Sveið had only accompanied Bragi so far to the Teekon Wilds and when they reached the lands he saw as unexplored, she parted from him claiming that Váli would be furious if she did not return. Bragi had watched his mother part with him with sorrow filled eyes but a brave expression upon his face. They were warriors, he and her. Whether they saw each other once more in this life or not they would, he had no doubt, see each other again in Valhalla. The Viking child was old enough to understand what ramifications of ‘furious’ Sveið spoke of having seen Váli’s ferocious and cruel treatment of his current wife Sif plenty of times. Sveið wasn’t Sif, she was not a princess she was a shield maiden famous to boot and idly as he had watched his mother’s silhouette fade into the distance if she had intended to challenge the current Jarl of Odinn’s Cove in single combat. Regardless, she had brought him here to seek the safety of Váli’s brother, following in the footsteps of several of previous Cove members.

The truth was Sveið hadn’t given him a reason and Bragi had not been selfish enough to ask even though it had burned with the heat of a dying son on his tongue numerous times. He respected her wish to not tell him and he trusted that she knew what she was doing.

The young Berserker-in-training had made his way from there, using the skills that Floki had taught him for identifying edible berries and poisonous ones, pausing to clumsily catch a rabbit. Bragi had taken his time eating it, Caribbean blue eyes scouring the unknown lands around him. They were foreign and yet similar if only because of his association to the North. Odinn would guide him. Any time the nagging of fear or doubt threatened to paralyze him he would remember those words and added silently in his mind now with a solidification that made him certain, As will Heimdall,. His journey had been long and Bragi glimpsed at the golden and dusk colored sky, one eye closed, the other squinting against the sun he knew he had spent the entire day traveling. He knew if he did not find Ragnar soon he would have to dig a little den or find an abandoned fox hole to spend the night in. The thought of sleeping alone in a den was a unwelcome one so he threw himself into his task with determined and unconquerable vigor.

It was with a hopefulness that he happened to draw nearer to borders though knowing next to nothing of these lands or the wolf he was searching for in question aside from what he looked like from his mother and Floki Bragi just had to take a chance and bite the bullet.

Ears flickered forth when a woman came stalking up to him, her irritation a palpable thing writhing off of each tendril of her fur like one of medusa’s snakes (wrong mythology, I know) causing Bragi to lower himself in abstract confusion checking around him to make certain that he hadn’t crossed into borders though he knew he hadn’t. She growled in old Norse, a language he knew better even than the common tongue though he was equally fluent in both, something about her husband keeping ‘it’ to himself that obviously had something to do with him but wasn’t exactly able to piece together the implied meaning of her words. Not knowing her husband it only severed to make little to no sense to Bragi. “Uh,” The youth made a noise in his throat, brow furrowing in his confusion, hesitating to ghost a step back assuming that she was unstable emotionally.

As she spoke to him, introducing herself and then proceeded to say she was pretty certain why he was there…which was particular to Bragi because he wasn’t even sure why he was really there at least on the level she implied. His mother had not stated why he couldn’t stay at Odinn’s Cove but only that Váli had some sort of altercation with him despite that he was just a child still. His nose twitched as a sweet scent rose from her fur — what he would come to learn as heat — though it clung not to her specifically but to another female she had been near. “I can speak the common tongue,” He responded in a voice that was as accented as any wolfs’ that came from the Cove, his tones still boyish but soft even still.

Unable to help himself the boy issued this Thistle Cloud a small coy little smirk that tugged effortlessly at the edges of his lips. “Why am I here?” He inquired interested in hearing her theory.

The woman apologized to him, and though he did think she was a tiny bit crazy he accepted it with a quiet and gracious nod of his head. After all, it was apparent that her grievances did not lie with him — couldn’t possibly lie with him because he had done nothing wrong as far as he could tell. He was near their borders but near was a very abstract term given that he had left more than adequate space between their borders and his body — and considering he knew nothing of her home life who was he to hold a grudge? Bragi eased out of his submissive pose figuring she was not going to attack him anytime soon though he was acceptably cautious nevertheless. Her attempts at humor were met with a pensive stare from Bragi, despite her smiles shot to him he still felt a knot of tension in his stomach that did not seem willing to ease.

She had guessed right on the Odinn’s Cove part but Bragi’s brow furrowed deeper when she spoke about her unknown to him husband and something about a dead wringer. He didn’t want to admit to her that he had no idea what a ‘dead wringer’ was so he shifted his weight feeling the knot of discomfort clench tighter when she prattled about him being this unknown husband’s child — which was severely crossing his ‘things we don’t talk about’ line — or being related to him. Which was impossible because his mother had not had any siblings and considering Bragi knew nothing about his father (for all he knew his father really was the god Heimdall, given the stories) and it irritated him that this woman was presuming to tell him who his father was when she didn’t know him and she didn’t know his mother. “I doubt it considering I have no idea who your husband is,” Though he was highly irritated he hid it well behind a well practiced calmness and coyness, his natural defense to keep himself in check and keep his guard fortified. “You’re not my mother,” Bragi felt like he was being inherently redundant by pointing out what was plainly evident. “and since she claims my father is the God Heimdall I believe you are wrong.” And that was it. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It wasn’t this woman’s place to presume to know anything about him, or his enigmatic father and he didn’t like her shooting her mouth off like she knew anything about who he and his mother were.

“That has nothing to do why I’m here,” He told her briskly dropping the subject with the same suddenness one might drop a hot potato. He was done discussing it with her and done listening to her theories, despite that he realized he had opened himself up for that one even if it made no sense to him. “I’m not sure why but my mother decided that Odinn’s Cove was no longer safe for me and sent me here. So here I am.” And no matter what her or anyone else tried to tell him it was as simple as that.

Thistle returned his smirk, causing his eyes to narrow slightly, barely resisting the childish urge to roll his eyes at the words that followed her mimicry of his demeanor. In truth, Ragnar’s name did not mean much to Bragi, other than he supposedly used to run Odinn’s Cove and that his mother respected him greatly, had fought beside him and trained with him growing up. It wasn’t like he shared that reverence despite what small bit of admiration the stories might have created in Bragi and he had no intentions of worshipping the man’s paws. “He is just a name to me,” Bragi responded in equal coyness, his accented voice cool for some reason almost hoping that it his dismissive response had gotten under her skin in the same way Thistle’s assumptions had gotten under his. “Exactly,” But Bragi considered the possibility that she had missed his point and added, “Who are you to say who my father is?” Why did she keep pushing when it obviously made him uncomfortable? The boy had once been curious about his enigmatic father but had since settled with what he had been told: that he was the product of some lust filled tryst between a God and a mortal woman (even though the idea sounds ridiculous to Tokio she has to remind herself that he can think it all he wants because to him it is real, lol).

Bragi said nothing because in all fairness he had asked. Merely, he had not realized how big of a bite he had taken nor that he could handle it until he had began chewing. Since Bragi could not attest for Váli’s leadership skills because he had nothing else to compare him too not remembering the leaders of Freya’s Moors during his first three months of life which had been spent there but he did say, “Váli is a bad man,”; and though he knew well who Dagrun was: a great warrior and mentor to Bragi he did not inform her of this. Many times Bragi had seen Sif’s injuries and bruises that showed under patches of cream fur missing from her dainty body, and Sif had been Váli’s wife. Bragi’s mother had been something called a ‘consort’ for Váli though not that Bragi understood what that had meant or, even if he had, why the famous shield maiden had demeaned herself to that (Tokio suspects it was to protect Sif). “He does,” Bragi answered when Thistle spoke about calling Ragnar in question and that he might know Bragi’s mother. Everyone in the Cove knew his mother. “My mother is the famous shield-maiden Sveið. Shield Maidens raid, train and fight alongside the Berserkers.” Bragi clarified for her just in case she didn't know because it was obvious she had some knowledge but he didn't know how far it extended.

Out of everything Thistle had to say to him, the majority of which going in one ear and gleefully out the other as he let them roll off his shoulders because he was tired of having an immature argument with a woman who was twice his age, it had been her she is only a name to me that had struck a dangerous chord within the young rekkr. He was not unaware that it was a fair return of his own words and though the boy had spoken them dismissively and with the intent of getting under her skin he had not, exactly, meant them disrespectfully. He had only dismissively been stating a simple fact. Ragnar was only a name, only a story; even so Bragi had still felt respect for him even though they had never met. By the time Sveið and had decided that Bragi was old enough to be moved from their temporary home in Freya’s Moors to Odinn’s Cove Ragnar had already gone. Perhaps it was just Bragi’s automatic instincts to protect his mother and defend her honor that had caused him to think that this woman’s words were cruel. Perhaps Thistle had not meant them as such but it was how, nevertheless, Bragi chose to receive them.

And you are only another notch in Ragnar’s belt. Soon, you, too, will only be a name to him. He wouldn’t have said them, not because he cared but because he was not so out of control of his anger, even if Ragnar hadn’t chosen that moment to intervene. Bragi took some satisfaction in knowing that if he would have spoken those words that it likely would have pissed her off; as far as the boy was concerned she would have deserved it and given Ragnar’s liberal tendencies with his women as everyone in Odinn’s Cove knew well, it would not have been the least bit surprising to Bragi. When the scarred Jarl fixed Bragi in his gaze, too similar to Bragi’s own, the boy’s brow furrowed for a few moments as he stared unabashedly at Ragnar. It was like looking in a mirror that showed him what he would look like when he was older, except for the outrageous amount of scars the older male bore. Of course, Bragi recognized the random scars that to him, made up the markings of Odinn but couldn’t help wonder why Ragnar had chosen his face as the placement. “I am skilled at traveling and I have a talent for saga telling.” Bragi responded dutifully, hesitating for a second after Ragnar had asked for his name by calling him ‘son of Sveið’. “Bragi.” He offered before he fell into a natural silent, shooting a glare at Thistle before his eyes rested back upon Ragnar who stood only a little taller than him, though the man was obviously more defined in all the ways that Bragi was still soft with boyhood.

If that was what he had to look forward to looking like, minus the facial and head scarring, then it could have been worse.