Ragnar had been following his Queen Wife at a distance, observing how she was settling into her new role as Drottning. He would have made his presence known to her, eventually, but he understood that she still desired her space from him, which put something of a damper on his ability to enjoy having her in leadership with him. He was not able to converse with her about different situations, and basically was just like he was still leading by himself on as far as the discussions he expected them to have went. He had his doubts about promoting her, not because he did not think she could do it but simply because she was young and sometimes rash and tended to let her emotions get the better of her at times. He only worried that her irritation might cause a similar disaster to what had happened with Bragi. It had lost him not on what he suspected would be a valuable member but also his only true born son. He had not stopped the boy, figuring that he, himself, was to blame for his departure just as much as Thistle was and it was far too late for restarting. As a leader, Ragnar had found, that it was important to disconnect emotions from making important decisions and first impressions. They were the core of the pack, and their subordinates looked to them for guidance, to make the best decisions possible.

It was no different than Ragnar choosing to relocate instead of storming Wheeling Gull Isle and chasing them form their home, or killing them all until the sea ran red with their hot life blood. He had wanted to fight with every fiber of his being. He had wanted and could not help the feeling that choosing the high road made him look weak and like a coward and yet he had to set aside his own desires and emotions and do what was best for the family that was Stavanger Bay. He was their Jarl, and to them he gave direction, set an example. He loved her as she was and didn't want her to change even if half the time all they did was fight, make up and then fight again but he admitted to himself that she needed to work on that or he would have to demote her until she could prove that she could sever the two.

It was when Thistle had approached the borders that Ragnar had made a wide loop, intending to check on her once more before he returned to his Priestess Wife and the children with dinner, intending to leave the best part for Thistle for when she returned to the Jarl's den only to stop when he caught the scent of the lone she wolf outside of his borders at the same time as Thistle appeared to approach her. Providing dinner for his family was temporarily put on hold as he pushed through the tree line, sliding his body against Thistle's as he moved past her, body placed to her right but between her and the dark woman, staring at her with eyes of caribbean ice. “I have heard that line too often,” The scarred Scandinavian spoke in a clipped tone. He knew his borders were potent with his urine scent, with the urine scent of the many merging with his and Thistle's. He refreshed them daily, having sectors of it. “What is your name?” The Viking inquired with a curious, almost bird like tilt of his head, studying her from bottom to top coyly.

Ragnar watched the stranger with observing, predatory eyes, his smirk tugging mischievously at the corners of his lips. Thistle was radiating tension and discontent aimed towards the woman, this Ragnar felt cracking through the air, nearly tangible. Scarred half of his face was thrown into the moonlight as he tilted his head the other direction, as if it would give him a better angle of looking at her. It did not change much but his own direction of perception. His question was answered simply with nothing else given. Nightshade. He glimpsed at what he could see of his Queen Wife out the corner of his eye before his gaze refocused upon the loner. She hadn't trespassed so he Ragnar had no reason to react with any sort of hostility towards her. Still, he missed having a slave since Nerian had been freed when she'd agreed to be his second wife. Ragnar could not determine what it was that he missed and realized that no one would be able to replace Nerian's disposition on her title, though Ragnar had never really treated her like a slave to begin with.

It was not with hostility that he eyed the woman with piped interest, noting that she looked strong and that he wanted another. Calculation was written across the Viking's expression as he studied her with a nearly inaudible hum of hmmm in his throat. He did not intend to ask her why she was so close to their borders, figuring that her answer would be the same as all the others: I need to join a pack. Instead, he liked the idea of stealing her even if it was from loneliness and even if she had not intended to join a pack at all. He missed raiding and this was as close as he could come under present circumstances. “I am Ragnar,” His body language told her that he was the Jarl of these lands and he felt that to announce it would be unnecessarily redundant. “As punishment for failing to realize how close you were to my borders you will be my slave,” He decided coyly, leveling a mischievous stare at her. It wasn't a negotiation. He wanted another slave and she was the decidedly perfect subject for it. “Do you have any skills that will benefit me?” He asked Nightshade before he glimpsed back at Thistle, sure that she had a thing or two to say about his impulsive, cunning, and mischievous decision.

Thistle remained quiet on the subject of him taking another slave. It rose Ragnar's suspicion slightly he let it go if only because they needed to show a united front in the face of strangers. It occurred to him that perhaps Thistle had something of a similar thought, unless she truly didn't care if he took another slave. It was true that this circumstance was different from when he had taken Nerian from her sister Priestesses. He was not raiding and this time...this time it was a punishment for daring to tell him his borders were pungent enough with the stench of urine despite that he knew they were. Sharp eyes watched each ghosting step she took back wards, understanding that she intended to bolt. Ah, but he would not let her go. If he had to chase her all around the Wilds and drag her back kicking and screaming Odinn knew he would do it. He had claimed her as his slave and she would serve him until he saw fit to release her; if she did not like that then he could give her only one other option grim and final as it would be. He did not believe in pointless deaths, knowing that pointless deaths would not see him into Valhalla.

Just as he suspected when she finished speaking she turned with a grace that would have made any ballerina jealous and bolted off. Without any hesitation Ragnar lunged after her as soon as he saw her turn, paws pounding the earth as she raced away from him, not bothering to see if Thistle was following after them. At that moment nothing mattered to the Viking then capturing his prize. With a thrilled, low chuckle the Viking stayed behind her, pushing himself harder and faster with the intention to keep his momentum propelling him further, barreling after her with the confidence that he would catch her.

His blood sang in his veins as the Berserker hurled after her, when he was close enough he lunged at her with the intention of tossing his weight into her to knock her off balance and send her body sprawling to the ground.

Thisle was smaller than him which gave her the advantage of speed, racing ahead of him to cut the woman off Ragnar assumed. He was swift but his Queen Wife was undeniably faster than him, not slowed by the mass of battled hardened muscle as he was. For a split second Ragnar admired her, missing the ebon creature's strike against Thistle. Ragnar saw the result, though, as he neared the two women, watching Thistle's body stumble and fall as she tripped. Swiftly, the scarred Scandinavian veered a hard right to avoid tangling his long legs with Thistle's own, side stepping her, wishing he could spare her a glance but knowing that if he did he would lose her. Ragnar had no intentions of letting this woman go. She may have had speed on him but he knew these Wilds like the back of his paw. He would find her even if she eluded him this night though he was hell bent determined not to let that happen.

His body collided harshly with hers when he launched himself at her, her body sprawling on the dirt, the collision having stopped Ragnar in his chase, sides heaving, adrenaline surging through his body as he moved quickly when she turned her sprawl into a roll. She was on the ground and he was determined not to let her find her feet again. But as she attempted to stand he was already there, looming over her, teeth bared, eyes alight with the thrill of the case. “Stay down,” The Jarl commanded her. “The last thing you want is me to add to your punishments. And if you try to escape it will only be worse for you because there is no where in these Wilds you can hide from me.” The Berserker told her with a simple honesty, teeth poised to grasp her scruff if it were to become necessary.

“Now, let us go home, þræll,” The Norse word for slave rolled off of his tongue like soft velvet, expecting Thistle to join him in assisting the woman back to Stavanger Bay in case she decided to escape them again. What she didn't realize was, Ragnar treated his slaves quite well and for a second he wished his Priestess Wife had been there to confirm it for him. However, she hadn't been and so Nightshade had no idea.

Thistle joined him near his newly anointed slave, telling her to listen. Ragnar understood that it would not be that easy, not with the fiery spirit that Ragnar suspected beat within her breast. She would be like taming a stallion and he was looking forward to the challenge. He watched with a mildly amused expression when she went limp with a light thump to the earth. “Then I will drag you,” Ragnar determined without much of a quarrel. He leaned down, pausing when his muzzled loomed just above her scruff, breath saturating the strands of her fur he spoke, “It will be easier for you to walk though I will not argue.” He closed the last few meters and grasped her scruff in his jaws, grip firm and hard and jerked her body backwards with him as he fully intended to drag her all the way back to Stavanger Bay lest she decide that she wished to retain whatever dignity Ragnar decided to leave untouched.

Though Ragnar's attention remained focused upon Nightshade, feeling his teeth splice into her skin as his grip would randomly tighten as he continued to drag her as if she were that trophy of a kill he had made. Perhaps to a third party observer it might have looked exactly like that. Indeed, her unwillingness to make it easy for him, while undeniably fun also demanded more work of him. Ragnar Lodbrok had never minded hard work but he was not gentle with her in accordance. As he dragged her body into the borders of Stavanger Bay all he could hope was that he had erased all of the her dignity for defying him. “Get up,” Ragnar demanded of her, not in any mood to play another childish game with her. He had stolen her dignity (he hoped) by dragging her all the way back like she were nothing more than a carcass. “Unless you truly want to be the carcass you looked like when I was dragging you back you will do what I say.” If she thought he was joking about killing her, Nightshade would have another thing coming to her. He could find another slave, although exerting all his previous work would not in any shape or form pay off. That was a gamble he was willing to make.