Dagrún had been traveling for what felt like for two lifetimes, a blur of green and brown, one landscape bleeding into the next as he followed in what he hoped was Ragnar’s path though he could not be sure. Odinn was his half brother’s favorite God, and Fenrir offered no insight upon if Dagrún was even going in the correct direction. Several times the Viking doubted that there was anything remotely wise about his journey, but he was utterly sick and tired of living under Váli’s idiotic rule. The second youngest Eitrisson was air headed and was trying too hard to be Ragnar except he was failing miserably turn after endless turn. On more than one occasion Dagrún’s mother had whispered to him to conspire against his Váli, to take the helm beneath the fool’s weak rule. Without Ragnar there it would be easy and Dagrún couldn’t help but agree with that simple fact. It would be easy. But he was base-born, a bastard boy. They would not take orders from him, born of his slave mother and generally disregarded by Eitri. Ragnar, nor Váli had ever done anything wrong to him, had even accepted him and shared in their lessons with him when they had been children.

He could not see the point in feeding his mother’s obsession with revenge, revenge for being taken (in both terms) and for being a slave when she was a proud Amazon woman - exotic to the Northmen as she was. It had been her curse, Dagrún had assumed. He shared her sable fur, but in any other way he looked and was built like Eitri, even had the deceased Jarl’s peppering of silver through his sable fur as if the Gods - both hers and his - could not make up their mind if he should be more Amazon or Viking. It was mid morning when Dagrún had caught Ragnar’s scent tainting the earth - recognizable under the foreign stench of many others - of whatever pack he had infiltrated himself into at Odin’s orders. A silent thanks was sent up to the wolf god, Fenrir (the one that was fated to kill Odin during Ragnarök, ironically) as Dagrún followed it to the borders where it hung here, stronger than anywhere else. Black, leathery nostrils flared as he inhaled the unique scent of his half brother, knowing that he had finally found him.

“Ragnar…” His name was spoke upon the wind in Dagrún’s deep voice, his accent heavy and identical to his half brother’s own. "I have found you brother." In this, Dagrún felt only relief.

The creature he received after his call had faded into the wisp of the clouds, carried to the heavens, had not been, admittedly, the one that Dagrún had been expecting. It was not Ragnar to greet him at the borders, the sight of his scarred half brother mysteriously missing though his scent was rank upon the borders of this pack. The female to greet him was small, but heavily pregnant, her sides rounded and bulging allowing Dagrún the assumption that she was very clearly and obviously, with child. Black, leathery nostrils flared as the Viking stared at her, staring at him, recognizing her superiority of the situation with a bow of his head, exposing the strong curve of his spine to her, inhaling her scent that was curiously twined with Ragnar’s. It could have, easily, Dagrún observed, meant nothing and yet knowing Ragnar as he did, it instead meant everything. She was pretty, Dagrún observed her, figuring that was what had drawn his brother to her in the first place. She was exactly Ragnar’s type. Delicate, pretty, lovely and elegant. A stark contrast to his own brutality and harsh angles. Indeed, it would not surprise Dagrún if the children within her womb belonged to Ragnar because it was almost, laughably to him, easy to believe because it was expectant. That was just like Ragnar.

Of course, Dagrún could not say, looking Thistle over again, that he would not have done the same if he would have been Ragnar.

“Ragnar,” Dagrún replied with simple honesty. “Of who you are not.” Brows rose as he shifted his weight, searching the lands behind her for any sign of his half brother. In the meantime, that did not mean he could not inquire as to what his brother had been up too before his arrival. “Are they his?” Perhaps it was an unfair assumption to make, but Ragnar’s scent was all over her and to the dark Viking it was a perfectly logical thing to assume. “I am Dagrún, his half brother. Bastard son of Eitri and a slave girl he captured.” Lips twitched into a mirthless but amused little smile. It was nothing for him to speak it so casually simply because he was quite used to it and it was apart of their culture’s way.

Upon a deeper look at the unrelenting gaze of the pregnant woman, the manner in which she held herself and ground reminded Dagrún of a shield maiden. They were the toughest of their free women, brave enough to raid and fight alongside them. They were few but those few were often great women. “I can see that,” There was amusement in his heavily accented voice as he responded to her simple and obvious answer. She was the wrong color, wrong size, had the wrong parts to be Ragnar, but she smelled heavily of him, leaving Dagrún with his assumptions that would either prove to be true or false. “I can’t imagine any that would lie of knowing Ragnar,” Yet it did not seem like she would be so easy to believe him. In a way, Dagrún both understood and loathed her suspicion. It was true that he did not look, even remotely, like Ragnar but he was a Northman through and through. Her questions were easy for him, given that he knew all of them well, but it also proved one of his suspicions correct. Whoever and whatever she was to Ragnar, she knew him well enough to know his reverence to Odinn and about his “true” brothers.

“Björn, the oldest, dead at Ragnar’s own jaws and Váli, the youngest, current Jarl of Odinn’s Cove, father of Ragnar’s gift’s Sif’s babes.” No doubt that would stick into Ragnar’s crawl when his brother heard of it. Maybe, just maybe, Dagrún could not help but hope it would be enough to inspire Ragnar’s premature return to the Cove to end Váli’s idiotic reign. “Turns out they were not Ragnar’s after all.” It was almost hilarious to Dagrún how desperately Váli wanted to be Ragnar even going so far as to repeatedly stab his older brother in the back to accomplish it.

“He follows Odinn, the scar upon his face is Odinn’s symbol - a disjointed raven.” No one ever said Floki was a good artist. “Does that satisfy you?” Dagrún asked her then, wanting to know more about her.

“Some just lay in many beds,” Dagrún offered with a soft smirk, making light of Ragnar’s whore-mongering that he generally assumed that she knew of, though he had yet to learn of this lovely creature’s relationship with his brother. Although, it wasn’t as if Dagrún had any sort of room to speak on the matters of being promiscuous. The temporary glint of instinctual and feral fury that was gone as soon as Dagrún blinked that had been held in the girls’ eye made the dark Viking wonder but was quickly diminished when she spoke her name and that the children in her womb indeed belonged to his half brother. “It’s not surprising,” Dagrún spoke simply with a shrug, speaking at Ragnar’s character rather than the girl’s own. She looked young, and he could only assume that - while harsh and ruthless Ragnar could be charming when he needed to be - she had been pulled under by that charm, as most females had been back in the Cove. There had been an endless line of females desiring to breed with him, that if Dagrún was lucky would settle for Ragnar’s half brother instead.

“Our brother is an idiot,” Dagrún responded in a gruff grumble, letting his initial irritation seethe upon his face. “He tries too hard to be Ragnar, stealing Sif behind Ragnar’s back as he had, and now imitates him poorly. It’s a disgrace to idly sit by and watch,” Dagrún admitted figuring it was safe to tell her these things given he assumed she knew much already. It was Floki’s name and Thistle’s apparent concern for their madman healer that piqued the dark Viking’s interest the most. “Floki? You know of him?” Her apparent concern for him was fascinating to the dark Viking who wondered if the madman had slipped out before him. “Missing Ragnar, no doubt, but last time I checked he was well. Gathering and sorting through his herbs and berries and plants like he always does.”

The shield maiden’s growl seemed to vibrate through her chest, aimed with no doubt towards him, though if Dagrún were to be honest with himself, he likely very much deserved her ire. He came traipsing rather abruptly into her life (and back into Ragnar’s) making assumptions based upon solely what he knew of Ragnar (which was much, admittedly). “I assume nothing of the sort, shield maiden, only that I know Ragnar. I know how he is with women,” In a way, his brother’s libertine ways almost made Dagrún feel sorry for her. Of course the bastard son did not realize that Ragnar had vowed to commit himself to Thistle - and would even if he was made to be aware of it - question it until he saw the undeniable truth for him. To her assurance that she could see right through Ragnar’s charms made Dagrún dubious but he accepted it with a shrug because, who knew? Maybe Ragnar had finally set his sights upon one, and one only. It would be something of a refreshing change of pace, though the males of their culture were well known for them promiscuity.

“He can do nothing while he sits here no more a King but a subordinate,” Dagrún’s tone was bitter as the words left his lips because he could tell from the scent upon the borders that Ragnar did not lead these posh wolves of Summer. “But he is better off in these Wilds than back home. The Cove is a sinking ship, Váli is too stupid to see the ruin he is creating.” As it was the dark Viking had never really liked the youngest of Eitri’s legitimate children. He had been too babied and therefore expected the world handed to him on a silver platter. “So the beautiful shield maiden healed the wounded berserker and love came after?” Dagrún teased her, but beneath it there was jealousy of his own. How did Ragnar have women like Thistle throwing themselves at his paws when Dagrún (who admittedly was as libertine as his brother had been) had none of it. He wanted the family Ragnar had, convinced that Ragnar was still taking advantage of what he had. “Touching.”

The pregnant shield maiden corrected the tense of his sentence to past tense, causing the dark Viking’s brow to furrow but he said nothing settling, instead, to shrug. “More power to you, shield maiden,” Dagrún murmured because, in truth, he didn’t really care what Ragnar’s romantic stance currently was. Even if it made him a little jealous, but that was something to explore on a different day, around different company. “Our past is essential to shaping us, it defines us though a lot of wolves feel differently,” Dagrún was not sure why he was going on some small rant about the past though her admittance of not knowing much about Ragnar’s brother (including Dagrún himself) had inspired it. “So you know that Ragnar killed Björn, then?” Of course Ragnar was not the type of creature to hide it because he did not feel shame for it, Dagrún knew; and frankly, Dagrún himself did not miss Björn. He had been pompous and spoiled by Eitri who had ignored Ragnar as thoroughly as he ignored Dagrún despite that Ragnar had been a legitimate son.

Maybe that was why Ragnar and Dagrún had always gotten on so well. The Bastard child and Middle child syndrome had caused them to band together long ago.

Or maybe because out of all of Ragnar’s brothers Dagrún was the only one who had yet to stab him in the back and betray him.

“I have never known him to express love,” Besides the love of family, of course, and though it really wasn’t the dark Viking’s place he felt like he should give her the courtesy of warning her not to get her hopes up, just in case. The Ragnar he knew had changed a little, at least where lovers were concerned since meeting Thistle, but considering Dagrún had yet to speak to Ragnar he couldn’t possibly know that.