Ragnar did not seem to hold the fact that Sköll had lost his sibling(s) in any way against him and the Tiny Viking felt a great measure of relief when Ragnar had still, despite being told that, wished for Sköll to be apart of the Horizon Ridge where more wolves could speak his native tongue and translating wouldn’t be put in the paws of a single woman. Sköll did not particularly (call it a burst of male pride) enjoy having to rely upon anyone to be his voice when he clearly had a voice he simply did not know very many common tongue words. Upon his arrival in the Ridge just as night had began to fall — after sending a howl to the Isle wolves to, hopefully, communicate simply that he was leaving, before he headed in the direction Ragnar had commanded him to go where, as he promised, the platinum silver Viking had been found waiting — Sköll had hunted with the Beta and had mixed a concoction of mud, blackened by the crimson of blood and with the assistance of the scarred man had drawn the blackened (in some lights dark crimson) mixture like slashes down his cheek/muzzle with a talon ripped from a bird carcass.

Sköll had kept the talon, it’s tip stained with the dark coloration of the mixture that now marred his face, knowing he would have to replace the mixture every two week or so depending on how quickly it faded off. His father, Floki, had began the practice of the mud/blood mixture, the smearing of it on to their fur. If it held any semblance he had never told Sköll even as he aided their young son and his wife, Helga, in marking them as Helga had aided in marking him…well any semblance besides distinguishing them as a family (if that was at all possible).

He had spent the night out in the open, enjoying the stars and the slim sliver of moon that reminded him of Hati if only because of the moon’s relation to her namesake; when morning broke, the day partially cloudy just as it had been the previous day he rose and stretched, filled his stomach with something from the caches, making a mental note to at least replace what he had eaten and began to explore the territory.

It was strange, bearing the still drying markings that his father had used to paint upon him every two weeks. It should not have been strange, Sköll realized, and yet despite what it should have or should not have been: it was. When he had began his journey with Hati he had been freshly painted but the marks had began to smudge and smear and run with the battlement of storms and weather and just daily wear and tear the two had endured as they made the trek to the Teekon Wilds in search of Ragnar; when Kenna’s youngest child (and only girl) had became separated from him he had nearly forgotten everything else in his panic — even eating until his stomach was so empty that it had began to hurt. Killing himself as he had desperately searched for Hati was stupid, Sköll knew and so he forced himself to focus on keeping his strength up and getting to the Wilds so much that anything trivial such as the painted markings had literally flown by the wayside.

As silly as it sounded, even in Sköll’s head, the drying paint reminded him of home. It made him feel a little more less timid, stronger, more confident; and it was silly how something so menial could almost change his demeanor exhibited by the wolves of the Isle entirely.

At the command to stop coming from somewhere behind him, Sköll, immediately, obeyed and peered over his shoulder at the grey dappled woman. He recognized her, in the same sense that he might recognize a family member he hadn’t seen since his birth. It was a vague sort of familiarity though he assumed she, too, had came from the Cove because she had commanded him in his native tongue. Brow furrowed as blazing orange eyes took her in, settling upon her as he tried, and failed, to recall where he had seen her before, going off the inkling that he had indeed seen her before. “Þekki ég þig?” Sköll asked her as he turned so they were formally facing one another, brow still furrowed as he attempted to puzzle it out.