It was the first time Sköll, at Ragnar’s command, had picked his way west to the land he called Stavanger Bay. According to the platinum Jarl it would be the Ridge’s new home in due time. Thistle had left earlier in the morning and Sköll had silently taken over his part time duty of watching the children when both Loðbrók’s were gone but Ragnar had intruded in a few moments after his wife had departed and told him to head to the Bay to explore and assist in what he could marking the borders. The commands were sharp in their native tongue and Sköll, excited by the prospect of being able to get out of the Ridge, left with a ‘Are You Sure’ glimpse back as the eldest boy, Ein, clamored onto Ragnar, having attempted to conquer the father’s back, peeking at the Tiny Viking as he stood upon the junction between his father’s shoulders, his front paws propped up on the back of Ragnar’s skull as he used his father as a ladder.

The journey took a bit if only because Sköll was busy marveling over the sights that rose to greet him. He would have never made a good Outrider because his inability to comprehend more than a small handful of words in the common tongue and while he enjoyed the ability to stretch his legs he had always been more of a homebody anyway, not liking violence enough to fight and raid (though he’d done it a few times) preferring to be the behind the scenes man and heal the wounds the Berserkers suffered. It was just the natural order of things and Sköll had accepted it easily as the will of the Gods without needing anything more than that to guide him.

Since Ragnar’s ascension to the rank of alpha, tragic as it had been, Sköll had always approached Thistle with submission in his posture and eyes because she was not only his Jarl’s wife, she was also, more or less (at least until he appointed someone to the Beta position) his second in command as the highest ranking wolf in their hierarchy under Ragnar himself. Sköll was the lowest, well except for maybe Hati (whom was a juvenile), Ragnar’s sister whom Sköll was overjoyed to learn had safely made it to the Ridge and to Ragnar though he was too ashamed of himself to actively seek her out despite how badly he wanted too. It was Thistle’s voice that rang out, clearly for him as he neared Stavanger, causing the Tiny Viking to give pause. How had she known he was coming? Silently, he contemplated that maybe she had a little bit of a Seer in her …or Ragnar had told her, either way. Not wanting to waste any of her time he hurried to where her howl had originated from, lowering himself into submission when he approached her, blazing orange eyes adverted as he murmured a respectful “konan mín,” to her as he wondered what she has summoned him for.

Except for maybe a lesson in Old Norse. Ironically, Sköll had became something of her mentor on that particularly subject (as well as the pup's as well) if only, he suspected, because his common tongue was basically non existent and it forced her to quickly pick up on the words or maybe he was just a better teacher than Ragnar.

“Hello,” Sköll returned the common tongue word sheepishly, meekly, if only because it was probably the only word he had perfected. Hello. For a moment, he was reminded with his first ever meeting with Majesty …for he had felt the same way then as he did not in the presence of Thistle Cloud: meek and sheepish. She was beautiful and strong, and even to the Tiny Viking, in some ways intimidating though she had been nothing but absolutely friendly to him, even allowing him the trust to watch her children without her presence. It was easy for Ragnar to trust him, Sköll understood, because they had known each other for a long time, since Sköll had been born. Thistle did not have that same courtesy and he was still half expecting her to mistrust him. Sköll smiled wryly knowing that if Floki and Helga were here they would have liked Thistle immensely but for whatever reason his parents continued to suffer Váli’s bad leadership …likely in some doomed attempt to keep it afloat because if it fell to ruin generations would be lost.

A pack wealthy in intricate family trees and with culture and knowledge would be entirely lost for no doubt they would scatter. It was sad, when he thought about it.

Sköll was brought out of his thoughts when Thistle spoke to him again, this time using his language, though her words were a bit broken and unrefined. Of course, this was to be expected and so far she was doing much better with learning Norse than he had ever gotten trying to learn the common tongue; then again she had every incentive to learn it. Her husband spoke it natively, her children were learning it and catching onto it quickly, and he …though he was nothing but a caretaker to her, he understood, but he spoke it. It was not an advantage they shared when it came to languages. “Já” Sköll agreed with an enthusiastic nod of his head. “ Ég mun skiptast lærdóm norrænnar fyrir lærdóm af plöntum” It would be good to learn what was indigenous here and what wasn’t. Things were different from the North, this much had became abundantly clear to the Healer.

For a moment he stared at his paws before he lifted his face, shyly, to look at her, blazing orange eyes brightened by the blackened crimson markings painted under his eye, striking down his cheek like centered tears of mud and blood, that Ragnar had painted there using an eagle’s talon they had plucked from the bird before burying it in one of the caches of the Ridge. It was a silly thing really, a tradition his father and mother practiced but it made him feel like he belonged again, and made him feel closer to his parents. “Þakka þér, konan mín” He dipped his head to her, and waited patiently though the gangly Tiny Viking was eager to get started.

The Jarl’s wife had a smile of pure radiance. Sköll had only ever heard of angels when they had raided the cleric where Ragnar had stolen Nerian as his slave, but if he had to considering someone as angelic it would have been Thistle. The Tiny Viking’s skin grew hot beneath his fur and he felt immeasurably glad that wolves didn’t blush and hoped that the aversion of his eyes would be taken to be submissive as opposed to being lowered out of embarrassment, or shame; or since they seemed to be warring within the Flokisson for priority: both. Tell me Sköll, she spoke and then fell silent leaving a dangerous moment when his heart began to sprint in his chest afraid that she had found him out. However, after a stretch of moment that seemed to last for eons she finally spoke and he was able to calm the rapid beat of his heart. If she had suspected, at least, she hadn’t spoken about it of which he was grateful. She had asked about his markings, the ones Ragnar had assisted him in painting upon his face…and he wished he had a better answer for her but he didn’t. “Ég veit ekki. Faðir minn var alltaf með þeim, stundum gerði mamma líka. Ég spurði aldrei en ég trúði að það er bara eitthvað sem hann gerir,” Sköll admitted as he glimpsed around them, lowering his head to sniff cautiously at the ground that gave way to slopes of tall grasses that gave way to a sandy shore.

His ears perked atop the head as she told him about something she called ‘poppies’. That they were the seeds of this red flower and they were used for pain but if used too much could cause hallucination and addiction. It sounded very familiar to him. “Eins og Berserker sveppum sem við þorna og borða á hátíðum og áður bardaga?” He inquired in a thoughtful tone wondering if Ragnar had came across any of them. He would have had in order to ever go into battle or hold a proper festival.

Thistle asked if the markings made him think of home. She wasn’t wrong. It reminded him of the crass scent of plants, flowers, and rich soil that often clung to his parents, a scent he felt warmed by because it had been comforting when he had only been but the age of Thistle’s own children. How his mother had smelled like cinnamon besides those scents and how Floki had smelled like mint except when he would come home from raids when his coat was fetid with the scent of aged blood that he hadn’t washed off. The simple painted markings that with Ragnar’s help would be repainted every two weeks when they began to fade and smudge off brought with it all the comforts he had known and taken advantage of as a child and missed now that he was nearly a man full grown. He was nearly a man full grown. The realization brought with it the acknowledgement that he should be focusing his mind on things other than his childhood. Like maybe a woman. Or…something. “já” Sköll finally responded. Her common tongue was lost on him for the most part but he nodded to her because the look on her face had needed no translation.

She did not seem pleased when he brought up the Berserker mushrooms and the pallid Tiny Viking wondered why. For him, they were just another way of life. A way to enhance not only the joy of celebrations and festivities but also a way to enhance natural born battle habits. Surely it was better to fight like a man possessed, added to their lack of fear of death, then it was to fight like a coward, afraid to lose his life? The blood frenzy was a nasty thing, admittedly, but their ancestors had been doing it way before Sköll, or even Ragnar himself had been born. It was as much their tradition as their Gods. “þeir eru ekki slæmur hlutur, Thistle.” Sköll told her gently, attempting to soothe. “þeir eru góðir fyrir glaður tilefni líka” But the use of them was common from where he came from and he knew no different.

“Yes,” Sköll offered her in her native tongue, the word spoken meek and timid, unsure if he had gotten it correct. ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ were kind of simple concepts and translated much easier than everything else, similar to ‘hello’ as a greeting but he was still unsure and was left with more doubt than he was confidence. The Berserker mushrooms did have bad side effects and many Vikings suffered from them for the rest of their lives as they grew dependent on it’s properties to allow them to ‘fight like demons’. They did not fear death by culture alone but the mushrooms blotted out the pain receptors and kept them going like a frightening force of nature even when they were bleeding out from a fatal wound because they didn’t feel it. In one manner: it was smart and strategic. On the other end of that, when it wore off, when they were back among their pack and family it’s side effects lingered. Addiction was only one of them. It amplified post traumatic stress in some, and in others caused them to hallucinate even without it in their systems.

Though Sköll did not voice it, out of respect for Ragnar and his wife, he suspected that even Ragnar suffered from the mushroom’s ill side effects. It was not present in the form of addiction, or post traumatic stress, but Sköll suspected with as much confidence as he knew that he drew breath, that it did or would affect the silver man in some way or another. “og þakka þér fyrir að deila, líka” Sköll told her with an answering smile as he watched her rise but he had settled upon his haunches and was contented to sit there and take in the land around him for a bit, maybe mark some borders so he could tell Ragnar he contributed.