The need to amble along the depths of Ravensblood Forest was not an ambiguous one, neither was it particularly necessary anymore. With the believed knowledge that the one eyed raven that had led him to Stavanger Bay he no longer felt the connection to Ravensblood Forest he had once felt. While the All-Father’s presence had once thrummed here beneath the calloused paw pads of the platinum Viking it was no longer felt here. No, that thrum had moved to Stavanger Bay, felt exceedingly at his discovery of it and now comfortably with his pack’s relocation complete. It was not a strange thing to walk along the scent borders of cursed lands that no longer belonged to him or his, rather it was a relieving feeling to be free of the Ridge, of it’s curse and free of Wheeling Gull Isle’s impending and imposing presence. Ragnar understood that his impulse to venture into Ravensblood Forest was nothing more than the sake of nostalgia. That it was here that he had claimed his wife, that he had made her into a Shield-Maiden in spirit and body. Though it no longer held the spiritual pull it once had to the scarred Northman he thought of the territory with fondness. It, at least, held memories if nothing else.

The darkness had been chasing him since the sun had set, but the Nord did not fear the darkness, nor the shadows or dangerous it might have been harboring. He had faintly caught the scent of Majesty and a few of the Isle wolves’ scents upon his entrance in the Forest and his guard hairs had bristled upon what was only natural territorial-ness. Horizon Ridge was abandoned now and Ragnar deigned to put the Isle far from his thoughts though he would, likely, never like them. The hostility he beheld for them could not be helped even though they were far apart from one another, now. There was another scent, growing stronger as the Viking neared it, that of a loner. Swiftly, the Northman made his way to where the boy came into sight. He was a boy, probably not even in his first year mark yet if he had to guess he was about Hati’s own age.

Instantly, this piqued the Viking’s curiosity and he kept his body neutral as he let out a low chuff to alert the cream colored creature to his presence.

Ragnar had suggested to his wolves during the processes of relocating to keep it internal to the pack only for while it wasn’t necessarily a secret there was a defied part of the Northman that did not want Majesty to catch wind of. Naturally, with time, the scent borders of Horizon Ridge would fade without the wolves that once inhabited the plagued lands with their territorial urine markings; if the silence did not alert the Isle wolves’ curiosity first. Lips twitched in a mirthless smirk as he contemplated the surprise they would come to find within the heart of the land: the bear that had murdered Pump, that had cut three claw marks from Ragnar’s hip to his leg when they had foolishly attempted to chase it from their caches and lands. They should have killed it no matter the cost but they hadn’t and it had healed and had began to extract it’s revenge and with Gavriil missing in action that, surely, had left Ragnar as it’s next target for out of them all Ragnar had dealt it the most damage to it. In a cruel way, Ragnar hoped the bear wasn’t feeling particularly picky about whom it went after, that since it had tasted canine blood it would want more. Now that his family and pack was in no danger from it he really didn’t care.

Pulled from the depth of his thoughts, the Viking watched the boy stand ram-rod straight in a manner that resembled a canine version of the military’s ‘attention’. Pupils narrowed within their pools of Caribbean ice as Ragnar observed the teenager look around before his gaze finally fell upon him, wondering if he had not heard the low chuff he had given. He had seemed awful startled despite that there was noting exceedingly hostile in the Viking’s pose. He had no interest in hurting what was still a child to him, so long as he meant no harm to Stavanger Bay. A small smile tugged at the edges of Ragnar’s lips though it had not formed because the boy’s posture had began to alter again. It was a further sign that he had no intentions of attacking, perhaps to ease the boy’s nervousness is what Ragnar thought of it though the Northman ran off of assumption through body language interpretation alone, of course. “Hello,” Ragnar returned the greeting soft voice, heavily accented as it was held his slight amusement. “Where are your parents? Your pack?” He did not scent of any packs around the Wilds, and since he was alone Ragnar assumed his parents, obviously, were not there.

Granted, he was likely old enough to travel on his own, but it was those parental, fathering instincts that indulged him to inquire, nevertheless the conclusions he was capable of drawing.

For a stretch of moment, it seemed to the Viking both were contented to simply appraise one another from afar though afar was not the right word for it. They were closer than ‘afar’ made them seem, though there was a comfortable distance of space between them that neither man nor boy seemed over eager to close. Ragnar rarely liked wolves too close within his proximity of space, the exceptions being his children and his wife, because there was always exceptions. Ragnar was not someone anyone would ever exclaim as being ‘overly friendly’ because just the idea of those words being applied to him in any sense was laughable. He wasn’t friendly, not by a long short. His life’s mission wasn’t to make friends, either. He was slow to trust and slow to respect because both things he felt were better off earned than freely and foolishly given.

Comfortably, the Viking settled upon his haunches, scarred ear twitching towards the boy who stood across from him when he spoke. Ah, the typical answer of ‘I can take care of myself’. It wasn’t, entirely, an unexpected response to Ragnar’s prying inquiries but not the answer the Viking had been looking for, nevertheless. “I do not doubt it,” Ragnar spoke finally, lips stained with his amused smirk parting to allow the words to spill roughly off his tongue. His native tongue sounded much smoother to him than this crude common tongue but it seemed to be what most if not all of the canines spoke around here and he was forced to accept it and accordingly deal with it. “So you are alone then?” It was rhetorical question because it was obvious to the Northman. Or, at least, as obvious as such a thing could be. For all he knew the boy’s parents were lurking some where nearby. “I am Ragnar,” The Northman introduced himself to the boy, leaving out the whole bit of being Jarl or Alpha of Stavanger Bay because that information wasn’t needed. Yet.

Ragnar had not meant his coy smirk to come across as mocking, though it was understandable how it might have. It was a trademark thing that he did so half of the time he did not even realize the muscles of his muzzle had lifted to form it. In this case, it was when the cream colored boy let out an indignant snort. He had began to answer how long he had been alone but never actually got around to finishing the sentence not that Ragnar had actually asked given that it had been rhetorical but the amount of time really didn’t matter. He was alone and he was a loner; and if the grumble his stomach had just let lose, — a soft sound that he might not have heard if the birds cawing in the distance were any closer — was of any indication. Ragnar was silent for a bit, his ears, scarred and unscarred cupped towards the youth as he spoke, resisting the soft smile that threatened to pull at the edges of his lips when the boy insisted his parents had let him travel reminding him of Sköll in a small manner, before he lingered on the boy’s name in his thoughts. Atreyu.

Ragnar wasn’t so confident his accent wouldn’t butcher it a little, but the boy had heard him speak enough to hopefully understand that the Northman’s accent wouldn’t make his name sound as pretty as the common tongue did. For now, Ragnar decided not to touch upon the rumbling of the youth’s stomach focusing on the equally as important question he had instead. “Are you considering any packs? Do you even want a place to stay? I am the Jarl or Alpha of Stavanger Bay. I could give you a den over your head and food in your stomach. All that I ask for in exchange is fealty and allegiance, and that you wolves contribute to the pack; that worth is proven and a place among us is earned.” He didn’t have to accept of course, not now or not even ever if he didn’t wish too.

Ragnar wasn’t going to take his freedom of choice away from him but the Northerner figured it never hurt to put all the options on the table, just in case. “Even if you decline, I will hunt with you, if you’d like.” There wasn’t any feasible way Ragnar was leaving the boy there hungry, regardless. He was a hard man, sure, but he wasn’t entirely heartless.

Ragnar watched as the boy dipped his head with what he took to be respect and though it wasn’t exactly necessary, given that they were on free territories, Ragnar simply accepted it with silence and an acknowledging nod. At Atreyu’s question another soft, coy smirk tugged at the edges of the Viking’s lips as he glimpsed around at the forest that had once been more or less a Gods’ wood to him. The lands did not hold the sacred feeling to him they once had, for he had felt that the Allfather had blessed Stavanger Bay’s lands instead with his presence. There was still a fondness for the darkness that lingered here though, for the ravens whom he mistook to be Huginn and Muinnin. “No,” Ragnar responded after he inhaled deeply and let it out in a soft exhale. “It almost was, once,” The Northman spoke with the fondness associated with his brief nostalgia. “Stavanger Bay is to the south west of here, much closer to the coast and away from these surrounding packs.” That was another thing Ragnar didn’t miss: the claustrophobia that not only the Isle wolves provided but the pressing of the Plateau and Silvertip as well.

The boy spoke that he would consider the offer and Ragnar accepted it with another silent nod, though his brow furrowed slightly when the boy stumbled over his name. “Rag-nar,” He offered in what he thought was helpful but then realized his accent probably didn’t help pronunciation any. While the Viking couldn’t say he was particularly thrilled about the nickname the juvenile had settled for in the stead of his name scarface he figured it was better to simply accept it and move on. It was a keen observation, nevertheless. “Good,” Ragnar smirked. “Lead the way,” The Viking offered since it was, essentially, the boy’s hunt and so it was his choice as to what they hunted.

There had been a time not so long ago when Ragnar had been rather hell bent upon claiming the Forest for his own, having had the intentions of splitting off of Pump and the wolves of Horizon Ridge. That had been before. Before the bear they had chased off and presumed to think would not come back and ended their previous leaders’ life without obvious mercy. It hadn’t even finished the job because when Ragnar had came across her body as his wife had been delirious in her horror and sorrow of finding Pump, their hybrid leader had still been alive. In a way the gory mess of blood and her severed spine had almost reminded him of a Blood Eagle. An ancient and extremely torturous manner of execution for treachery and treason in his culture. It involved opening their back, breaking their ribs and spreading their lungs on their shoulders to give the shape of an eagle’s wings spread in flight. It was not a pretty sight. Ragnar had only performed it once in his life, to the Jarl of a neighboring pack for betraying the Cove. The first time in nine years as far as the Seer could tell him it had been done. Ragnar had seen worse than Pump’s broken body, had done worse, admittedly, because the victims of a Blood Eagle were still alive during the process, their lungs still attached to their body to suffer the death of bleeding out.

Having nearly missed what the boy had said the Viking broke himself out of such morbid thoughts with a discreet shake of his head, ears slicking back to stand half mast atop his skull for a few seconds before they perked back the next, attempting to make it look like he had been shooing away a fly that had buzzed by his ear instead of resurfacing from the catacombs of his mind. Ragnar followed after the spirited youth, determined not to let his mind wander so far again. At the boy’s almost sounding question of finding a burrow Ragnar’s brow furrowed slightly, wondering if the boy knew what he was doing while also contemplating something a bit more disturbing to him (ironic that something did actually make him queasy given his bloody background personal and culture wise). “Do you plan on eating infant rabbits?” The Viking couldn’t help but ask, not so sure he really wanted to hear the answer. If he intended to eat a rabbit’s babes Ragnar had no interest in sticking around. As a father of children of his own (despite having always liked children before he had kids) he was perturbed by the idea. They were their prey and the babes weren’t going to put up any kind of chase, sure, but if the infants were eaten then there would be nothing left to reproduce.

The relief Ragnar felt at the boy’s ‘no’ had begun to diminish quickly when the youth, in what Ragnar realized was only a fair question, asked him if infant rabbits were any good. For a moment the Viking’s steps paused, the muscles pulling taunt beneath his coat, expression composed to be stoic. “No,” It came out harsher than Ragnar had originally intended which led to the shifting of the scarred Northman’s weight. “I do not eat infant anything.” He also didn’t eat goat because it was a sacred animal to Thor. He would sacrifice them, ironically enough (though usually only for the Festival of Uppsalla) but he refused to consume one for the fear of bringing the might of Thor’s anger and anvil down on himself. Children were children regardless of what species they were and though he had never given much thought to the intelligence of his prey but he figured they were someone’s babies and that was all that mattered.

Surprisingly, despite the shore along Horizon Ridge it had been many months since Ragnar had actually eaten fish or crab or anything sort of water based prey. The Cove had many accomplished fishers having had to make use of all their resources in order to store up for the harsh and glacial winters they endured. “Then we will fish,” He definitely like that idea more. Or rather Atreyu would fish since Ragnar guessed the boy didn’t particularly need his help and the Viking himself wasn’t very hungry. Still, he would linger to make sure he ate because though the boy had no connection to him, but perhaps triggered the parental tendencies in the callous man he did not want to part from the boy knowing he was hungry …just in case; worse case scenario he could always offer something from one of the Bay’s caches.