Björn, with the gash in his shoulder softly scabbed over had let Thistle inspect it and rub it with whatever plant or berry paste she saw fit to supposedly keep the scab from tearing away from his skin and to protect it but he only let her dress it when he was going on long distance trips because the scab needed air, now. It was itchy and bothersome to him, forcing him to limp as to not upset it; however Björn did not tear at it because he knew another one would just grow back, Thistle would likely give him hell, and it was needed to mend the torn sinew and flesh beneath it. Still, he did not let his slight limp, or his injury slow him down or keep him from his warden duties, nor his goal for the Beta rank that was fixated in the attention of his efforts and eyes. With Thistle in her receptive heat cycle and Björn’s penchant for debauchery, however, she claimed a percentage, never mind that it was clearly unwanted by the fawn colored shieldmaiden, of his attention as well. Björn couldn’t help his savage self, but he resisted so long she rejected his advances because he did not want to place in jeopardy his deal with Pump.

Black, leathery nostrils flared as the wafting scent, as familiar to Björn as Horizon Ridges’ own, tickled his senses. The platinum silver Viking paused in her pursuit of his border patrols, knowing that he was nearing the origins of the scent. It did not smell strongly of Fox, though her scent clung to the undercurrents of Swiftcurrent Creek’s overall pack scent. It scented distinctly female, squashing any of the worries that it might have been Sveinn, that his son had found him out, anyhow, despite the careful measures Björn Ragnar had taken; and while it could have very well be inevitable in the end, Björn did not want his stolen son’s interference in the task Odinn had set out for Björn and him alone. The scarred Viking inhaled deeply, tasting the scent of the Creek, and the salty tang of the nearby ocean. Someone was at their borders with some kind of purpose, it was his job as Warden to greet them, though there was a slight nag of suspicion that no call had been raised to warn Horizon Ridges’ wolves of her presence.

It did not take the savage long to find her, her ivory coat a palatable difference to the waning snow that only seemed to linger in ugly patches here and there. “Why did you not call for someone?” Björn asked of her gruffly, caribbean blue eyes fierce, scarred and unscarred ears slicked back to a half mast atop his skull, his tail raised over his back, being the only pack wolf here to greet her he took the natural superior position in the situation. "Why are you here?" He was naturally defensive and protective of these lands, having formed an unlikely (and otherwise impossible if not for the landslide) kinship to the wolves he helped to keep safe.

Björn’s approach could have less threatening …if the Viking had been a different kind of man. Other wardens would not have garnered a nagging of suspicion at the lack of verbal communication of the other’s presence so near to their borders, and if they did they would not have let it affect what could have been peaceable. Peace meant nothing to Björn. Peace had not saved a pack of benevolent and monk-like wolves from the Cove’s raid, nor the tearing of their teeth as they had slain some of them, taking the other, more fortunate (or unfortunate depending upon how you look at it) as slaves. Peace held no purpose but deception for Björn who did not believe in such child’s fantasy things. The girl of the Creek lowered herself and Björn accepted the display of submission with a more neutral pose after his dominance had been equally acknowledged by her. The first words to spill from the maiden’s lips were an apology. “It is only rude if you’re planning on raiding us, mær,” A slow smirk tugged at the edges of his lips, giving the impression that he found something amusing, though in truth Björn smirked when he was angry, too. It was his way of hiding what was in his eyes from displaying obviously upon his face. He was not mad at her, and he doubted she had come to raid. Being an experienced raider himself Björn knew it was not something one did on their own unless they had a death wish.

Björn squinted at her briefly before assessing that her words were true. “Does your Dróttning not know there are packs to the south of her? We are Horizon Ridge and our nearest neighbors to the South of us are the Blacktail Deer Plateau,” Björn informed her, though he had never been to the Plateau or spoken with any of theirs yet. Horizon Ridge had more important things on their plate at the moment. Rebuilding their pack from the ashes of destruction with the help of Odin (for Björn knew the King God would help). When Bazi, the maiden had introduced herself to him as, spoke of a path, his eyes followed the stone trail until he could see no further past the wall of earth and trees. A more civilized creature would have thanked her for it, but Björn rarely used false pleasantries. “I will inform them of your generosity,” He settled for, not wanting to ignore it, regardless, though he doubted they would be going anywhere, any time soon. Most of them were gravely injured and those that were not were put to work helping Pump, caring and hunting for those who could not do it for themselves.

Ravaged and scarred left ear, at her speaking of taking a cleansing bath in the salt water, swiveled to the side, welcoming the gentle roar of the ocean as it roared upon the shore, greedy in it’s reaching grasp, though the full of Björn’s attention did not stray from Bazi. She began with ‘could I’ but then changed her sentence half way through, and for a few moments the Viking was silent contemplating what she asked of him. He could have sent her on her way to Sealion Shore, whose waters she could have bathed in without having to endure an escort, but she was of the same pack as his son, Sveinn; and as far as Björn could see it would not hurt to escort her to the waters. It was not as if he would let her roam about without his watchful gaze, reminiscent of Odinn’s upon her. Perhaps, even, she would remember the generosity of Horizon Ridge for they were not in any sort of stable position to make enemies. “There are no neutral trails, we are the end.” It was partially true unless she wanted to go all the way around the ridge to come out on the other side of the shoreline on the other side of their territory. Half of their land was cut off from them, impassible and uninhabitable. “The landslide has made beyond impassible and even so uninhabitable.” He informed her, and gestured with his muzzle. “Come maiden, I will escort you to the waters for your salt bath.” Björn told her, waiting for her to cross into the borders, passage granted by his permission.

Björn listened as the woman belatedly defended her leader, saying that she was sure that Fox knew of the packs that were far south of her, shouldering the blame for it by explaining to the Viking that she had came on the ‘doctor’s orders’. Sharp eyes flickered to her, writhing with darkness and danger that all Viking men had within them. “Are you ill?” The savage ceased his walking abruptly, moving to block her path as well. If she was ill, and if it was contagious, it was likely Björn would deny her further access and redirect her to Sealion Shore, instead. He would not put the wolves of Horizon Ridge in any more danger than they had already been in. A soft snort left him when she complimented him on his kindness; if she knew him in any shape or form she would not have called him ‘kind’. “No, I’m not,” Björn corrected her in a gruff murmur. “I am just in a good mood, today.” There was very little that was kind about him, and he did not want her running around with the wrong idea about him. Wrong ideas could lead to deluded fantasies of generosity or goodness that did not exist within the Pagan.

Björn found her following question to be prying and in that bothersome. He assessed her, sized her up, unknown of her intentions. Were they simply to bathe in the salt waters as she had said? Björn had told her of the landslide that cut them off from half of their lands only because it had been necessary to the purpose of explaining that there were no easy paths to cut through; that unless she wanted to scour the mountain she would have to retrace her steps to return home. Would, if he were to tell her the truth, that they had lost some in the landslide, if he were to tell her that their pack was nursing deep injuries, they attempt to take advantage of them? Under estimation was the best power in some ways, but as the pack’s resigning warden it was his job to keep a barrier between the world and them while they healed, and that was a big job for one man though Björn tackled it nevertheless. “No,” The lie slipped easily and convincingly from his lips. “We were fortunate that we did not.” Björn did not trust the woman and had deigned to keep the truth closely guarded within Horizon Ridge. If Pump, after they had rebuilt themselves and healed as a pack, chose to tell the truth, then that was on her, but until that point Björn would do his duty and keep them safe how he saw fit.

As they approached the lapping waves, the golden sand warm under his paw pads, he motioned for her to take her bath in the salt water while he stood in watch.

Björn listened as Bazi responded that she was not ill but that instead the bathing in salt waters was a ritual. The word, familiar though not in his native tongue, brought a spark of recognition to the icy depths of his irises. Common tongue, or old Norse - it did not matter. Björn’s own people were big on their rites and rituals and had more than the Viking often cared to delve into if it was not of the importance of the moment. “What sort of…ritual…is that?” Björn inquired, pausing to draw his salmon pink tongue across his nose once. “What does it do?” His questions, though, lacked the firmness of any of his previous ones, having made a transition in the softer state of curiosity. She did not appear to be a Viking, but looks could be deceiving Björn knew. He was good at being deceptive and cunning and he, of all, should know that nothing was as it really seemed. Maybe it was some sort of rite of passage, as the Vikings had, watching trails and further, executions when they came of age. Perhaps, it was something sort of like that, though their leader’s lack of belief in Gods - for the way she had spoken it made it sound as if she had no faith at all - it was surprising thing to consider.

Björn watched her bathe in the sea, watched as the waves lapped over her before they tumbled to the shore, their foaming rushes stretching to meet his paws which remained just far enough of it the sea’s grasp to keep them dry, though the spray and brine of the wind that rolled off the turmoil ridden sea sprayed him, nevertheless. “Do you feel any different?” Björn asked her as she approached him, though he remained unsure if she was supposed to feel different, or not. For a brief moment, the savage was taken aback by her wide, sad looking eyes. His brow furrowed as he asked, “Why do you look so sad?” though it did not immediately occur to him that he could have been the reason for her gloomy mood. “I will escort you back, yes, but hold a moment,” Björn said quickly, after she spoke of leaving. “I can’t leave without playing the part of hospitable warden, would you like something to eat?” And even if she declined his offer to eat, he still planned on insisting that she took something with her. Despite the savageness of Björn he had his customs and traditions and to break them would be to bring the wrath of the Gods upon his head.

Björn found her response to be a little strange, wondering how she could feel clean after bathing in the murky salt waters of the ocean, but accepted it nevertheless, keeping his thoughts to himself. It was only when Bazi spoke to him of being from the far North that Björn’s interest truly piqued, having been pricked when she had spoken of a ritual. Whatever could be said about him from before, the Creek maiden now held the Northerner’s full attention. “You come from the North, too?” Though where Björn had came from in the North there had been the Sea, harsh winters and summers but with bountiful harvests. He revisited the consideration that she was a Viking as well but silenced it. She did not bear the same accent. Of course, in truth, that meant little but Björn had telltale signs that he looked for, whether they were accurate or not.

“I think there is some fish,” Björn responded making a bee-line for the nearest cache, suddenly glad he had thought to memorize where the ones still accessible to them were located. “I have not fished in a long time, not since my father taught me.” Björn admitted in a quiet tone, having been the first time he mentioned his father to anyone outside of Odinn’s Cove. Björn did not speak of him, though it was not out of shame or anything of the like. Björn (the older brother not to be confused with Ragnar who was using his older brother’s name as a moniker currently) had slaughtered their father for the title of Jarl and neither Björn (Ragnar) nor Váli had really spoken of him since.

“I promise that the fish in the cache is not very old,” There were wolves stocking and re-stocking them more than most packs did if only because the Ridge was using it to heavily feed the injured in their ranks. “Still succulent,” Björn promised as he paused at where the nearest cache was, turning his caribbean blue eyes to her. “Unless you would like fresh fish?” In which case he was not so sure he could help her with as far as physically fishing went because of his shoulder.

Thinking of Odinn’s Cove, a pack his family had not always led, but nevertheless been apart of for numerous generations did not make him as homesick as he had thought it might have. He missed the certain measure of comfort his own people brought to him, and he did miss leading them and being thoroughly true to his Viking blood and origins, as opposed to this laying low crap that he endured all for Odinn, because the Allfather, Björn’s descendent (or so he believed anyway) demanded it of him; and who was he to defy the Gods? Björn had heard her sentence about the sea but did not know what to say to it, other than admit that Odinn’s Cove had a section of shore and sea within their claim, as well. By the time Björn considered that he would tell her they had reached the cache and she had taken what she had wanted from it, cleaned it and began to eat away at it.

In return to his rarely given information she spoke that her father had taught her how to fish too. It had been easy to forget that in his father’s youth he had been a simple fisher in the pack not the fearsome Jarl that they had came to love and fear. The stories his mother had told had not sounded of his father, but instead if someone else entirely. Someone their mother had gotten the Jarl confused with because for Björn to imagine his father as anything less than a Jarl was impossible. Yet, in the Cove, the leadership was not automatically passed to the children of the current Jarl. The only reason that the original Björn and after him Ragnar had succeeded their father on the throne had been at the death of the current Jarl by the son/brother’s own teeth. For a moment, the savage considered telling her where he came from in truth, but thought better of it. She was in the same pack as his son. “Maybe,” Björn allowed, following with, “if you have Viking blood in you.”

The way Bazi repeated the term ‘Viking’ made Björn believe that she had no idea what, exactly, it meant, nor the infamous reputation behind it. Her further questioning, caused a contemplative look to morph upon his scarred, stoic face as he peered at the cluster of trees stretching behind her, a green canopy of writhing shadows. “Anyone can be a Viking, as long there is commitment to our traditions and Gods, and the rite of passage is completed,” It did not matter, truly, if there was ‘Viking’ blood or not, he had simply asked it for her benefit but her questions were satisfying enough as answers. “But if you have Viking blood, I don’t know. It’s very possible though,” Björn hesitated, wondering how much of his culture he should share with her. The Vikings were grossly romanced by travelers but in truth they were brutal and ruthless in everything they did. Hard conditions made hard men, Björn had once heard an elder say. “We are a culture feared…for good reason. We raid, we fight, and my kinsmen are known for raping the women of the packs we raid and kill, so you could be a decedent of a Viking, yes,” A mirthless laugh left Björn’s lips then as he glimpsed at her, waiting for her to skirt away from him, or be horrified. “There is no sense in painting a false picture. It is what we are. Not many, as you can guess elect to become one of us.” Björn shrugged simply then, gritting his teeth against the sickening feeling as the scabbed flesh was tugged at with the motion.

Björn could have lied about how the Vikings really were, but he could not see the sense in it. He was not ashamed of who he was, of their ruthless nature, because it was the very nature he reflected, it was the basis of all that he was; but he was not without his redeeming traits, but he had nothing to prove too. His Gods were just as brutal as he, and demanded such things, to object it was to defy them, was to disappoint them. His Salvation was found in blood and carnage, not peace. The girl’s eyes widened and she let out a strange noise that Björn assumed was of, if not fear than certainly caution. He did not try to soothe her, did not try to make piteous excuses. That was not the kind of man Björn was; he did not try to tell her that she didn’t need to worry - because she did, in essence have to worry about his brutish nature. She inquired then about the women, as if seeking some sort of promise that they were not all ruthless. “Like your typical women, free. Healers, scouts, sky watchers, priestesses, the warriors are called Shieldmaidens. They raid and kill, too. They are in many ways our equals.” That did not include slaves, but that wasn’t necessary information he felt.

“We have our faith, too. Our belief in our Gods, aspiring to drink and eat in the halls of Valhalla.” Björn told her then, including it not as assurance, but because he had not actually mentioned faith when he had been speaking of their ruthless nature previously.

Björn’s scarred ear twitched absently when Bazi spoke that her mother might have liked to have been a Viking, and Björn let out a soft snort, breath pushing out of his black, leathery nostrils. “Maybe she was,” Only a Viking was considered one in truth when they had gone through the rite of passage but Viking blood was Viking blood and could, nor would it be, disputed between them. “Ruthless,” Björn repeated, as if the word brought back some fond memory. “Fear is more potent than love, but it is important to be fair, too.” Björn spoke from experience. He was ruthless, dangerous, and many more demonic-like things, but he was fair to his wolves while he led the Cove. He was fair because he remembered what it was like to be just another Berserker - expendable if he died on a raid. His life had mattered in some semblance, but he had not been important until he gained the title of Jarl with his brother’s warm life blood spilling freely in a puddle around his paws, covering him from nose to tail with warm, sticky crimson.

“There are many Halls in the afterlife, Valhalla is merely one of them, but for a warrior like me, yes. A place in Valhalla is what I am working for in all things.” He responded. It was important to think about death, but earning his way into Valhalla was only one of his goals. Keeping Odinn’s favor, earning his way to the Beta position, the official Warden co-rank, and eventually starting a Viking pack within these lands were the current focuses of his attentions.

Would you do anything?

The Creek maiden had asked her question bluntly and to Björn unexpectedly, cueing in the Viking that she had been contemplating his words with some sort of seriousness. For a while, Björn was silent as he contemplated the singular word: anything. It was a very general word that covered the vast and essentially never ending meaning despite it’s lacking specifications. Would he do anything to reach Valhalla? The answer itself was easy, thoughtless, yes; but Björn did not immediately speak this to her. Not while he began to contemplate if she misunderstood the meaning behind Valhalla. In hindsight, it was easy to get into Valhalla for in essence, there were no requirements. A Viking did not have to favor Odinn, neither did he have to die in battle, neither did he or she truly have to be a warrior. Odinn was not demanding of his children as other Gods were, Björn had came to learn. Odinn did not require a strict way of life, did not demand purity, did not have commandments or required worship to enter his grand Hall in the afterlife.

But Odinn was not a greedy God.

Björn took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of salt, fish, earth and Spring, “I would do anything Odinn asked of me to do, but it is not so complex as most think. There is no right or wrong way to live to enter Valhalla, or any of the Halls of Asgard. Our Gods - most of them - are not so Greedy.” He explained, though Loki was brought to the forefront of his mind he was not mentioned, if because he was a God of mischief and pranks and nothing more. As far as Björn was currently aware he was in charge of any of the Halls of Asgard.

If she feared the things that made him she would find no respite from him, neither would he soothe her worries with meaningless and hollow words of assurance. He had no such words and even if he did Björn would never speak them. Whether she let her unease of him cloud her judgment of the Ridge in general was largely up to her, and while he had permitted her to bathe in the sea so near their territory, dangerously so, and had offered her a morsel of food before she began her journey back to the Creek as was expected of him as a defender of the borders it did not at all make him a kind or generous male. Horizon Ridge was nothing like him, admittedly, though he shared common aspects with Pump though he did not recognize these, yet. Nevertheless, the brutality of his culture and beliefs were the basis of his being and him alone. He was not the Ridge’s voice just as they were not his. At her offer, his thoughts flickered briefly to Sveinn, but once more, he chased them away. If Sveinn knew of his presence in the Teekon Wilds then there was no longer a reason to bear the moniker, but Björn was not so ready to be rid of it, yet. “No, there isn’t,” Was he merely prolonging what would, one day, be inevitable? Would he be forced to be face to face with his son once more, whom he had allowed to go out and earn his own way to Valhalla without living in his (Björn’s) shadow. It was a possibility.

“I will remember that,” Björn spoke, dipping his head as his way of thanking her without actually saying the words. He gave her a twitching grin as he stood like a watchful sentry once more, determined to watch her go until she disappeared into the horizon, even though he doubted her intentions were ill. Regardless, he was just going to see his job through.