Gradually, Ragnar had begun to spread the message of the Stavanger Bay that Odinn in a raven form, as Ragnar believed the one eyed raven whom he glimpsed from time to time within the territory, had led him (and essentially Julooke who had been following him) to. To Ragnar, the intent of the All-Father was clear. He had once held Ravensblood Forest it utter reverence and had believed he felt the God’s presence there but he also felt it, more powerful in the earth beneath his paws of this Bay. Their Bay. This was where they were meant to be and beyond the belief that his Gods thrummed life into this ancient place they had found it was, more importantly safe and abundant with prey, their trails could be scented going every which way in the forest from deer to elk to even goat and wild sheep. They would not go hungry and they were far enough west and north that there was a good measure of distance between them and the other packs of the Teekon Wilds. It was new and Ragnar did not make a habit out of uprooting packs (at least not his own) but this Bay felt right to the newly Christened alpha. Something Horizon Ridge had not felt in quite some time …besides he had began to harbor the suspicion that the Ridge lands were cursed given the two major tragedies that had befell them within months of one another and the arrival of the Isle wolves.

Ragnar was a stubborn beast, and he did not back down; did not believe in retreat. This wasn’t retreat, this wasn’t surrender, this was a gathering of the facts, the relentless press of two major threats against them: the Isle wolves and now the bear that had stolen Pump’s life, and deciding to take the best course of action for the pack as a whole. It wasn’t about what Ragnar wanted anymore…he couldn’t afford to think so selfishly as their sole leader. He was doing what he believed to be for the absolute best for the pack so they might be allowed to grow and flourish, prosper; so that future generations: Ragnar’s and any other mated couple’s to be in their ranks could grow up without the worry of starvation or being slaughtered by a bear.

Granted, they could stay and they could fight but as a commander it wasn’t a smart tactic when they had better options lain before them that kept his wolves alive. That was the best course of action even in raids: keeping men alive and avoiding needless bloodshed.

He paused in his urination of the borders he had already marked, re-enforcing them when Thistle’s howl rose into the crisp, warm, slightly foggy morning. It had been a sound of joy that had lifted from his wife’s lips something that made the Viking smile as he considered that he had not expected to see something such as joy from his wife for some time given how hard his sand colored Shield Maiden had taken Pump’s death. It had hit Ragnar hard, too, and he had mourned for a brief bit but had said his goodbyes to Pump and celebrated that she was now in Valhalla and not suffering as she had suffered when the creature had attacked her and severed her spine in two and then had dragged her broken and still alive body along the shore (despite that he knew she hadn’t believed). She felt no pain, now. His culture celebrated death perhaps because they were so certain they knew what was waiting for them. It might have been wrong to other wolves but it was Ragnar’s culture and while her absence still hurt he could not let it keep him from doing what he needed to do.

He lowered his leg and took a deep breath. It was a lot of work for one man. Others had been by to assist, he could smell them over his own scent but the idea of enlisting Thistle was too good to pass up. He moved towards the direction her howl had rose from, shrugging through the shrubbery and fog and called out in a sharp whisper, “Thistle!” when he had found her and when he had his wife’s attention he gestured with his muzzle in the direction of the borders. “I want your help marking the borders.” Mostly because it was a lot of urination and he was pretty sure he didn’t have anymore left.

He cut through the fog, thick but not dense, already burning off by the morning sun …or perhaps it was becoming thinner the closer Ragnar drew to the inlet where Thistle’s call had originated from. The snaking river cut through the western part of the ancient forest providing a fresh water source not only for the wolves that would soon inhabit this territory, but the prey that he had scented that frequented this Bay as well. At any rate it was becoming easier for Ragnar to navigate it as he weaved through the thick, towering trees, low hanging branches and thickened bark like tough leather snagging at his fur as he shouldered past, brushing against them as he moved, ducking his head in the nick of time to avoid being smacked in the face by said, low hanging branches forcing his body to do some kind of limbo as he slid under them. Odinn (or rather the one eyed raven that Ragnar had himself absolutely perhaps in a mad zealot manner convinced was Odinn) came and went, studying the wolves progress with his single beady little eye. Ragnar would catch the magnificent avian form of the All-Father from time to time, renewed in what he took to mean that he had not lost the All-Father’s favor and that his wolves, too, through him had it as well.

The forest thrummed with the life of his Gods, a much lighter feeling than the darker feeling he had felt in Ravensblood and did not question that Stavanger Bay was where they were meant to be. Besides the fact that Odinn had led him here, it felt right and safe to the Viking, so far from the other packs and nestled contentedly as it was like the Vale had been. Far from Horizon Ridge where death haunted every corner of the living. The lands were cursed and the sooner he freed his wolves from it, the better.

The Viking melted from the creeping fog as if he had been born from it’s writhing depths, icy Caribbean blue eyes touching upon the familiar form of his shield maiden as he waited for her response. He drew nearer to her when she turned to face him, smiling softly at her when she spoke to him in his native tongue, eyes going instinctively to the tear tracks that still stained her fur, that were still fresh and felt his heart give a tight and painful palpitation in his chest at the sight. He knew she was mourning their previous alpha’s death …possibly the hardest for out of all of them Thistle was the only one that could claim she had known the hybrid woman the longest. In a way, Gavriil’s unexplained and sudden departure from the Ridge two weeks ago suddenly made Ragnar glad for the simple fact of how the lovesick man would have reacted to the death of the woman he loved. Selfishly, so very dark and selfish was the thought that Ragnar was glad it had not been Thistle that the bear had slaughtered that came along with the thought that Pump had been the eye of a man’s affections. To even consider it was enough to nearly send the man into a natural born blood frenzy and so he shook off that secret and selfish little twinge of joy and hid it deep, deep inside himself for no one to know of because the truth of it was he would have rather no one had been killed by the demonic bear.

Ragnar had only wished he’d have been able to keep Thistle from seeing that. Seeing Pump’s broken and mutilated body her spine jutting in a grotesque manner from her skin. It had to be harder still knowing Thistle’s trade and having to accept that there was no small miracle that was going to fix her. He drew his muzzle alongside hers and drew his tongue against each tear track that stained her fur. “We do not cry for our dead, my love,” He reminded her gently, his soft, heavily accented voice a soothing whisper. “We celebrate their life with us and the accomplishment of making it to Valhalla with Odinn and his glorious Valkyries, where they train all day and then fest and drink with the Gods all night.” Of course, it was likely easier for him to accept this as truth because he had been raised that way, on the belief that death was not a sorrowful occasion — at least not on the grander scale of things. It would always bring sorrow for those close to them; Ragnar, too, felt sorrow at Pump’s passing for the woman was not just his co-leader but she had been his friend as well even if they had not seen eye to eye on many things. He had without a doubt respected her greatly, and still did. Her death did not change that.

Ragnar pulled away from her then, breaking the intimate contact with his wife and led the way to the borders, peering back every now and then to make sure she was still following him. He paused for a moment as he reached them, lowering his nose to the ground to sniff for the fog was still thick though he could see the harsh light of the sun attempting to burn it’s way through it. “I do not believe I’m ever going to be able to relieve myself again,” He spoke in jest with a rumble of a chuckle as he lifted his leg and nothing happened. “See, wife? Nothing.” His leg lowered and smirked coyly at her shifting to the side to make room for her. “If you would,” He encouraged knowing it would be a little bit for the water he had consumed to work it’s way through his body.

Ragnar, if Thistle would have admitted to him that she had felt his eyes before she had even heard him as he approached, might have scoffed at the notion. Not that she felt his eyes upon her first — in a sixth sense that gave the familiar prickling of gooseflesh along one’s nape, the rise of the fine hairs that made up the undercoat that one became aware of when another was staring at them. That was proof enough that he was well aware eyes boring into your skin could be felt by some basis of instincts. Rather, he would scoff at the notion that he could move with any kind of stealth. The Viking was not built for stealth, but for buffering and dealing attacks of brute force. As it was he had never even trained in the art of ‘stealth’. It wasn’t precisely calling him stealthy, admittedly, but it was natural to quiet one’s steps upon approach, especially when the approach is dinner or meant the difference between life and death. After all, they would never eat if they were not capable of taking their prey off guard.

She spoke to him, again his native tongue, smiling at the correct pronunciation of the words. Thistle …and Julooke both were getting better and seemed to be learning quickly, though Ragnar did not take all of the credit for it, offering some of it to Sköll whom he had heard Thistle, different times, attempt to hold a conversation with. As it turned out, the Tiny Viking only being able to speak a tiny handful of common tongue words actually worked out pretty well in the endeavor of teaching others their native tongue. It seemed from last Ragnar had approached the boy and tired to have a conversation with him in the common tongue to test what he was picking up he hadn’t improved very far …if any at all, as far as Ragnar could tell.

However, Ragnar did not stress about that small fact and didn’t care if Sköll never learned any more than what Ragnar had originally managed to teach him. Soon, there would be more than enough wolves who were adept in speaking and understanding (Hati and the children included, obviously) the Northerner’s tongue that it wouldn’t even really be a problem. In Stavanger Bay the boy would never feel awkward or out of place as Ragnar got the distinct feeling Sköll had felt in the Wheeling Gull Isle — though it was of no wonder. From what the boy had told him Majesty had been unable to effectively communicate with him period which, likely, if Ragnar hadn’t stepped in and stole him away, would have ended up with Sköll being kicked out, and the brilliant healer should never have felt useless because he was far from it.

Ragnar smirked to himself when Thistle brushed past him to squat and add her scent to the borders taking his place until he could produce more urine. “Has Sköll been able to tell you he, like his brilliant mad-man of a father, has a natural knack for healing? He apprenticed under Floki since he was able to help him but I am sure he would enjoy being an apprentice again,” Admittedly, he was probably too old to be an official apprentice but he would be under Thistle’s command and watchful eye if she ever went for the Trade title. “Speaking of which,” Ragnar hedged as he kept pace beside her lazily, admittedly enjoying his break. “Why haven’t you gotten the trade title yet? I will not deny you it, or is it the fact that you would be the Head Healer and in charge that stops you?” He inquired merely trying to understand what went on in his wife's mind, fascinating place as it was to him.

Acting as a translator for Floki’s boy was relatively effortless for Ragnar who had long ago added ‘translator’ to his long list of accomplishments and attributes for he had to translate the words of the pack wolves they raided that spoke the common tongue because many of the Cove wolves couldn’t speak it and had never bothered to learn because they hadn’t needed too. Why did they need to speak any language other than the one the Cove spoke when they had no intentions of ever leaving it? In a way, it had made sense and Ragnar might have been the same way if not for Eitri whom he had mentored under for the position of lead Berserker. It was his father that taught him the common tongue and possibly one of the only things Eitri had ever done for just Ragnar. It was small, and learning it had been more than frustrating for the Viking at times but he was clever and quick to catch on to things and had learned in quicker than he had expected he would have, but it was cherished memory none the less.

“Ah so you two aren’t there, yet,” In a way, the question had been Ragnar’s nonchalant way of asking how far they had gotten on the rocky road of communication with one another. “He may never learn more than he knows of the common tongue. Floki couldn’t either,” Some wolves were more adapt at languages while others weren’t. Apparently, Floki and his child (and even Helga) feel in line with those who were not adapt. “He is a good boy,” Ragnar mused thoughtfully, pausing to eye her for a few seconds before he looked back to the path of the scent markers they walked. “Hati seems really attached to him,” Of course maybe Ragnar was simply misreading it but he suspected that there was a potential for something …more in their friendship. “He is a least a year or more older than her but if they wished to become husband and wife someday in the future I would allow it as the head of our family,” Of course the fact that Hati was his blood and Sköll was of Floki’s and the fact that it would be a merging of the two powerful families was also enticing, as well (it was a little weird to consider that it would make Sköll his brother in law).

“gott” Ragnar responded in his native tongue with a stern nod of his head and just as fast and widely as his thoughts had been roaming his new position as Jarl King Alpha, combined with the thought of family brought another consideration to the Viking’s mind. “You realize that as Jarl of this Bay I don’t have to answer to anyone when I want to mate, hmm?” He teased her, grinning like the devil. “No permission needed,” He nearly purred, enticed by the idea, his polygamy obsession flaring up again for a dangerous moment. “But I do have a condition,” He stated. “Our next first born son is going to be named after my father: Eitri. I would like to honor his memory.” He hadn’t been the world’s number one father but he had been as good as any and a better leader to boot and one day he hoped his sons would name on of their sons after him. A continuation of a legacy.

Ragnar nodded when she spoke that Sköll and her had not reached that point yet. He understood frustration very well despite the difference of their situations. She was frustrated because she and Sköll had trouble communicating as she learned their language and Ragnar was frustrated being a first time father of infant children he did not know how to handle. Perhaps more of them should have been caretakers so they received the experience of dealing with small children instead of just stumbling their way through it with trial and error until they got it right. “I didn’t match make Pump and Gavriil,” He corrected her with a smirk that withered into a terse line of his lips. Both of them were gone now, one had disappeared without a word or trace and the other was feasting in Valhalla with the great warriors that had come and died before. “Gavriil thought that he had loved Pump and disregarded all of what I told him in regards to how a woman like Pump needed to be approached on the subject of romance,” Without realizing it his tone had grown biting the more he spoke of Gavriil.

Ragnar had begun to consider the other Northerner a friend and his sudden abandonment of the pack stung like the resulting lash of a whip as it spliced open flesh. What ever friendship that had began to burn had been fizzled out when Gavriil had failed to return. Two weeks and still not a hide nor hair of him. At this point, to the platinum silver Viking the man was a deserter and a traitor. “But apparently he did not love her enough to stay.” He spoke with an icy casing to his normally soft and heavily accented voice. It rang cold and hard, like steel plucked from the depths of an icy sea. Ragnar was not so sure, if Gavriil came back that he would readily welcome him back into the pack …and if on some terms of not holding a grudge he did let the man back into the pack he would have to work hard to prove he could be trusted again. Ragnar might not have held grudges but he didn’t like traitors and deserters and there were some things you did not forgive easily.

“Of course there is. She is of my blood, wife,” It was a pompous sounding statement even to Ragnar’s ears as it left his lips. “And Floki’s blood is …well as pure as mine if not a little strange,” He chuckled, tone warming as he spoke of family and true friends. The change was nearly instant and almost disarming at it’s abruptness. As it was, he felt buoyant here and he did not want to ruin it with thoughts of traitors. “You keep saying that,” He teased her, as if he wasn’t aware that he was dangerous…or just what his smile could do to her; though he still waited for the ‘or else’ day she kept threatening him enigmatically with. “I know I do,” He shrugged almost arrogantly smirking at her before he snorted, rolling his eyes. “He was not the best father but he was a good one, and a good man and leader,” Ragnar murmured on the topic of his late father and with a sudden groan padded over to the border a little ways away from her, lifted his leg and relieved himself upon it. “And I was worried,” He jested before he gestured forth with his muzzle, glimpsing over his shoulder at her. “Come wife, we have much ground to cover yet.” And with those words he continued forth, pausing every so many paces to lift his leg and mark the borders.