rudimentary bandages that Thistle had dressed his wound with upon his right shoulder. “We had our customs and our Gods which is what makes us different from the packs found here.” Sensing the other's initial unease in him, Ragnar did not find it prudent to go into detail about their raids, slaves, or sacrifices.

There was in undercurrent of a command in Gavriil's words, even if the other male did not realize or intend for it that Ragnar did not, with any semblance, like; though the 'tell me' was weakly amended with 'if you are comfortable'. There was the urge to covet what was his and his alone in these posh lands, to keep it close to his heart as if it were a secret club if you didn't want anyone else joining, but to do so... To do so would be to disobey Odinn. Ragnar could not disobey his God. "There is much to tell," The Viking led on elusively, "much more than I could possibly tell you in the short amount of time the patrol will take." Not to mention, it depended upon what Gavriil desired to know. "Are you sure you truly want to know? My customs are savage, and not widely accepted here." Not that, in truth, that stopped Ragnar from continuing his way of life. He wasn't about to bow down and change simply because he was no longer in Odinn's Cove. So long as Gavriil remained sure that he wanted to learn about what it meant to be a Viking, Ragnar would oblige and speak of his gods and customs to the other male as they walk their patrol.