The morning was partially cloudy, but the sun still shone determinedly despite it’s frequent disappearances beneath the large, cottony white clouds that drifted across the sky line. It was also a warm morning, the air thick with a warm dampness that made the air almost unbearably muggy. As if on some unspoken cue Björn’s tongue lolled out of his mouth in a pant, before he drew it across his leathery black nostrils, pausing along the borders near the coast line, the gentle roar of the Sea a welcoming lullaby to the Viking who did not spend much time in it’s presence since he had departed Odinn’s Cove. The cool, salty breeze was alluring as he lifted his leg to strengthen the stretch of border before the Berserker Warden made his way to the shore, hardened earth transitioning to warm, softened golden sand. It molded beneath his paws as he walked through it, scarred face serious as he closed eyes briefly, inhaling the salty tang of the brine as it pressed against his chest, ruffling the thick fur found there, spraying him with salt water.

Slowly, his limp less noticeable then it had been before, though still present as he moved, conscious of not disrupting his healing shoulder, not wanting to have to go to Thistle and explain to her that the scab tore open because of carelessness. He would already bear an ugly scar there to accommodate all of his many others (though this did not particularly bother the Viking) but nevertheless did not want to cause the fawn girl any more worry than he already had. For it seemed that while she might not have liked him, Thistle seemed to worry and to like to fuss over him, nevertheless.

Björn did not like fanfare and did not like her fussing over something so trivial as a wound.

Odinn did not desire his death for many years and would see to it that he stayed alive, the Viking was confident. Though, despite his reminders of this did not seem to calm the girl’s anxieties any. A soft snort escaped black, leathery nostrils as the Savage opened his icy eyes to stare contently at the ocean, letting it’s waves carry his thoughts for the time being.

There were times when Björn allowed his thoughts to wander, when he imagined they were flying with Huginn and Muninn over the nine realms, seeing everything. He often thought it might be a grand thing to be gifted with wings and hollow bones to be able to take flight with Odinn’s ravens and see what the Allfather saw. These thoughts were often thought with a small twinge of envy. Odinn had given his eye to acquire knowledge and it was no secret that the Viking would give much more. Björn’s devotion to Odinn wasn’t questionable, and he idolized the God more than he envied him, yet, still, Björn was only a mortal and he could not help his mortal feelings. Jealousy, rage, lust. They were what made Björn himself -- among his more refined and feral personality traits. There was movement among the surf then, a small calamity in the otherwise serenity of the situation and Björn watched emotionless as Nuka approached him. Stance changed into one of subtle dominance - not overbearing but still one of a higher ranking wolf, nevertheless.

Björn was aware that it was probably unnecessary, yet it was subconscious - something like breathing: he did not need to think about doing it. It simply happened, usually out of his general awareness. “Vestu heil, Nuka,” Björn returned the other Northerner’s greeting, icy eyes observing her in a casual manner, noting that she kind of looked like a drowned rat with her fur sodden wet. To be fair, Björn knew he did too. After the mimicry of her greeting the Viking man fell silent, his gaze flickering back to the Sea, to the seagulls that wheeled in the air above, their cries echoing faintly as they called to one another. As far as the savage was concerned if the woman wanted to have a conversation with him she would further insinuate it and if she did not, then that was fine as well.