Ragnar was never far behind keeping a close eye on both Thistle and the borders as his wife took to patrolling them. He did not, for the sake of not wanting her to feel like he was being posessive or extremely overprotective of her, stray too near her keeping her out of his sights so that he, too, was out of sight to her. Though it made him nervous to have her so close to the borders, pregnant as she was - not to mention that while he affectionately reffered to her as Shieldmaiden she was not a warrior - but the Viking did not want to keep her from doing something she wanted to do. It was as he walked that the stench of something canine but clearly not wolf or fox - a telltale coyote - assaulted his leathery, black nostrils causing the Viking’s lip to curl back over his teeth at the rank stench. He had met a coyote that admittedly Ragnar had killed for stealing from the Cove’s caches, and it left an unpleasant memory in the savage’s memory. Platnium silver hackles bristled as he made a wide arc then, intending to come up behind Thistle and the coyote rather than barge right in, despite that every nerve in his body was screaming at him to propell forward and plant himself between his wife and the threat.

No, she was not his damsel in distress. She was his wife, his Shieldmaiden and Ragnar knew despite his overprotective instincts that were beating against his body like a demon attempting to get out, that he had to let her handle it.

Stealth despite his size was something that Ragnar was rather adapt at and so the feral man sunk to the ground admist a thick, darkened fortress of bushes that had convened there, fixing both of them in his icy oceanic stare. Weight shifted in anticipation, each muscle tensed and coiled back, ready to release at any given moment should Thistle be in need of him. Eventually, Ragnar could not stand it any longer, though he approved of how Thistle had handled the situation so far, and stood, shrugging through the brush tail raised above his back in clear sign of dominance as he slid to his fawn colored wife’s side, despite that Thistle was technically his superior. He attempted to take immediate charge as the Warden, though if she willed him too, he would back down. The strength of the stench gave indication that the coyote had slipped into their lands and the Viking’s gaze hardened. “If you were warned to stay away from us you should have known better not to come into our land,” Ragnar told the she-coy his soft and heavily accented voice chipped with ice and steel. As he eyed her he wondered if she would make a decent sacrifice to Freya and Frigg, having considered making a sacrifice to both at once to ask for a successful and easy birth for Thistle.

“Why are you here?” He demanded of the she coy, “What is this talk of asking to join our pack? You are not a wolf,” Granted, Pump was a hybrid herself, but Ragnar did not trust coyotes as far as he could throw them. Rather, he would sooner kill them and get it over with. By nature they were theives and sneaks and he inherently didn’t like them.

Ragnar glimpsed down at Thistle when she spoke up, correcting him that the she coy before him was part wolf by some grandfather or other. He had heard of coy wolves, heard that in most packs would take them but they were usually outcasted. He had never met a coy wolf so was not able to make much of an assessment to their character. Was that enough wolf to get her into the pack, though? If it were up to Ragnar…well, he wasn’t sure what he’d do though as it was it was not up to him. Her words served to irritate the Viking that showed his anger in the way he had taught himself as a small child. To hide it with a smirk, a grin - the exact opposite of what one expected to see. Ragnar’s anger was ever rarely so easily apparent, unless one, like Thistle, knew him well enough to notice such things. Though the she coy proceeded to tell him how she had saw him and how he had been loud, he accepted her words as lies. A lucky guess because he had been far enough back, hunkered down among the thickly packed leaves and shadows that he could just barely make out a few words, no where near enough for her to see and certiantly, Ragnar added to his thoughts, he was not loud enough for her to hear. As a Berserker who led raids with discression and stealth he was well versed as being quiet, having always been the quietest of his ilk and kin.

Instead of responding to her sneering comment of him needing practice - a fact that he highly doubted - the Viking instead ignored her figuring there was no point in stooping down to throw back petty comments. He had had enough of petty jibes from their newest recruit and likely, if she wished to call him angry, he would show her the truth of his fury. Ugly, ruthless and feral as it was. “Unless you are given permission to stay among us by Pump I advise you against hanging around at our borders,” Gladly, Ragnar would rip her apart, if that was what she wished. Unlike his other pack mates the Viking was “savage”, “feral”. He had no qualms about killing - had done it more times than he had counted even when the wolves of the packs he and his had raided did not fight back. Ragnar tilted his muzzle towards Thistle, then, when the she coy proceeded to say that she may bring food for Thistle. He yearned to warn his wife not to accept it and not to eat it, his distrust rearing within him but refrained in the creature’s presence. “If you want to be a wolf so bad, perhaps you should start by abiding by our laws and then maybe we will accept you.” It was a long shot, especially for Ragnar who felt it was easier to kill them then it was to try and make friends with them. Nevertheless, he was, for the time being, Pump’s lap dog puppet and he had to do as his hybrid leader commanded him to do.

The she coy unwisely decided she would shoot her mouth off at him some more about empty threats. It was both amusing and highly irritating how everyone assumed that they knew him, that his threats were empty when in truth they were anything but. The only thing that held him back temporarily was Pump and the leash Ragnar had put himself on not wanting to jeopardize his shot at the Beta rank but then again, what Pump didn’t know didn’t hurt her and really would anyone miss the she coy? Since she was here contradicting herself, Ragnar sincerely doubted it. But she was a lesser creature and he would not stoop to her level just to satisfy his own irritation. Ragnar’s lip curled back when the she coy stated that she wished Thistle a more polite mate yet Ragnar wondered how it was she could have possibly known they were mates unless Thistle had told her. He supposed their scents were all over one another but that didn’t justify anything. They could have been siblings for all the she coy knew.

Ragnar watched her disappear and let out a low rumble of warning that lingered like thunder in his chest. “If she comes around again I will rip her face off,” It was less of a threat and more of a promise though to whom he did not know. “I do not trust her, and please do not take her food. Our caches are more than capable of feeding you if I’m gone too long.” They did not need the charity of some part wolf she coy who wanted to be apart of their pack yet could not submit herself before a warden and two superiors of the pack. If she could not show the proper amount of dominance at the least she stood a small chance Ragnar thought to himself before he beckoned for Thistle to walk with him as he led the way back to their den.