Many things kept bringing him to the Sea Lion Shore and the Totoka River, his guard on high alert. They were not directly on the Ridge’s land but they were more or less their proverbial back yard. The fact that they were free territories would have made it hard for someone other than Ragnar to decide to approach the pack that he all but assumed was founded on the Isle — literally on the Ridge’s doorstep — in regards to being on hunting grounds. Then again, Ragnar had no regard for the lives of wolves aside from the ones that resided in Horizon Ridge — even then his regard was sometimes shaky in the case of Diluculo. He didn’t care about them, about their pack. He had raided numerous packs during his time as a Berserker in Odinn’s Cove even when he had been training, and even more when he had been the Cove’s reigning Jarl. If he had ever showed a penchant for caring towards strangers it had been terminated very early in his life. There were times, rare though they were, when he had stepped in to save a wolf for whatever reason had urged him too. In hindsight, telling them they would be met with hostility on and off the Ridge’s borders would be measurably easy for the Viking.

Ragnar was nothing short of territorial and the birth of his children had only intensified what was already bad to begin with making those savage instincts measurably worse. His steps carried him from the tall grasses onto the shore itself, leaving large paw prints behind him in the sand as he walked, for once only part of his attention focused on the Isle. The other half of his attention was focused on a distinctly canine shape in the distance. Black, leathery nostrils flared considering that she the scent on the breeze told him might be apart of the Isle pack but stopped when the scent struck him as familiar. She smelled of Swiftcurrent Creek, known to the Viking because he had met with both of their leaders (though at the times he had came across Bazi she had not been a leader) and as far as Ragnar was aware his eldest son still resided there (little did he know Sveinn hadn’t been there in quite some time). “You are far from Swiftcurrent Creek,” Ragnar observed his soft, heavily accented voice breaking through the …something of a silence, reaching out to her as he approached her, stoic.

It had been some time since Ragnar had last been in contact with a Swiftcurrent Creek wolf — the last time had been with Bazi and Ragnar was fairly certain she thought him some insane zealot — and longer since he had inquired about his eldest son. Icy, Caribbean blue eyes studied this girl before him pensively wondering if she might know of Týr or at least might be able to tell him of the boy’s welfare. She was a small thing and seemed timid still, her stuttering had led the Viking to believe. Or perhaps it was just Ragnar’s assertive and imposing presence that gave him the impression that the girl was fearful of him. Or maybe it had something to do with his scars, either way he did not intend to ask so he shrugged it off as what it was: unavoidable.

At her question Ragnar glimpsed out, coldly, at the Isle, the sea breeze ruffling through the fur along the nape of his neck, giving the impression that he had bristled. He had not but was fairly close to it. “It is called Wheeling Gull Isle,” Ragnar obliged the girl and then added with a tone as cold as ice. “It was recently claimed by a very foolish man.” Ragnar made no attempts to hide his repugnance towards Majesty because the Viking thought he was exactly that: a fool. No true leader (as far as Ragnar thought) would claim a land so near three pre-established packs, two of which were the oldest packs in the Wilds. It hadn’t been a wise move and the Isle wolves would realize that, eventually. The wolves of Horizon Ridge and Silvertip Mountain (and Blacktail Deer Plateau if they wanted) had every right to make their lives a living hell and if the platinum silver Savage had his way that was exactly what he intended on doing. “Why do you ask?”