It had been with the chunk of venison clasped in his jaws that Ragnar had said his farewells to Julooke for the time being and made his way to the birthing den where Thistle and their children would, without a doubt in his mind, be. The children’s eyes had opened a few days previous and Ragnar suspected their hearing would soon follow if it hadn’t already. While the Viking, technically, wasn’t a first time parent it was his first time raising newborns which meant that he didn’t know how quickly their senses developed or which ones developed first. It was easy to assume that their sight was first because all of their eyes had opened yet he didn’t know. Maybe their hearing had began first and they — meaning @Thistle Cloud and him — were not yet aware because it wasn’t as if they could speak. Though Ragnar’s own stomach was full from sharing what Julooke and him could manage before divvying the rest up for the caches he still salivated around the meat grasped firmly in his jaws; not that Ragnar suspected his wife minded eating meat he had drooled on (wolves weren’t hygienic fanatics like humans). Considering he had no other way to carry it his saliva would have to be ignored. In Ragnar’s personal opinion he’d rather deal with saliva then dirt, though this preference was just because Ragnar didn’t really like the taste of dirt though it was in a lot of cased inherently unavoidable.

Soon, Ragnar made a mental note as he moved sleekly through the Ridge’s claimed lands, the Rite of Birth would need to be preformed, serving as the Gods’ protection and introducing the children to the pack, recognizing them as members to be protected and given the same rights as the adults of the pack. Ragnar understood that many, if not all of the Ridge’s wolves thought that it was strange — Ragnar suspected even Thistle questioned it — but he didn’t care. He wasn’t budging on it and considering he intended for their children to be apart of his culture it was imperative that he do as his culture demanded of him.

The Beta’s pace slowed as he approached the birthing den, sitting the fresh(ish) meat down at his paws on a springy patch of green grass, tail swaying against his haunches as he took a few steps back from his offering, eyes peering into the dim to dark of the den. “Ástin mín,” Ragnar called softly to his wife, ears thrusting forth atop his skull, listening for the sounds of the children hoping that he had caught them on a nap and could steal their mother away for an hour or two while they slumbered, beckoning his fawn colored shield-maiden to grace him with her majestic and beautiful presence.

Thistle’s response was soft as it rose from the darkness of the den that she and their children dwelled in, and with an unusual amount of patience the Viking reclined back upon his haunches, contented with the knowledge — brief though it probably would prove to be — that the borders were checked and re-checked by himself, Pump, and the other Wardens, that the caches were teeming with freshly caught deer thanks to Julooke (though he gave himself partial credit for it since he aided), and for once he deigned to relax and enjoy his alone time with his wife; determined not to let his plaguing territorial instincts or leader/Head Warden stresses intrude where they were, currently, not wanted. This was Thistle’s time to hold his attention undivided. Most of the time they talked about him, his work, or the children. Today, Ragnar had decided, they would talk about her.

“It is,” Ragnar responded exposing the strong curve of his spine as he pushed it towards her with his muzzle. He did not tell her that it had been the combined effort of Julooke and himself, for she could probably figure it out herself as Julooke’s scent probably lingered on the savage’s fur. The brush of her muzzle along the length of his sparked the familiar and nearly debilitating electricity that surged through him at her touch as if he was a conduit for it as it pulled him towards her like gravity — undeniable, everlasting and constant. She spoke that the children would be able to eat regurgitated meat the following day and for a moment Ragnar considered that it meant he would have to make sure to hunt enough for both the children and Thistle — considering she would be vomiting up the children’s meat for them. Though he did intent to deftly turn the conversation to her, eventually, he wondered if maybe she could tell when they would be weaned from her milk. It was her body after all. “Will they be weaned soon?” He inquired softly. It would make it easier for him to watch them and would allow her the freedom of being gone for longer periods of time and as soon as he performed the Rites of Birth he could enlist Julooke or Gavriil (of whom he had decided he trusted) to watch them when Thistle wanted time away and Ragnar was tied up elsewhere.

“I don’t want to talk about the children anymore,” They were all loved and an important part of the couples’ life certainly, but there were other aspects to their relationship like their love, and passion. Each other. “Today is your day. We can do whatever you want, talk about whatever you want,” That was probably contradicting especially if it was the children she wanted to speak of but he wouldn’t have cared if she pointed it out to him. If it was what she wanted to talk about then it was fine. “I am yours to command, mínn dróttning.” Ragnar murmured in a conspirator’s tone, his coy smirk nothing short of wicked as it tugged at the edges of his lips.

Once more Ragnar’s lack of knowledge on his infants’ development was exposed to Thistle though the Viking didn’t mind because it wasn’t as if it could be helped. He might have been older than Thistle, more experienced than his fawn colored Shieldmaiden but this …they were exploring together though so far Ragnar realized and recognized that Thistle was much better at it than he. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she had actually carried and given birth to the children, maybe, the Viking considered, her body was telling her things that his simply couldn’t. “They will be two months when they are weaned?” It was less of a question and more of a rumbling statement of confirmation. In that case, Thistle had some time to go before she could truly be free of the den for long periods of time without having to come back for feeding, but at least after the Rites were performed she would be able to get out of the den and could leave the children in Julooke or Gavriil’s care for a period of time. While they were on the topic of children Ragnar inquired, “Do you think you will be ready in your next heat cycle to have more children?” her body would be and Ragnar desired to have lots of children but he understood that wasn’t a choice he could make for her; and was only as good as if Pump gave them permission but Ragnar knew that he might not be able to stop himself if she was in heat around him. He had done a very piss poor job of stopping himself the first time and they hadn’t even been mates back then.

At least next time they would be a little better prepared and could enlist the assistance of their three children already to help in rearing the newest ones, both as their duty as older siblings and to teach them about infants in the hopes that it would better prepare them for their futures as parents so they did not have to stumble so much as Ragnar and Thistle did.

The noise that left his wife’s mouth as she chewed a small chunk of the venison he had presented to her caused him to grin at the lovely sound, studying her with savage passion and feral love in his eyes. Fierce and unyielding. It was a unusual thing how something so simple could seem to give her so much joy (as Ragnar assumed) but also her joy was infectious. It reached out to grasp the Viking in it’s warm embrace until he felt joy just because she did; and perplexed Ragnar if only because he wasn’t sure what to make of it — feeling things because she felt them. Perhaps it was apart of the couples’ experience though he doubted that if only because he had never felt anything his previous wives had felt before; or maybe it meant that some deeper force was at work.

“I have been using it more with others, too,” Even though Ragnar understood that the chances of any of the other wolves understanding it was extremely slim. He had began to use it more for the sake of his children so they might know both languages fluently as he did, but he was also giving Thistle and Julooke lessons in it, as well. “It means,” Ragnar gave a pause here, lowering his muzzle towards her ear so he might whisper it’s meaning lowly so only she could hear it to enhance the effect of his words and because it left the clever Viking feeling conspiratorial by calling Thistle a title that by all claims technically belonged to Pump. “my queen.” He pulled back then, shifting his weight on his haunches slightly, leveling his stare at her so he might see her reaction.

Procreating was usually on Ragnar’s mind in some shape or form given his near single-minded drive to have the many sons that the Seer had predicted he would have. Already, he had three of them and though none were of his seed the fact of the matter was that he was their father and his ideals would be carried on through them since genetics were currently out of the question. Permission. There wasn’t a word he loathed more when it was applied to him. His time as Jarl of the Cove had not done wonders to his domineering tendencies and the fact that he had to go to another wolf and grovel and beg to be allowed to mate when even if it was denied he would likely do it anyway. It wasn’t as if Horizon Ridge was their only option, and though the Viking had focused his energy where it was most needed currently he had not forgotten the groundwork he had lain to claim Ravensblood Forest and build a pack there. As it stood he could call the wolves who had agreed to follow him to his side and have the lands claimed before nightfall; but it wasn’t practical not yet, at least. Though Ragnar desired to go off and find Pump to ask for breeding rights for Thistle’s next season right then and there he resisted because he was selfish and wanted Thistle to himself for an hour or two.

And because he was fairly certain Pump would look at him blankly and ask him why he was asking for permission for next season when his pups had only just been born; and what was he to tell her? That he was impatient and waiting to ask for permission was stupid to him? That he was a studious planner? That he was a bit of a man-whore and didn’t think he could exercise the type of restraint it took to keep from mounting any female in heat, let alone his own wife? Ragnar didn’t expect Pump to understand the latter given she wasn’t a male, still.

“I do not want to wait to ask. I want to know soon and she will probably deny me it if only because I should be focusing on the children we have now,” He liked to think he knew Pump enough to understand how her mind worked. Maybe she would prove him wrong — it was probable at least. “I do not know how to make a woman understand that your heat cycle scents drive us crazy. Some men have been known to hump logs or other men if they do not have a woman.” Once Ragnar saw a male humping a female’s face because he couldn’t get access to her reproductive organs because another man had that claimed.

“She has,” Ragnar responded. “I have been teaching her things and words, as well. She wishes to learn the language too. I believe it is so the children can’t say bad things that she won’t understand.” Ragnar laughed at the thought, though he would not put it past children to be conniving like that. He had certainly been and his brothers had followed along with Ragnar’s clever games. “I trust her. She is ambitious and has proven herself many times to me.” He had no problems admitting to Thistle what he could not admit to Julooke outright. It was not often he confessed trust to any wolf’s face, instead leaving it to be something that they realized over time. “I like her.” And if the chance ever arose he would ask her if she had any interest in following him when he decided to branch off from Pump. Originally, he had not intended to steal anyone other than Thistle and his children when he left but he wanted to at least let Julooke know that he valued her and that his offer was available whether she decided to take it or not, Verrine too since Ragnar automatically thought of them as a package deal.

She wide eyed stare accompanied by the stillness of her jaw as she chewed at the small strip of venison she had ripped off the part of the carcass he had brought her elicited a coy chuckle from Ragnar as he explained to her just how crazy the hormonal scent that the female body secreted in their heat cycle made men. “You have no idea the restraint I had to endure until you let me have you,” He murmured teasingly to her, suspecting that no one had taken the time to explain such a thing to her before. Ragnar was hardly considered timid and had no qualms about shattering his wife’s innocence on sexual subjects even if her naïve was apart of her allure though it reminded him that she was still young given that he tended to forget at times. Even as she spoke about him hiding he knew that they both knew he would never submit to something like that; he felt no need to confirm such a thing, accordingly.

She mumbled something — probably about his laugh — around her food but in the art of toying with his wife he ignored it, letting her grumble about something he suspected she really loved. As far as Ragnar was concerned he was still waiting for that ‘one of these days’ curious as to what exactly was destined to happen on said day. On the topic of Julooke it seemed that Ragnar his wife shared very much the same thought: that both wanted to ask her to join them in Ravensblood. “Verrine, too. They are a package deal though both continue to prove themselves to me individually.” Ragnar added to her desire of wanting Julooke to go with them. Of course, aside from asking, there wasn’t much they could do to convince her one way or the other but it had never hurt to ask. Ragnar had once thought of even asking Gavriil but knowing that the other man was head over heels puppy eyed for Pump Ragnar doubted he would go for it; and as it was Ragnar did not want to depart from Pump on bad terms.

Neither did he wish to challenge her — which was the main reason as to why he hadn’t done so already. Challenging was a headache because there would always be wolves loyal to the previous leader — something Ragnar had realized after he had fought Björn to the death. Which brought another aspect of why he didn’t want to challenge her for rank. In his culture, to challenge to single combat was to fight to the death and the wolf left standing was the victor. He had no interest in ending Pump’s life.

Ragnar expected that his young wife was not as knowledgeable about things as an older, more experienced woman might be; it had been proven when she had spoken as if Crete’s seed (or Ragnar’s own) would not take hold. It would have been a slim possibility of one of the males, or Thistle herself were infertile. Obviously, that was not the case. The Viking’s smirk was nothing short of devilish at her coy question — at least that was how Ragnar interpreted it. Ragnar did not think he really needed to explain it to her in the way she had ‘cured’ him of the intoxicating want of her body, amplified tenfold during her heat cycle, yet he spoke, “I could remind you of how you cured me,” anyway, throwing the offer out there with a sinful smirk that would put the deadly sin to shame.

At her question the Viking gave a lofty shrug of his broad shoulders, ears slicking back to rest half mast atop his skull though his expression held no shame in it. There was no sense in hiding the truth from her now — the idea seemed ridiculous given that they were bound to one another by Viking law and witness of the Gods. What was she going to do divorce him for admitting that he had wanted her, pretty and dainty as she was even before she had gone into heat? At first, he had wanted her as another conquest. Another woman’s body he claimed and left ravished in the line behind him but Odinn had different plans for them; and gradually desire and want had morphed into something that Ragnar had never thought himself capable of: love. “I have desired you ever since the first moment I laid eyes on you,” He admitted to her freely.

“I do not want other men near you,” He teased her, moving closer to her, “It would be a shame to have to kill them if they fall in love with you.” He partially taunted her as he nibbled at the velveteen fur of her nearest ear, smoothing his rough tongue over the downy fur there, teeth pressing against flesh in a love bite knowing that those words probably made him the world’s biggest hypocrite. Especially so, given that he had disapproved of her jealousy of Nerian; even though he thought it was ridiculous because while the idea of offering a polygamy relationship to both women had, admittedly, crossed the man’s mind it was Thistle that owned his heart. And it wasn’t his fault that he was a selfish, posessive man and did not exactly like the idea of a man claiming Nerian when she belonged to him in a very literal way. “Yes, he serves under me as an aspiring warden, and as a fellow aspiring outrider,” Ragnar offered through the context of his thoughts, proving that men could, for whatever it was worth, multitask — though as far as outrider was concerned the Beta turned to his subordinate whom seemed to have more knowledge on that trade. “Both Julooke and him are also going for Gamekeeper. They keep busy, and both seem to actively seek my approval.” Despite that it wasn’t Ragnar’s approval they really needed (well maybe as far as the warden thing went but even then Pump made the final decisions).

Ragnar watched as his wife drew nearer to him and whispered in a tone that he took to be seductive into his ear, which twitched towards her in response to the drift of her breath against the velveteen fur that lined there. “Is that a challenge?” Ragnar asked her watching as she pulled back from him, her smile sly and her eyes alight with a fire that he hoped only he had the pleasure of knowing as she seat herself across from him. Whether it had been a challenge or not, Ragnar did not immediately rise to take it but instead reclined upon his own haunches, black, leathery nose twitching when she spoke her joy at having all of his lusting thoughts to herself. The Viking grinned at her in a cheeky and wolfish manner, tail swishing against the earth once, twice, before it moved to lay against his side. “Can you handle them, wife?” He taunted her coyly just because he wanted to tease her. Thistle had proven able to handle them so far, to handle him with a surprising amount of grace and patience. His attentions had been used to flitting from female to female as they sashayed his way, giving to the thrill of the chase they presented …and something the lack of a chase and them throwing them away after he had gotten what he wanted from them.

Gradually, as Ragnar had begun to fall in love with Thistle that desire had faded. In a way, it was nice to settle down and love only one woman, knowing that with her his future held some semblance of certainty and security, and that she would give him the sons he desired in time.

“Here I thought I was the only stubborn one,” He murmured into the flesh of her throat as he tucked his head under her chin and nipped at the silky fur and soft flesh there, teasing and testing to see how much she trusted him as his lips moved lower letting a trail of sultry kisses down the curve of her neck lingering for a few prolonged moments over her jugular. It was not a threatening gesture made by Ragnar but he was curious to see if she recoiled or allowed him his play of kisses over her most vulnerable part of her body. Having decided that he had tortured her enough he smoothed his tongue over her fur once before he pulled back .

“But I hold no real power. Pump makes the decisions. I’m just …her advisor, the muscle as I told you before.” That was the best way he could describe the terms in which Pump had promoted him. He could voice his opinions — and he did — but she would decide whether or not to listen to them. Most of the time, the Viking felt, she didn’t listen to them if they disagreements on many things was of any indication.

The look that crossed the wife of Ragnar’s face was one that spoke of intense concetration and for the briefest of moments Ragnar had fallen for it, stunned that she actually had to think about it. The question itself had been simple: was it a challenge? If it was Ragnar would have no qualms about rising to meet it and if it wasn’t he intended to grumble about how his wife was a stríða: a tease. Any lingering tendril of doubt the Viking might have had about Thistle’s desire for him vanished when the smile lit up her face her words came out as a taunting question. Did he want it to be a challenge? Yes, he rather thought that he did wish for it to be a challenge. He offered her an impish, coy little grin when she stated to him with defiance that she could handle his lecherous thoughts and then some; reminding Ragnar that the naive, innocent little girl (maybe not little) she had been when he had scooped her up as his fourth wife was …maybe not gone but at least mostly absent these days. He liked that she could keep him on his toes, though. The more he watched Thistle come into herself, who she truly was under the overly trusting demeanor she had had when he had first meant her, the stronger she proved to be. She was not meek, or what Ragnar would even consider cute or pretty anymore. She was beautiful. A woman. A shield maiden.

Even if she, herself, did not take note of the changes Ragnar had.

“Right,” Ragnar murmured in a soft chuckle, dubious but laced with faux belief as sarcasm lined her words. Thistle corrected him that he did have power (he rather thought he didn’t), that Pump trusted him (he got that much, at least) and though he had never cleared with her if it had been in his power to accept loners at the borders he had accepted Julooke and Verrine though, both were proving to be valuable assessts to Horizon Ridge. “That is true,” Ragnar conceded; and it was enough. For now. His eyes had been trained on the horizon, missing the sly smile that had crossed his wife’s face as she leaned in and nipped at the short, silken fur that lined his jaw. “How impressive, I wonder?” The Viking taunted her absently itching to lean into each love bite she left along his jaw but resisting, curious as to his own limitations when it came to Thistle.

Thistle chortled at Ragnar’s confusion and instinctively his eyes narrowed at the sound of mirth slipping from betwixt his wife’s lips. It was a sound he enjoyed, without a doubt, but he was not pleased that it was at his expense leaving him with the distinct feeling that she was laughing at him as opposed to with him (despite that he, himself, was not laughing). He gave her a wryly smirk as she sauntered up to him, the glint in her eyes enough to arouse the Viking’s anticipation. She rose on her hind legs to wrap her forelegs around his neck, her eyes, for once, level with his. They were beautiful azure blue gems set into her skull, the color of the deep ocean. While they were normally what Ragnar would consider soft, the edge of mischief had sharpened them and almost hungrily in the few seconds they stayed like that, the savage sought the windows to her soul, enjoying what he expressive things he saw there before the moment was broken as she slid back down to all fours.

“No more than I am, wife,” He jeered at her playfully on the topic of her always being right. “Do you think so, Thistle?” He whispered ardently into her ear, in turn, after she had whispered in his. If anyone knew how impressive his muscles were he supposed it would be Thistle …along with his three past wives and conquests. Ragnar was arrogant enough that he very much enjoyed the attention, enjoyed knowing that Thistle found him physically attractive when so many other women had blanched at the scars that branded his face. They had looked dominantly at the unmarred half of his face, handsome enough to obviously offset the ugliness on the left side (not that Ragnar though Odinn’s mark was ugly).

Ragnar smiled at her, avoiding the coy smirks she was probably used too, in part because he knew the effect his genuine smiles had upon her and because she could make him smile; because she held that power. It seemed his wife had a penchant for teasing him — and oh she did it so well — with her coy words and her nips and the lash of her teeth through his fur, the feel as she tugged at his shoulder. “Then you can show me just how impressive you believe me to be, wife.” He invited moving into the shadows of the woodland while also putting hearing distance between them and the children since he suspected they could hear and while they were still young it wasn’t a conversation he hoped to have with them any time soon.