It had been months since Ragnar had been up north, the last time had been very shortly before his admittance into Horizon Ridge, near Swiftcurrent Creek where he had met it’s Alpha, Fox but also it had been to assure himself that his stolen son had made it safely to the Creek. Just because Týr had chosen to go his own way and become his own legend instead of living in the shadow of what once had belonged to Ragnar did not mean that the Viking could not worry over his son’s safety. Ragnar had worried but also because he feared the Amazon Queen would send her little girls in search of Týr - wondering how far the ex-Prince’s “guard” would go to find him. It was …and was not any longer his concern whether they found him or not. Týr was beyond his reach and needed to decide if he was a Viking or an Amazon (if, indeed, his memory was ever regained though Floki had been confident that it would not resurface).

There was something that drew him to this Blackfoot Forest, but if it was Týr’s presence or not, the Viking could not say. It almost made Ragnar wish he did know. Thistle was close to giving birth, both of them knew it though she had assured him he would be able to be back from this brief trip before they came into the world. Ragnar wanted to witness the birth of his sons, wanted to watch a body give birth living, breathing and squirming babes instead of aborting them bloody and violently as Dagmar had; and too, he wanted to be there for Thistle.

The forest was dappled by the afternoon sunlight that filtered in through the green canopy above, sometimes stretching far enough to the ground to touch upon the bracken that littered the forest floor and hid the hard earth that lay beneath. This forest, as did Ravensblood, had the same kind of almost otherworldly feel too it, though he did not sense any particular God that might have claimed these lands as holy as Odinn had with the Ravensblood Forest. The savage’s pace slowed as he glimpsed all around him, his curiosity as his new surroundings getting the better of him, though he was always attentive even as his eyes wandered. Scarred and unscarred ear remained alert atop his head, each muscle pulled taunt and ready should something come bearing towards him abruptly.

For now, there was nothing in his vicinity as far as he could tell that felt remotely threatening to him.

Ears perked to attention at the soft murmurings of nothing that whispered on the wind, across the bracken and debris of the forest floor beneath his paws as he moved, shrugging it off as imaginations upon the winds. He might have continued his belief that what he heard was the wind moving through the trees, rustling the leaves that hung tall above on the branches if it had not been for the sleek red bodies that seemed to cross to the other side of another, their screeches and giggles nearly deafening in the wake of the whispering silence. Ragnar paused then, taken aback by their odd behavior, drawing back as he looked first left and then right for them. He had seen them. They had not been a mere figment of his imagination — it really wasn’t that vivid so they had to be real. A girlish voice beckoned him with a whisper, and then one by one heads began to poke out of the brambles of bushes, eyes staring at him as he stared back.

For a moment, as they invited him to follow them deeper into the forest, the Viking hesitated. Not out of fear — no he could easily overpower them even though they outnumbered him. He had to have been about ten times their size, and the Berserker turned Jarl turned Warden did not fear death but would, when Odinn came to collect him to Valhalla (when he was about ten and past senile) he would embrace it and begin a new journey training in Odinn’s army for Ragnarök. It was only out of caution that he deliberated in trepidation and even then it lasted a few seconds before he altered his course to follow the three foxes (at least that was what he assumed they were). “Where are we going?” The Viking asked his soft voice heavy and thick with it’s accent, his question spoken not out of anger or fear or demand. It was spoken only out of his curiosity.

There was a disturbance in the force air suddenly then, the small pitter patter of tiny paws beating against the ground in rapid succession and then the feel of small paws batting against his tail - as if it hung for their amusement. He glimpsed behind them as he finished speaking, catching a glimpse of two vibrant red fluff balls that squealed and rushed off back into the bushes where — Ragnar had assumed — they can came bounding from in the first place. He felt hardly threatened by their antics and in much truth, hadn’t minded. He was going to be a father of newborns in a few weeks time — there would be much time of play for the Head Warden. As it was the burly Viking liked children. “Hello,” He called to them as he continued to follow the female. “It is ok little ones,” He spoke to them in the hopes of coaxing them out of their hiding places though if it worked or not remained to be seen.

His question was …answered, in a way, Ragnar supposed though it’s context was confusing to the point where the answer that the female fox provided was not a real answer to Ragnar’s question at all. Deeper into the Blackfoot, was likely the obvious answer to it, to where, apparently, this ‘Nanna’ who ever that was, awaited him. “How did she call me? I don’t know a Nanna.” Ragnar admitted shrugging through shrubs ducking to avoid low hanging branches. As it was, the Viking — with common tongue only because a secondary language and not his primary — wasn’t even aware what a nanna was and therefore assumed it was the name of a wolf…or fox. Or whatever this mysterious Nanna was, the mystery only growing and henceforth dragging him deeper into it’s depths in the hopes of unraveling it.

There was a moment of doubt, particularly when the path gave way what Ragnar assumed was the densest part of the forest, the thick canopy blocking out the suns’ direct rays of light. He had to keep part of his attention focused on the overgrown path they took him on, stepping around the thick, gnarled and ancient roots of the towering trees that lingered here in the heart of this forest where it had begun it’s life. They came into a small clearing, though the putrid scent of something assaulted the Viking’s black, leathery nostrils and he let out a breath through his mouth, trying not to draw attention to the fact that the rancid scent like falling into a sewer and then wading through it. He glimpsed around then, coming to a stop as they gave the small pond a wide berth and figured as his eyes zeroed in on the bacteria lined water (at least that was what Ragnar thought it was) that said water was giving off the fetid odor.

Something moved in the shadows across from him and his muscles tightened across his shoulders, defining the junction between them as he lowered his head instinctively to protect his throat as the shadow began it’s slow and what appeared to be, wobbly approach. Ragnar’s posture did not entirely relax as he realized that the fox that was emerging was ancient but it softened some. She spoke to him breaking the eerie silence of the area around them, though it was her last sentence that grasped the curious Viking’s attention like a bear trap. How did you know? Seemed like an obvious question to ask but Ragnar did not have too for he immediately assumed that he was dealing with a Seer.

“You are a Seer?” It had came out in his accented, soft voice less of a question and more of a statement of fact. “So you are this ’Nanna’ your family as spoken to me of,” If one could call the few words they exchanged a conversation. “Why do you summon me, wise one?” Ragnar inquired though his voice held only curiosity. He was intrigued (and excited) to know a Seer resided here and though he did not know her beyond what her little family had vaguely told him he immediately respected her and her gifts.