Ragnar’s mornings often started early, earlier than the sunrise and ended typically past sunset. His patrols were taken like clockwork, deviating now and then to do an extra sweep if he found it to be necessary. From his morning patrol he usually ventured to spend some time within the catacombs of trees that encroached and created Ravensblood Forest, a territory he fully believed was sacred to Odinn. His activities there often varied ranging from hunting to merely a form of meditation, mental and physical preparation for what he felt was becoming more and more inevitable as the time worn on, though the Viking did not deign to worry about it all too much presently. There was still a long way to go before he took action upon what seemed impossible to avoid.

He had paused on his trek back to the Ridge from the Forest, craning his neck back to glimpse at the shrinking scab that still clung to his shoulder. The muscles beneath the fur there jumped with the inane urge to itch and skimming his teeth over it he chewed at it for a bit, confident that it was nothing but a scar now. The warm morning air rushed to kiss over the shiny, smooth and pink patch of skin that cut through the fur of his shoulder blade exactly as he had knew it would be: a scar. Smoothing his tongue over the fur in a manner that resembled a cat for a few moments he, feeling relatively better now, walked over the scent barriers, wondering if he should take a brief dip in the sea to let the salt water cleanse his fur a bit before he decided against it, heading instead to one of the caches to check it feeling like he needed to celebrate the healing of his previously infernal wound with a hunting spree.

Ragnar felt a small measure of surprised, with no real reason in truth, when his eyes fell upon the fawn colored Thistle sitting near the cache her eyes holding a vacant stare that alerted him to the fact that while she was seeing him she likely wasn’t as well. “Thistle?” Her name left his lips in his soft, heavily accented voice attempting to draw her wandering attention back to if not him than the situation. She seemed different, though something he would contribute to the likely factor that she was pregnant. For a dark moment there was a swell of jealousy within his breast, accompanied by the thought that it could have been his children she carried within her womb before he chased it away. It was likely his infatuation with the girl was only because she was pretty and he liked pretty things and then his interest would wan because that was how it always went.

In all realms of possible honesty Ragnar had rather forgotten that Ravensblood Forest, his frequent haunt and the holy lands of his God was where Thistle had consummated her secret tryst with the faceless stranger. Not that, in truth, it really mattered much to Ragnar aside from his random boughs of jealousy of which were expected when he had his eye on a female he fancied. By this point, if he were still home in Odinn’s Cove he would have gotten what he wanted out of the ordeal, would have sought it with a single minded energy and would, likely, have lost interest by now. Perhaps that was what kept Ragnar strung along, likely to Thistle’s ultimate dismay; the chase. It wasn’t that she was intentionally playing hard to get with him, no, she was too innocent for that Ragnar had conclude; but she was providing a chase nevertheless.

Thistle seemed to be broken from her train of thought when his voice had reached in and breached whatever daydreaming barrier she had put up around herself to block out everything else. “Is that so?” Ragnar breathed in a light, curious tone, lips twitching into a charming, perhaps mischievous little grin. “Good thoughts, I hope,” A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, as his tail flicked against his hind legs, scarred left ear swiveling back to catch the soft cry of a nearby robin as it flew overhead. “It is,” He confirmed, spurred into curiosity by the seemingly errant question. “Were you thinking of heading out?” He desired to ask her how she felt, she didn’t look bad per say but she didn’t look all that well, either.

“You are thinking of Kennedy again?” It wasn’t really a question though, more of a statement drawn by his remembrance of their last conversation. “Like I said, he needs time to come back emotionally. Not everyone likes scars, like me.” He spoke in slightly jesting tone before his expression darkened as his mood shifted back to seriousness. “You make miracles happen for physical wounds, Thistle, but there is no miracle for emotional wounds.” At least as far as Ragnar was concerned anyway. He desired to reach out and skim his muzzle against her cheek in a comforting gesture but resisted, holding himself back when his body made a funny lurching movement only to cover it as smoothly as he could by settling upon his haunches.

Ragnar gave a curt nod to her confirmation that they were good thoughts, though he wasn’t exactly sure what to make out of her thoughts lingering upon him. “You have been very busy,” Ragnar murmured in thought, having, of course, noticed her activeness for himself. “It is a heavy burden being the only medic,” It was an observation drawn exclusively from the brief study of her face and her words. “but most of us are healed now,” His oceanic gaze whisked from her face to glimpse for a brief moment at her sides though there was not much physical evidence of her pregnancy yet. “You are carrying, you should be resting more.” Of course it was hard for her to do that, he understood, when so many relied so heavily upon her. “If you exhaust yourself and don’t take care of yourself and the children growing within you, you run the risk of losing them as Dagmar did.” He did not mean to bring up his ex-mate (one of them anyway) to restart their bickering about how he had handled her miscarriage and terminated their marriage. Ragnar was no expert at pregnant women, having only been around a few but it seemed logical.

The Viking wasn’t certain why he was suddenly so concerned for Thistle and furthermore her children’s well being, but it was there, like a fist in his chest made of ice and iron refusing to lift it’s pressure. “I will accompany you, if you’d like to go and gather some. It’s a beautiful day, and I am more than capable of protecting you.” Pump could handle the borders while he was out with Thistle, of that Ragnar had no doubt. If anything their patrols had seemed to become something of a competition with one another, eluding to the fact that maybe Pump had came to the same conclusion as him: they would be eventual rivals. It occurred to him in that moment while he lingered upon the thought that perhaps that was why she had not yet given him the Beta rank he had been working diligently towards.

“I can’t tell you that I think he wouldn’t I don’t know him,” Ragnar spoke, sensing that the thought of the darkness that seemed to plague their pack-mate bothered Thistle, maybe more than she was willing to admit. “Do you care for him, this Kennedy?” Ragnar asked suddenly, Caribbean blue gaze unwavering as it lingered upon her own deep azure eyes. “As a wife would care for her husband, I mean? Love?” He corrected, selfishly hoping that she told him ‘no’ with a fierceness that would have surprised the savage if he had not known how he was and already ascertained his “feelings” as nothing more than lust because that was all he had come to expect of himself. The thought that she might have bothered Ragnar much more than he frankly cared to admit.

He's selfish, aha. Her laugh and his smirk in this GIF seemed accurate. xD Also, I'm not even bothering to stop him because I'm truly interested in seeing what happens here. :p

It became apparent, rather quickly, to Ragnar that she had not been expecting his blunt approach to her pregnancy, or rather, she had not been aware of it. “I am no expert, Thistle, but you…it’s not that you don’t look good but you don’t look exactly well, either.” He was not trying to be rude, merely trying to explain what he saw. “Dagmar had the same sort of look at first, too. They always speak of a glow but at first it’s not so much of a glow as a dullness.” Probably from the exhaustion of it. He wasn’t a female so he did not know what kind of processes their bodies went through in preparation for the puppies’ growth. He watched stoic as she adopted a sort of forlorn expression that subconsciously made his eyes narrow in suspicion wondering if she was thinking of her one night lover.

“That is surprising to hear,” Ragnar commented on the knowledge that there was a “worse than him” in regards to patients. It didn’t get too much worse because Ragnar was insufferable when he was on “bed rest”. Floki had caught numerous of the bad moods and earned a few scars from them even back in Odinn’s Cove. Ragnar had to remind himself to be gentler with Thistle - she wasn’t Floki and would likely have taken such actions very different to how Floki had. Besides, Ragnar wasn’t trying to ruin his chance at the Beta rank. “Lead the way.” The Viking encouraged rising to follow close to her side when she began to walk to …where ever she was going for her herbs or flowers.

Thistle’s laugh caused the savage to peek at her in something resembling an un-amused glare as they walked, unsure if she was laughing at him. Her words, however, caused relief to swell within him like the rising tide. He remained silent when as she explained to him that she did not see Kennedy as a husband material, mulling her words over as they walked, adjusting his pace so he did not out stride her by accident. It had been a long time since he had taken a wife - long for his usual time period, at any rate, and there was a storm coming on the horizon. He sensed it.

Thistle was young, younger than him, pretty and while capable dainty; fitting what he usually looked for in his wives. But within that there was something that he had never felt before in the presence of a potential wife - he genuinely liked Thistle. Her innocence was new to him but it was also almost endearing in a way. Ragnar’s mind began working a million miles a minute as he took into consideration many things, namely her rejection to his advances before. She gave no indication that she thought anything of him beyond a pack mate, and yet Ragnar found that it wasn’t reason enough. He could make her a good husband, he was strong, loyal (in a sense), and he contemplated that she might need help with what was to come.

“I have a question to ask you, Thistle.” He broached suddenly, feeling something akin to nervous anticipation building within his stomach.

Thistle laughed at his attempts to avoid being a right jerk about how she looked, and shrugged, giving a small nod of his head, a chuckle slipping forth from his own muzzle at her bluntness. “Ah, more or less,” He concurred giving her a slow, mischievous smirk. “It’s not a bad thing though,” Ragnar breathed in a low, conspiring voice to compliment said mischievous smirk. “You are still,” Still what? Still beautiful? He was no strange to administering flattery but there was a distinct difference between flattery and actually meaning it and in this instance the Viking realized that even as he spoke, “still beautiful.” that he actually meant it. Continuing his pace along side her as she headed towards the outskirts of the pack lands he contemplated his vague knowledge in regards to the layout of the land. In truth, he haunted Ravensblood so frequently that he realized rather abruptly, he had not explored much else. “There is a river not too far from Ravensblood that I have passed once on my way up North.” But he had only cut through the lands once, so he could not truly tell her if it would provide to be fruitful for whatever plants/flowers/herbs she was searching for. “We could always start there and double back to Ravensblood if need be,” He had nothing pressing going on that required his immediate attention so for the day he was all hers.

His glare sent her into another fit of laughter, until Ragnar, for a brief moment wondered if she might pee herself from how hard her body seemed to shake with her laughter. It was hard enough to for her to sway close enough to brush against his side a few times, until he could feel the vibration of her mirth through the contact against his hardened muscles sleek and strong under his icy silver kissed coat. She inquired about his question but then added quickly, taking the savage off guard for a brief moment before he collected himself, that she did not find the other male - and the last leg of his competition (so to speak) as husband material either. Her need to feel like she needed to add it - though perhaps cruelly he had not been worried about Gavriil as potential competition - made him reconsider how he wished to go about this. His previous proposals had all be spontaneous and usually after copulation - there was nothing, really, for him to go off of with Thistle because everything had been….gradual; and while Ragnar could not claim that he was in love with her, something was definitely different about how he felt about her - something so unlike what he had felt around any female, ever. It had been easier to see once she had came out of her heat season, when his mind was jumbled with the burning desire to claim and impregnate as her hormones intoxicated him ravenously.

Though, as for matters of love, he supposed he had the image of his parents - who had been rather madly in love with one another - as a template of sorts which left him with the helpless and foreign conclusion that he was at least falling for her.

“And what of me, Thistle?” Ragnar asked her feeling anticipation clench his stomach in a manner that was not very comfortable. “I know you pine for the stranger that stole your maidenhood,” And it dug under his skin to no visible end. “but he has not returned, has made no appearance. He is not worthy of you. And maybe I am not either but that night that we spent together in Odinn’s forest, I cannot forget it. I don’t want to ever forget it,” He was exceedingly bad at these things, for there was not much that was gentlemanly or romantic about Ragnar Lothbrok. “I cannot get you out of my mind, everything reminds me of you,” This was going badly and for the fear that he might start talking in his native tongue out of nerves - of which he felt certain she would not understand he said bluntly, “I want to be your husband, I want to be yours in every way a man can be a woman’s.” He had not came to these posh summer land with the intention of taking another wife - or frankly to fall in love (because lets be honest that’s what was happening) - but it was fate, and Odinn’s approval stated as much to him.

With Thistle having decided on the river, Ragnar began to take a subconscious lead then assuming that she was unsure of where the River was since she had asked his opinion on the matter and he had suggested it as a starting point for her flower hunting. “There’s a strong undercurrent that’s tricky to navigate,” He warned having no intentions of allowing her to go anywhere near the trick turn in the river that he had discovered and nearly been pulled under on his journey back from Swiftcurrent Creek. It took Ragnar a moment to realize that Thistle was no longer keeping pace with him and when he did notice her absence a glimpse over his shoulder allowed him to see that he was now a good couple of feet ahead of her. Slowly he turned and double backed stopping where there was still distance between them but so that they were facing one another. Her breathing seemed to have taken a more rapid pace and for a moment, quizzical, the Viking wondered if she were perhaps feeling dizzy because of her pregnancy never stopping to consider that it was him and his words that were making her feel that way (nor that it was not necessarily a bad thing).

It didn’t occur to him because he wasn’t a romantic, he wasn’t a gentleman, and he was not in any illusion, shape or form Prince Charming. He wouldn’t even go as far as to fancy himself her knight in shining armor because he wasn’t a gallant knight either. He was a Viking. Dangerous. Cunning. Ruthless. But she knew that. “It was not intended,” He told her honestly. He had not came here to find another wife, neither had he really had any intentions of staying but it seemed that fate and Odinn had other plans for him, even throwing in the seedlings of what was most foreign to the savage Viking. Love, and while it was not fully blossomed and at the point not on the table (for he was at least honest with her) it was rooting within him deeply, snagging in his brain and black heart like fish hooks. Her question was, of course, expected for not but weeks earlier he had confessed his treatment of his previous wife to her which had led to them fighting about it, and yet here he was asking her to brave the title and be his, nevertheless. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t, that things felt vastly different from any other time he had “proposed” but because he was still so unsure (and albeit confused) he could not. “If I do then you have mine and Odinn’s permission to take my life,” So long as she didn’t curse him from going to Valhalla (which was the worst thing anyone anywhere could ever do, ever). As far as Ragnar was concerned it was a fair deal.

She told him that she did not love him - which was expected he had no illusions of anything of the sort. “I do not expect you to love me, I cannot stand the thought of someone else calling you theirs. Not now, not ever,” Perhaps it was his own jealous tendencies, coupled with the fact that she was always haunting him and their elusive night shared in the tangent of magic moonlight and darkened shadows. “Then don’t forget me,” The Viking’s soft voice was husky, breathless as he lurched forth to brush his muzzle against hers, gliding his tongue across her jaw line in a sultry kiss, teeth raking through the warm fur of her cheek as his muzzle found her ear which he nibbled teasingly. “Be my wife.” He breathed in her ear, unable to help the sexy sultry smirk that was tugging once more at his lips.

It was inherently true, a fact that he acknowledged as the way he would more than likely find himself in the grand hall of Valhalla if he strayed to find pleasure with another woman, that she could kill him with supple grace and ease. The silent death of poison. No one would be of the wiser and it would avoid the mess of his lifeblood spilling from his body, in fact it might even be a painless death. There was very little doubt in Ragnar’s mind that she would stick to her word, and he had given her permission knowing that she would do it if he strayed. Death in and of itself wasn’t a deterrent if only because he didn’t fear it. In a way, the Viking and his ilk looked forward to it. It was a celebration not a mourning. But there was Odinn’s promise deep in the back of his mind, never fading and ever present, that he would not die until he was an elderly man and if the Allfather’s promise held true that was a long time from now. He was still young at three years of age - still had a long life to live yet.

Ragnar felt Thistle shiver beneath his touch, feeling the touch of her muzzle as it buried into the fur of his neck and suppressed his own shudder of the sensual moment and touches. The Viking felt her nip - harder than he had nipped at her’s - at his scarred ear, the sensation of pain coming across as sickening pleasure instead with his nerves being messed up in his scars causing him to rumble his pleasure into the crook of her neck so she might hear it as he put it a gruff sound. “Spoken like a true shield maiden.” The Viking grinned at his new víf after she nipped at this shoulder and glided past him in a manner he could only describe as elegant before he smirked and followed after her, determined not to be the one to be left behind this time.

In a manner of speaking, Thistle was probably more deadly than Ragnar himself with her skill set for there was a fine line between healer and murderer. What could heal in small doses could also kill in larger ones. This concept did not go unknown by Ragnar who had spent much time in Floki’s presence who had shadowed the Berserker and later Jarl for nearly all of his life, even when they had been but two awkward pups. A soft snort left the Viking’s nostrils as he compared Floki and Thistle in his mind, “You are a much more attractive healer than Floki,” It was a seemingly random declaration to her, but proved true to the savage nevertheless. “I think you would like him. He’s a trickster and jester like Loki but he is smart and a good man.” And just as stubborn as Ragnar himself which as Thistle had - and would - find was a good thing to be. “I think you would like Odinn’s Cove, it is a shame I cannot take you there for a visit.” Ragnar informed her, knowing that their home was here where, hopefully, their family would start (because he was hoping that his seed took that night even if it was a big secret between them).

It was a funny but intensely satisfying thing to group them together as a cohesive unit instead of individuals. “May Thor strike me dead if I am lying,” Ragnar said to her teasing. “It is a good thing to be likened to a shield maiden. It takes a special kind of woman to be a Viking’s wife.” He spoke, following after her at a leisurely pace, enjoying the view with unbridled smugness and satisfaction. "Will you take the Loðbrók name?" He asked her after a few seconds, figuring he could atone for his past marriage failures by giving her something he hadn't given the others: his last name.

“Floki is a …madman, but very good healer,” Ragnar spoke fondly of the Viking medic, smiling slightly to himself. “Loki is a very greedy God,” And not one that Ragnar ever felt the need to pay any sort of homage too. He was a trickster and the Viking found himself weary of the mischievous God. “He was…is Floki’s favorite for reasons,” Ragnar paused to lick his lips. “We all have our favorite Gods.” He would teach Thistle to be a Viking yet, he was determined. “Yes. It is a very old pack, my great, great, great grandfather was one of it’s founders. The leadership varied, unlike most packs I know it is not automatically granted by having come from the Jarl’s loins. It is a position hard earned and always well fought to the death,” Ragnar spoke having no intention of stopping figuring she deserved to know all the in and outs of his past life to understand how he thought and lived now, as his wife. “My father won it shortly before I was born, my older brother Björn took our father’s life for it out of greed and I took it from him,” It had not been one of Ragnar’s proudest moments for it had been not greed but lust that had bathed him in the warm blood of his brother as he lay dying at Ragnar’s paws, yet he had no choice but to step up regardless. In part, it had also been done in vengeance of their father.

“It is harsh but we are a ruthless people and it has been our way for many years and packs.” The Lothbrok name was not a name that anyone else had given him, it was his and only his to give to her, therefore making it meaningful. “I do. None of my previous wives bore it.” He told her hoping that it made up some for his treatment of them, knowing that she was not fond of how easily he had disregarded them. Yet, if he had not let them go he might not have been here, with her now. “It is quite a mouthful.” He teased her lightly with a soft chuckle and a mischievous grin.

“No,” Ragnar shook his head, speaking in his old friends’ defense. “He is very intelligent. The only time he would mix up herbs was if he was intending too, never accidental.” This was something that Ragnar believed very vehemently to his core. “He’s not the type to kill by poison,” Ragnar’s grin grew wide then, giving her a sneaky look. “Poison is a silent death and we Viking men like it rather messy and bloody.” It was true that Floki would rather tear out someone’s throat than kill subtly. “It is the easiest way,” Ragnar began, having never had to really explain the ways of his people to another before. “You could wait for them to die of old age in theory but no one waits that long,” Ragnar squinted against the onslaught of sunlight as the they left behind the Ridge and crossed the threshold into “no man’s land”. “Then there are the Jarls, like me, that go into battle,” He glimpsed down at her to make sure she was still following along, that he hadn’t lost her or that his accent hadn’t deterred her, despite that she was probably used to his accent by that point. “If I was to die in battle my wife - that would be you,” He grinned at her, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Would take over as Earl in my stead. If and when you no longer wanted the title or responsibilities you would pass it to my named Second in Command. I don’t think any man can challenge an Earl which is the female title of Jarl.” Though plenty of woman could take any number of men down it wasn’t exactly a fair fight.

“Are you worried?” He asked her teasingly, but shook his head. “No, you do not have to kill anyone. Wives aren’t property we don’t inherit them with the death of their husband,” Not typically, anyway, Ragnar had taken Tyra at Björn’s death but that had been different. “For instance I am still reigning Jarl of Odinn’s Cove because I gave my brother only temporary rule of it, so as my wife you are second under me just by being my wife and my brother while is my Second in Command is under you, even so. Does it make sense?” Of course it made perfect sense to him but he had grown up there, and had lived and breathed it for all of his life. “You don’t have to be ruthless, you just have to be strong.” And Ragnar knew she was strong, that wasn’t a question. “If you want I can hold a rite of passage for you to make you a tiny Viking,” He offered his voice teasing on the ‘tiny Viking’ but otherwise quite serious.

The decision was hers, but she was his wife whether the Gods recognized her as a Viking or not.

“Thistle Cloud is too much to say it’s like everyone running around calling me Ragnar Lothbrok all the time. I like just Thistle better.” He murmured to her, smirking again.

She spoke that she had no desire to rule which was so very different from his own desires in regards to leadership and he smirked slightly, mostly to himself at the use of what he thought was an endearment. Dearheart, he kind of liked it even if it was a little strange to him. “Things are not the same here at the Ridge as they are in Odinn’s Cove,” The Viking attempted to reassure his wife, eluding subtly that he did have deigns to rule again. Something that Ragnar realized he should probably share with her now that they were “married”. “That is our way. I do not think that is Pump’s way. I made a deal with her some time ago about becoming the Beta Male, shortly after the landslide. I think I have kept up my end of the bargain though I do not know if or when she will promote me.” And it wasn’t as if he could challenge for the rank since it was currently unoccupied. He could only challenge the rank above him which if his grasp on their hierarchy was well enough was likely the crippled Kennedy and no matter how ambitious or ruthless Ragnar was there was no victory in challenging a cripple.

“You don’t have to worry so much,” Ragnar smiled down at her. “Odinn has promised me a long life and I plan to live it.” He told her in hopes of easing her apparently sudden worry about having to lead. “Yes. You are my Queen and everyone beneath you has to listen to you.” That was the simplest way Ragnar could explain it to her. “I said you would be a tiny Viking, not a weak Viking. Don’t twist my words,” He teasingly defended himself, giving her a mock offended look. “That is what is best about my Gods, Thistle. They only desire your respect not your devotion.” In any rate it was likely that Ragnar was devout enough for both of them.

He felt her nip at his shoulder once more, and Ragnar took it to mean that it was her favorite place to plant love bites on his body. “Mmm,” The Viking breathed in a soft groan. “I have missed your body.” He admitted to her in a cheeky, entirely way too suggestive manner with a sexy, mischievous grin to accompany his words.

Thistle’s question was warranted Ragnar agreed, and even so expected. The Viking did not answer her right away, instead silently playing with the question and the inevitable answer that seemed to be the only answer no matter how many times he tucked it away and revisited it. It was like a broken magic eight ball stuck on a single triangle that would not budge and give you a different answer no matter how furiously you shook it or how far you threw it out the window. “I do not know,” Ragnar admitted after a few more silent moments. “On one side I respect Pump as a leader, I do,” He did not always agree with her but that did not diminish his respect for her any - besides nobody agreed every single time on every thing. “but I could not let someone who is not one of us - a Viking,” Because he fully intended on making Thistle a recognized Viking, “take command of our ways. It will not work.” And Ragnar himself would want to take the absolute lead something he could not do while sitting in the Beta position, admittedly. There was a small part of Ragnar that suspected that Pump could see what would likely come down the road, too, just as he and even Thistle could. “One thing at a time. For now I will wait to see if I am granted the rank I desire and if I am we will see what happens.” That was all that really could be done.

Her words were teasing and seductive, catching the Viking momentarily off of guard, wondering when his innocent little maiden healer had blossomed into a woman worthy of the title shieldmaiden, shining at her place by his side as his wife as opposed to being intimidated and afraid by it. Her innocence was endearing but he rather liked this newly blossomed Thistle, too. Perhaps something had changed in her after their night of passion in the presence of Odinn in his forest even though it had been fueled, likely on both sides, by the hormones her heat season had produced and flaunted until neither could stand it anymore. His nose twitched when her tail dragged across it, inviting him to chase, and to claim if he could catch her. Of which he had every intentions of doing.