Ragnar, as he sat like a scarred, impassive and stoic stone in the shadow and shades of the trees lining the Sea Lion Shore back a ways from the ocean, wondered how many times Pump and him would disagree on something before the tension became too high, too palpable. The more times Ragnar was left with the remembrance that he had no real pull in Horizon Ridge he was left feeling more frustrated and angrier than he had been previously. The whole situation with the Isle had him beyond irritated, and horrendously territorial and he desired that something be done about it before the situation became something uncontained and Pump disagreed with him on the grounds that they had yet to encroach on hunting grounds or cause any trouble for the Ridge wolves. That was a convenient answer; peaceful when Ragnar wanted to be anything but peaceful. He wanted to watch them struggle to live for their idiocy, for the eventual encroaching on their hunting grounds. It was a relief, almost, to Ragnar who had been afraid that he had been becoming ‘tame’ in these posh lands. He was still every bit the savage he had been since birth and no amount of ball and chain would ever change that. His blatant disregard for the Isle packs’ lives, the fantasy that while his children ate like Kings and they starved on their secluded Isle made him smirk with the idea of twisted justice proved as much.

He let Pump have her peaceful ways because he respected her but respect would only get her so far. In truth, Ragnar felt disappointment in her. He had thought she was like him and yet every time she shot him down, so to speak, he was left with the facing realization that they were not so alike as he had first thought.

Movement caught his eye and reeled back in his wandering attention, icy, Caribbean blue eyes zeroing in on the girl with the sharpness of a predator. Black, leathery nostrils flared as he inhaled her scent carried to him on the nearly constant breeze of the ocean. She smelled like saltwater and faintly where it had not washed away of Swiftcurrent Creek. For the second time in a week Ragnar found himself in the indirect presence of a Creek wolf very far from home. It was enough to stoke the fires of his curiosity and as the Viking approached her he let out a bark of subdued greeting, to alert her to his presence.

The woman had noticed his bark, it would seem, as the Viking melted from out of the shadows he had been hiding within figuring he might as well warn the woman that she might get slapped for trespassing because according to the wolves of the Isle they owned both the Isle and Sea Lion Shore. They didn’t, of course, and the amusement of it made him want to urinate all over the beach just to see what they would do, but for some unfathomable reason, the Viking restrained himself. That would be sinking to their level and Ragnar wanted, desperately, to believe that he and his were more superior than them in every way. He was not one that typically held grudges, and really he couldn’t even consider what he felt as a grudge because it wasn’t. It was territorialness, a single minded drive to push those who were encroaching upon the Ridge’s doorstep and their pre-established hunting grounds to their demise be it fleeing or death. Whichever came first.

The woman returned his bark, which Ragnar considered unnecessary as he had merely let the sound go to alert her to his oncoming presence but chose to pick his battles and let it go, stopping his approach as she, too, began to cross the distance between them. For a moment he watched her, the breeze off the ocean salty, kissing at his fur which would, without a doubt, prove to be sticky with it later. She greeted him in a manner that was very prim and proper, reminiscent of the Princess that he had met shortly before he raided her pack. A coy smirk tugged at the edges of his lips as she called him ‘sir’. Ragnar was no Sir. That was a title wolves like her slapped on men to make them seem more polite. He was not polite, either.

“You’re a long way from home,” The Viking observed nonchantly, eyes burning with the question he did not ask why?. “I would be careful around here. The wolves that have claimed that Isle,” He gestured with his muzzle to it with evident disgust on his face. “Apparently think they have a right to these shores. They don’t, of course, but you might be accused of trespassing and be, amusingly, threatened.” Ragnar still thought the whole ideal was hilarious and it was a cruel mirth that danced upon the marred plains of his face.