A lot of Ragnar’s time had been spent on the borders, patrolling them, reinforcing them with his scent to mix with the scent of the others. While the Viking cloaked in platinum silver couldn’t technically consider himself the Head Warden - if only because he was the only one that held the title, currently - though Gavriil was known to frequent the borders as well, along with others - he still fancied himself Head Warden, regardless. Ragnar had considered it his “unofficial title” even before he received the promotion as Pump’s right hand man to enforce it. His job was to train, to prepare for what the other packs in the Wilds could throw at them, to make them a strong and cohesive unit. Nothing like the more or less awkward mess the attack on the bear had been. Though Ragnar had been the only one to suffer any “severe” damage from the bear; not severe enough to put him down for any number of days but severe that he had lost blood and his injuries hindered him, much to the Viking’s inherent aggravation. It was no secret that Ragnar was an awful patient and while it was unfortunate for Thistle it was fortunate for everyone else that Thistle was their only healer. He exalted a previously unknown patience in his wife’s presence as she fussed over him, slathering his wounds with her sickly colored, mint smelling paste. If it had been anyone else (his long time past friend Floki was witness to it) he would have without a doubt lashed out at them numerous times.

It wasn’t personal - it never had been and it would never be so.

Of course thinking of Thistle, heavy with child had the Viking frowning in worry. She should have had an apprentice or a journeyman training under her all this time so that when their children came there was someone to step temporarily into her role while she stayed with the babes, because the babes would need her attention first. There was no “oh you could get to your babes later”. Ragnar bristled slightly at the consideration that any of the wolves would be daft enough to get themselves direly injured while Thistle was out of commission. The Viking’s comeback would be cruel and heartless: You might not live for a month? Too bad.

But maybe they would get lucky. Maybe no one would need her, or maybe one of the newest members had experience with healing. Ragnar would have offered to take on her duties while she was tending to their newborns but he knew next to nothing about her craft - only which mushrooms to seek to put him into the Berserker Mode, that poppy seeds worked as painkillers, and that saltwater was good for cleansing wounds. Basic, field surgery things. Ragnar shook his head to dispel those thoughts - in the end it would be what it would be, and gradually the fur that had bristled slightly had laid back down along his spine until he was limping once more, stoic and calm along the borders, ears, eyes, and nose vigilant as always.

Ragnar was not yet aware of what had transpired between Gavriil and Pump — though he had been aware that Gavriil had intended to court Pump and even at that, had been the encouraging push behind the other man’s audacity to approach Pump regarding it. Of course, when he did learn of it — because certainly Gavriil would eventually be hunting him down to either tell him he succeeded or failed — Ragnar would ascertain that he would have handled it in a very different way than his friend had done it. Then again, maybe being bold was better to be left for a ruthless creature like Ragnar where rejection would only hurt his pride rather than his heart because he didn’t have one; but Ragnar was used to getting what he wanted especially when it came to women. Thistle accepting his proposal as sudden and based off of fondness for her (at first) as it had been did nothing to help the solidification that Ragnar was just that good. In fact, it hadn’t helped it at all. If Thistle would have, alternatively, rejected him Ragnar would have licked his wounded pride, suffered through his inane jealousy and that would have been that.

Looking back on it, knowing that he was inherently and wholly in love with Thistle, he could not imagine his life without her by his side. Maybe wolves like Gavriil were meant to be more subtle with the fairer sex than wolves like Ragnar. Ragnar was assertive and cruel and carefree when it came to silly things like emotions, and Gavril …wasn’t. Perhaps advice of what Ragnar would do was worse than no advice at all. Pump’s voice called out to him and Ragnar paused in his limping patrolling to peer back at his shoulder over the hybrid woman who approached him — bizarrely with a smile and a secretive glint in her eyes.

For a second, the Viking contemplated being coy and assuming that things had went well between Gavriil and her but something (thankfully) held him back. “Always,” The Viking let out a laugh, a coy smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, as per usual for Ragnar. “Maybe once the children are born she’ll worry about them more than she will me,” Though Ragnar adored the attentions of his wife, he also thought she worried too much. He had no intention of dying any time soon — Odinn had promised him a long and fulfilling life and Ragnar trusted and was confident in his God’s promises. Then again, that was a part of what marriage was about: worrying about one another until you were nestled safe in each other’s arms once more. It seemed to Ragnar that he had an extraordinary ability of keeping Thistle on her toes. “You look like a woman with a secret.” Her Second in Command spoke, turning the focus to her, then, studying her as she approached.

Would Ragnar not have suspected that Pump was joking with him — despite how strange it was to hear Pump joke of whom Ragnar had with obvious falseness assumed was only serious all the time (even if it sounded ridiculous) — he might have taken offense to her words. However, her tone was light, teasing and it was easy for him to pick up on the fact that she was, indeed, just poking fun at him. He ignored her jest though this was mostly because he was unable to come up with something adequate to say in return; thusly he settled for an incredulous snort and offered his hybrid Queen a wolfish, perhaps even impish grin. It would seem to the Viking, that her definition of baby and his were two entirely different definitions that did not match whatsoever.

“I am,” Ragnar agreed gravely, acknowledging that, he too, was a keeper of secrets. Many, many secrets. With Pump’s last question about his shoulder — he was momentarily confused before he realized that she was making reference to his leg/hip and just got them mixed up — their …if one dared to even call it playful air was gone and in it’s place a strict business-like atmosphere. “You mean this?” He shifted to expose his leg/hip, the three claw marks slathered with the minty, sickly colored paste Thistle concocted for it to help it heal and keep out potential infection — Ragnar also suspected it was to keep him from biting at the flesh there when it itched, Thistle was learning his tricks and getting craftier in response it seemed apparent to the Viking — to Pump, before he reshifted his stance so it wasn’t in her direct line of eyesight. “It is fine. They are not deep wounds.” He shrugged it off because even if they weren’t fine, and even if they weren’t shallow wounds (luckily for everyone involved they were fine and shallow) he wouldn’t let it stop him, regardless.

"Your back is well?" Her Second in Command inquired, less out of the fact that it was a common courtesy and more out of his own, personal curiosity than anything else.

She brushed off his subtle correction — if indeed anything could be considered subtle with the Viking — and had equally as he brushed off his own wounds, listened as she brushed off her back. Likely, she had not gotten as injured as he but even then Ragnar hardly considered his wounds to be anything more than scratches. He listened patiently, thoughtfully when Pump declared that there would be a hunt. His eyes, a shining Caribbean blue followed the direction of her muzzle of where she had supposedly seen the herd and nodded gravely when she spoke that they had the sea and their numbers working to their greater advantage. “I will be sitting this hunt out,” He spoke, then, breaking his silence upon the matter which had lingered until he felt sure she had finished speaking. Not just because of his wounds but also because of his children which would probably maybe be born by that time. Besides those two facts he was — while perfectly capable of hunting — no Gameskeeper. “The herd should be less frightening than the bear,” Ragnar spoke making reference to the fact that he, too, had noticed the lack of their pack members that had not at all came to aid them in driving out the bear. “Though they should be more frightened of me than of any old bear.” He wasn’t happy that most of them had ignored Pump’s call — a call to arms to protect what was theirs and to protect their land.

“Maybe one of the aspiring Gamekeepers can take the lead on the hunt. It will give them experience if nothing else.” Ragnar suggested quietly to his hybrid co-leader, glimpsing down at her as his words filled the void of silence he had previously left.

It had been a hard thing to say for Ragnar, to tell Pump that he intended to sit out the hunt and let the other take his place during it; even so it had been the right choice. His wounds would not be healed by the time she decided to take action on the herd and he would either harm himself further by tearing at the wounds, or cost the pack their victory because of his temporary slowness. Besides that it wasn’t really fair, the Viking considered, that Thistle had to sit everything out alone. It would be easier, also, to keep his newborn sons safe when he was lingering close by. Ragnar had half expected Pump to comment on his decision though it had been made and would not be swayed, though the silver Viking appreciated the lack thereof, nevertheless.

His head lowered them to sniff at the breeze that blew around his paws, black, leathery nostrils working to inhale and analyze the scents it carried. Once he was satisfied there was nothing unusual upon it he glimpsed back up at Pump, tail brushing against his hind legs, sweeping near the paste Thistle had smoothed on it, as he listened to Pump’s following words about forgiveness for those who did not join in the bear chase. It had been a pathetic display of the pack’s supposed might and though Pump was easy to forgive, Ragnar was not. “Why are they forgiven?” Ragnar asked, remembering the conditions of which she had promoted him to her Second in Command upon. He wasn’t supposed to hold back and thus the Viking had no intentions of it now. “It was threatening our livelihood, our lives and they couldn’t be bothered to aid us? If they had we could have killed it and eaten like Kings for a month!” If Ragnar had still been in the Cove, still the reigning Jarl of it and something like that had happened he would have brought each one in for questioning and decided punishment for their apathy based upon what they told him.

This was not Odinn's Cove, and Ragnar was only the Second In Command and he could only tell Pump his opinion on the matter.

“What if that had been another pack, hmm? That came in to raid us? They would have made off with all of our food, and maybe killed one or two of us and then what? Would they be so easily forgiven because of fear? We might be strong in numbers but that was a humiliating show of how weak we are. Numbers do not equal strength. Unity is strength. I led a team of seven Berserkers and we were able to raid, kill and take prisoners with minimal injuries. Occasionally a casualty but not many.” Of course, his culture was starkly different and he was a man made for combat. Born battle ready. Or, if the whispers of those packs were to believed they were nothing more then demons. Devils. “I do not think they should just be forgiven.” He concluded with a coy smirk in his hybrid leader’s direction. Ragnar realized and understood in the end it was her decision to make and that when she made it final to him he had no choice but to accept it. All he could do was speak his mind about it, even if it was in disagreement with her opinion, and wait for her ultimatum.

The conversation took a twist then, surprisingly, to Nerian. He looked at Pump and then to the trees of Ravensblood in the distance, where he could swear he heard the whispers of Odinn, summoning into the forest’s depths. Summoning him home, but Ragnar had turned, however briefly it was to be, away from his ambition in that respect, putting his family before his own desires. He had a wife, had children to think about now and it was not as simple as it had once been. He sighed heavily and then, gradually fixed his eyes back on Pump. “I know the Priestess, yes,” He spoke, conforming what she had likely already gathered. “She says she can track weather patterns,” Which had never made any sense to Ragnar because Thor created storms. How could she predict Thor’s mood? No one could predict Thor’s mood especially because it was known for being rather fickle. “and cycles of the moon. It is supposed to be helpful for hunts, and breeding or something.” Since the role of ‘naturalist’ clashed and contradicted his religion greatly Ragnar was privy to believing it was a bunch of crap, but she believed she could do it and who was he to tell her otherwise? “Apparently it is useful.” And then the harshness of his face softened, if only in a small measure. “She is loyal and will do anything you ask of her, besides.” He could witness to the fact that she was loyal to almost a fault if it ever came up to question. How many times had he told her she could leave — even when Sif had let Nerian leave the Cove — she had came right back to Ragnar like a shadow.

If he had known that Pump did not think their attack had been weak he would have disagreed. Less than half of the pack had arrived to deal with it and they — all of them — were just lucky that serious injuries, or death, had been avoided. Ragnar had taken the worst of the bear’s ire and though he might have argued that it had not been luck but fate that the bear had not ripped him to pieces, it was something he realized could have been a whole lot worse. The fact that they could have killed it, if more had shown up, hung in the air between them, taunting Ragnar. While they had managed to successful chase it out of the territory, hopefully with wounds to remember them by when it thought of coming near their land again, that did not mean they were free of it. It could come back and threaten their lives all over again. It was on this that the two found their heads butting (so to speak) Ragnar’s culture demanded punishment, he wanted those to be punished to ensure that the absolute lack of apathy did not happen again and that if it did the consequences would be severe; however, Pump did not seem to want to hear it.

There was nothing short of frustration in the Viking’s expression when she firmly closed the subject, reminding him that he had no real weight in decision making. He could talk and argue until he was blue in the face but if her mind wasn’t being swayed then she would always have her way. He thought it was a mistake to just let it go, to turn a blind eye to it and pretend it had never happened. His culture was less forgiving than the posh-ness he found here, and more and more Ragnar found it was getting harder for him to stand these “moral” wolves. They were weak because their ‘morals’ proved to weaken them, held them back. If it had been Odinn’s Cove majority of the pack would have rallied to fight the bear, and the ones who did not take up arms would be standing by the aid in injuries. “Four wolves isn’t even enough to stop a raiding party let alone a full on invasion if another pack decides to exploit us because they think we are weak.” Was all he said on the matter before he let it drop because she had won and he had lost and they would always be at odds on that particular subject. Ragnar was all for letting the enemy make a wrong assumption, it worked out well in the end; but then again it wasn’t a wrong assumption if it was true.

When the conversation made it’s way to Nerian and Pump rephrased her question he visibly hesitated. In that, she had caught him. In truth, it went against all of his beliefs that ‘Naturalist’ trade; instinctively he did not like it. If she wanted to play as a ‘Naturalist’ who was he to stop her? Just as long as she didn’t go spouting it to his face given how it more or less said his Gods did not exist and because of it he refused to believe in it. “No, I do not,” Ragnar spoke firmly. “Yet it could be argued that my Gods don’t exist, too, just because I have nothing to offer as tangible proof.” He saw Odinn, and felt their presence in many things, heard Thor in the thunder but that didn’t qualify as ‘proof’. “It is the same principle. It is what she believes in, so what is the harm in letting her believe?” It was vastly different from his own beliefs, and his beliefs were not shared here by many and yet that had not been a reason to keep him out of the pack.

Ragnar might not have fully believed that any of the packs around these Teekon Wilds were bold enough to attempt raids (he would be wrong on that assumption, but he did not know that) but considering that it was all he knew he was suspicious of it, nevertheless. The Cove had never been raided — they had always done the raiding but he had learned to expect it because it was something that he would do. That was how he thought, sometimes, contemplating what he would do as to determine if it was a threat or not; and then there were other times in which he simply chose to lay low and wait to see what would happen. While Ragnar had no particular attatchment to the land of the Ridge itself, it was their land and it was, for whatever it was worth, home. The thought of fleeing it just because someone rose to arms against them was cowardly and not something that Ragnar had in him to do. He could not flee, not if it meant the enemy winning and pushing them around.

Pump corrected her question for him — it had became apparent to the Viking that he had not fully understood her meaning — lately, he’d been struggling with that as if he were losing the fluency in which he understood the common tongue. It was true that it was not his first language but rather a secondary, learned one for the sake of being able to communicate with ‘outsiders’. Even then, Ragnar could give Pump no different answer. The wolves of Odinn’s Cove had no need for a ‘Naturalist’ and scoffed at the notion because to believe in what she said more or less went against their beliefs and culture; that the earth was ruled by pattern and not the Gods. “I do not know. I have never listened to her. We did not have any ‘naturalist’ in my Cove.” Patterns and logic had no place in the old world belief of the Viking Pagan’s. A storm was conjured because Thor was angry, proud, or excited. The moon (as was the sun) was created from the sparks of Muspell to give light to the world and the only reason each rose and fell was because of the chariots they were attached too.

It was rudimentary and resolute for Ragnar. To him, there was no other reasons for this and the connections they held were no more and no less.

Ragnar’s weight shifted and he studied Pump for a few silent moments as she spoke about wondering if they shouldn’t listen more to a naturalist. “You may listen to them but I will not,” He wasn’t trying to be rude and of course, Pump could do whatever she wanted seeing as how she was the Alpha; merely Ragnar was communicating that he would put no stock into it, if they had any wolves actively pursue the Naturalist trade. The focus of the conversation shifted to Ragnar then, surprising the silver Viking. Pump mirrored what Ragnar had told her: that he had came to the Teekon Wilds to spread his culture, to colonize here yet obviously he had yet to colonize and as for the spreading of his culture: it was a slow process. Slow because his ways and beliefs was not something that could be pushed upon someone else. It had to be wanted, to be accepted. Ragnar had decided that he would not waste his breath on wolves who showed no interest or unless he was specifically asked.

Which Pump seemed to be doing, currently. Specifically asking him to tell her about his culture.

For a few moments he stared at his hybrid alpha, perplexed. When paused to scratch behind his ear, black, leathery nostrils flaring as he inhaled and then exhaled, deeply. She had not asked for any kind of specifics and the vague ‘explain your culture to me’ wasn’t going to cut it for Ragnar. It was a vast culture and he had generations of knowledge, passed down from the Cove’s fore founders. He didn’t even know where to begin except at the very beginning to where everything — the earth, the sun, the moon — started and how it would end (since they sort of coincided). “It is a very vast subject,” He finally spoke. “What do you want to know?” Unless she really wanted to hear how he thought life had started and how it would end but it was better, Ragnar found, to find out what she was curious about and go from there.

Again, Pump was not overly specific about what she wanted to know about his culture and for a few moments Ragnar simply blinked out at the horizon. His brow had begun to furrow in concentration and the Viking offered her a momentarily silence as he contemplated and in turn, attempted to condense it. The problem with “the important bits” was that to him, everything, every single little part was important and trying to pick out bits and pieces of what he could consider as the ‘most important’ would not paint the broad picture. It was like trying to dissect something that was already dissected: impossible for him. Ragnar heaved a hefty sigh and murmured an “Ok,” not out of reluctance — he had no problem telling her only that he still was unsure how some pieces could be considered more important than others. “It is all connected, all important,” He hesitated. “But I will try to tell you the ...more important bits.” He agreed settling upon his haunches, his gaze moving back to his hybrid leader as he began to talk.