It was foggy, the writhing water vapor heavy and thick in the air where it hung like a veil. It obscured the scarred Scandinavian's vision, disorienting him within the confines of Odinn's sacred forest, the lands he had claimed as his led there by a one eyed raven. With black, leathery nose turned to the ground the Viking followed the trail of earth until it gave way to sand, barely catching the salty brine of the sea where the fog thinned a small bit. It wasn't enough to aid him much as far as his sight went, but luckily it was not the only sense that the canine relied upon. Still, he felt the effects of the disorientation, feeling turned around in his own home. He had begun his patrols earlier and had not intended to stray so far when he had paused for a bite to eat, after he had taken some to his wives and children. He desired Nerian to eat a little more than she was accustomed too, despite that she was not yet pregnant. Even so, he did not want her to be so unprepared for carrying around his children, hoping that if the winter was a harsh one a little extra added meat and fat would only serve to better her and the children's chances of survival. He knew what to expect now, having been there through all of Thistle's pregnancy. Hopefully, this time around, knowing what to expect, it would be easier for all of them.

A gurgled howl cut through the fog, suddenly, close by, catching him off guard. For a moment the man of platinum silver paused in his steps, ears cupping forth to attention atop his skull before he lunged forward towards the source just in time to see the waves pull her under. The Viking had never feared the sea, even at her worst and held no qualms about diving in after her. The waves put up resistance as he barreled into the cold, salt water, a violent shiver rippling against the length of his spine as he searched for her shape and when he found it plunged his body beneath the water, reminiscent of the time he had dived in after Nerian and pulled her onto the shore, fearing that she had been trying to end her life.

While Ragnar had recognized the sound of voice as one of his — he was not about to allow a woman to drown on his watch. The brazen Berserker fought against the sting of the salt water in his eyes as he grasped her scruff and pushed off the sand floor, breaching the surface taking a greedy breath through his nose as he pulled her to the shore, up out of reach of the greedy, grasping tide that stretched viciously in it's desire to have her back. Óðinn láta hana vera á lífi, The Viking sent a prayer in his native tongue to his revered All-Father, too worried about her well being to think much beyond it, despite her status as stranger to him. Breathe. He pleaded of her in his soft, heavily accented voice unsure of what to do if she did not draw breath and cough any water she might have taken in on her own. He was not a harbinger of life but rather a harbinger of death.

Dragging her onto the shore had been no easy feat, her body weighed down further than simple body mass with the addition of her soaked fur only added by his own. He was sodden wet and he felt the weight of each soaked tendril of fur, shaking it free when he released the scruff of the woman he had pulled free from ocean's grasp. For a moment, he hoped that he did not make the same mistake that he had made with Nerian — that this time he had rescued the damsel in distress, figuratively speaking. Ragnar did not fancy having to explain his mistake to a woman whom he did not even know. He backed up a few steps intending to give her space, bracing himself as he shook his platinum silver coat, slinging water droplets in every direction, raising the fur that clung tightly into a disarray of little spikes.

Eyes of caribbean ice studied the woman with unbidden curiosity; a thirst for knowledge that he shared with his All-Father, Odinn as she blinked as if he had caught her off guard and then shook her own coat free of the water that weighed it down. She spoke to him, her confusion likely, Ragnar considered, borne of the words he had spoken in Norse. It was not intended for her to hear, granted, but he supposed there was no harm in confessing the meaning of his native tongue to her. I asked my God to let you be alive, Ragnar told her simply, honestly. Who are you? Ragnar asked her, not bothering to ask her if she was alright because she was not coughing up water or anything of the sort and seemed rather lucid despite what had just recently happened. All he knew was there was a soaking wet woman before him that he had pulled free of the surf, that was a complete stranger to him.

Ragnar did not have the reservations that he had once held about speaking openly to those that did not share in his faith about his revered All-Father, or any of the other Norse Gods, even so. When Odinn had commanded him to leave the Cove, to head to the southern lands where they did not know of him and spread the word, and to convert if he could, the Jarl had learned to be forth with what he had once kept closely coveted. He understood that his religion and speak of Gods was likely to earn him a few scoffs from these Southerners, having experienced it before. Still, the Scandinavian found that he did not mind as much as he once had. Perhaps his once slave, now Priestess Wife's tolerance had rubbed off upon him. After all, no one knew scoffs as much as she did, and with even more irony inflicted they had mostly came from Ragnar and his ilk. The strange woman before him, however, did not seem repulsed by the idea that Ragnar had brought religion into their meeting so readily, only she gazed at him with what he recognized as curiosity. Something that he shared with not only her, at the moment, but with the All-Father all the time.

Despite whatever curiosity she might have harbored she did not ask for specifics and Ragnar was not the kind of man to shove his beliefs down the throats of others. She gave him her name when he asked for it. Caiaphas. He tucked her name away for safe keeping though he was not very sure what he would do with it, at this point. She asked for his name in return in a sweet manner, causing the scarred Scandinavian's lips to begin forming into a smirk. He had many names: Heathen, Ragnar, Heimdall, and occasionally shared a moniker with his deceased older brother. He was never sure which name he would give, if he would take the moniker of the Guardian God, or if he would give his own name until he was presented with the choice. I am Ragnar, He chose his real name, this time. I am the Jarl of Stavanger Bay, Most days he did not bother offering a translation of Jarl figuring that his body language spoke through the language barrier. Translations from his native tongue to the common tongue were not so starkly clean, anyway. Jarl didn't mean Alpha, nor King. It was a title he had chosen for himself because it was what his father and even Bjorn had done before him.

Ragnar had never been sure why the founder of Odinn's Cove, unrelated to him and his family, many years back before even his father's birth had decided upon the title of Jarl as the equivalent of Alpha Male. They could have easily called themselves Kóngur which translated to the common tongue's King. It had not been a tradition, necessarily, each Alpha Male had the ability to change their title and some had. Yet when Ragnar had been standing in the pool of his elder brother's warm lifeblood, the weight of his jealousy, ambition, and drive to avenge their father — all of his consequences — it was the words hail Jarl Ragnar that had spilled from his mother's lips, it had been what Eitri had called himself. In hindsight, Ragnar had merely brushed it off as nothing more than being shallow, it sounds the best before my name.

Their definitions of Jarl differed greatly and hence Ragnar's confusion was born when she mentioned that he was a poet and warrior. The latter she had hit right upon the bull's eye, though it was the first that had caused a furrow to form between his eyes. Not so poetic, I think, He could be charming when he needed to be, though these days that was a luxury only really afforded to women that he found intriguing and worth his charms despite that they were no more harmless than the venom of a King Cobra; he was well skilled at being deceptive as well but he did not share in his stolen son's knack for Saga telling which was what he thought of when she had uttered the word 'poet'. You are familiar with the Nordic culture? The scarred Scandinavian inquired of her with a curious, almost bird-like tilt of his head, having subconsciously picked the gesture up with his study of Odinn's ravens.

Are you in need of a pack? Ragnar inquired next. The last time he had let another Nord into his pack outside of his family and friends it had not ended well for the boy. Of course, challenging Ragnar's final decision regarding a trespasser, both as Head Warden and as the Jarl was bound to get a swift kick in the ass ending with banishment from Stavanger Bay. He had done what any self respecting Alpha would have ...even displaying a rare bought of mercy. The boy was lucky he was still drawing breath and should have been thanking Odinn for the rest of eternity for it. It wasn't common knowledge that Ragnar had killed his own brother for much less than disrespect but he garnered that those who crossed him did not realize the heathen that they were tempting; but their ignorance came with a price and it was a price that Ragnar would make them pay. Even so, he was willing to give her a chance, intrigued as he was by her, providing there was interest on her side.

The darkly colored woman before him turned away, her tattered ear flicking to let him know that she was, indeed, still listening despite that she was no longer facing him. She shook her coat free of the water that had weighed it down, a few of the flying droplets splashing against his nicked muzzle but the scarred man paid it no mind. For as much time as he had spent in the waves of the sea, lately, he was lucky that he had been able to get the sticky salt water out of his fur at all. She answered his question with a sigh, holding Ragnar's rapt attention as she spoke. The names that she offered him held no familiarity with him — not any name that he had ever heard before and therefore likely had no contact with Odinn's Cove up North. Ragnar had always been aware that they had fellow Nords elsewhere in the world and it was a rare treat when he came into contact with one of them; except in the case of Syver, it would appear. His interaction with the boy made him weary of others, but she was not so young and what kind of man would it make him if he grouped everyone together biased as his weariness suggested? Exactly that: a biased man.

One of Odinn's, It had been Odinn himself (or so that was what Ragnar fiercely believed) that had led him to this Bay. Eyes of caribbean ice watched her with a mischievous glint in their glacier depths, when she boldly and coyly stepped up alongside him, the smile she offered him flirtatious. Ragnar smirked coyly at her, intrigued. That depends, Ragnar murmured in response, in his naturally soft, heavily accented voice. On what you can offer me, Ragnar took her in, assessing her with a cant of his head, the scars that marred the left half of his head catching the light. And Stavanger Bay. The Scandinavian added as a sly after thought. Flirting was hardly harmful, he figured, because at the end of the day he was still a hot blooded man. And who was he to not appreciate the fair work of Frigg and Freyja?

Ragnar should have not been receptive of the woman's advances, he was a husband and not to just one wife but to two. He was also a father and had no right to take any sort of pleasure in flirtations from other women. However, Ragnar was no monk, and he did because in his mind there was no harm in it. After all, he had wives before and took many lovers while he was married to them, but knew that despite that flawed logic that he had not loved his previous wives. One was a trophy, and the others had been given to him by neighboring packs in the hope that he would steer his Berserkers clear of their pack lands during winter when they went upon raids. Of course it never worked. Ragnar didn't believe in alliances. Too well did the scarred Scandinavian know that wolves looked out for them and their ilk. They would always put their pack's well being first before helping another pack. Ragnar did not find insult in it if only because that was how it should be. Self preservation. Survival.

Ragnar was quiet when she spoke, appreciating her honesty. She held nothing back, but then again, neither did he. It got him into trouble most days. Stavanger Bay is a family. We take care of one another. I have no patience for alliances or politics between packs. We stick to ourselves for the most part though we are on good terms with Blacktail Deer Plateau as circumstance and the Gods would have it, Which served as an errant reminder to Ragnar that he needed to see Junior, again. He missed her as he would miss Gyda should she ever decide to leave. I expect everyone in Stavanger Bay to play their part. I encourage the earning of Trades, but I do not tolerate dead weight. We already have children. We do not need helpless adults, either, The Viking hadn't meant it specific to her, merely he was sharing his honest thoughts on the matter of wolves who did not contribute. Stavanger Bay had no use for lazy adults.

We claim the forest beside the Bay, as well; within the forest it is easy to forget about the sand and salt, Counting it as the whole Bay. It is bountiful with prey and fresh water sources. I suspect it holds many mysteries as well but Odinn won't delve into them. Ragnar smirked softly, his tone full of reverance for the All-Father. Speaking of the All-Father I will occasionally hold pack activities centered around my faith and culture. They are not mandatory, neither do I expect anyone else to follow in my faith. I only ask what the Gods ask: respect. As it was, he also didn't mind other religions as long as it wasn't all that a wolf had to offer him. He did not believe, necessarily, that religion and useful skills went hand in hand with one another.

Ragnar didn't know if he was doing a good job selling her on Stavanger Bay or not, he only knew that he wanted her to be apart of it because she seemed formidable and he took her at her word in regards to being a good ally.

Ragnar had long ago understood that not everyone was going to like his beliefs, or agree with them, for that matter and for the most part, Ragnar was complacent about it as long as they didn't run around saying it, or belittling his Gods to his and his children's faces. He could not control what anyone felt aside from himself and he could only influence if wolves were susceptible. Even then, he did not presume to take away the freedom of choice. It was that reason that he was able to take his Priestess as his wife, too, knowing that part of her heart still belonged to her God. Ragnar was arrogant enough to think he was going to steal it from her nameless, faceless deity, who commanded her to never take a man, to never bear children, that such things were wrong and horrid. It was a high price to ask for when he gave them nothing in return. He had not saved them from Ragnar and his Berserkers when they had invaded her pack lands and it hadn't saved Nerian when Ragnar had deigned to steal her and make her his slave.

The dark woman make a hum of contemplation and then asked him what he considered one of the most ridiculous questions he'd ever heard. Did he do any sacrifices. He did many, and then some that no one knew of but Odinn and himself. Like the wolf he had sacrificed to Odinn after the Festival of Uppsalla. I am a Pagan, of course I do sacrifices, He fixed her in his glacier stare then, Even wolves. He murmured in a softened tone. Granted, they were wolves that he did not know but even so. When Odinn and the other Gods demanded it he did it in not-so blind faith (as far as he was concerned).

While Ragnar was silent he watched her, curious and unabashed. He did not know what she would do — if she would accept tonight, take time to think of it, or even, come back. Whether she did, or not, Ragnar supposed wasn't of much consequence in the grand scheme of things. After all, wolves came and gone, approached their borders and either changed their mind or were chased out by Ragnar all the time. Stavanger Bay wouldn't be devastated — they were strong. The scarred Scandinavian's ears cupped forth at her question and for a very small moment Ragnar's silence proceeded him. He was not sure what a 'Volva' was exactly, but given the pretext of her question assumed it was some sort of slave or priest. Or something similar. I handle sacrifices personally, He told her simply. I would never allow another to make my sacrifices for me. A wiry smile tugged grimly at the edges of Ragnar's lips. He wasn't overly concerned about how his unwillingness to let anyone else make sacrifices for him in the name of his Gods made him look. After all, she had asked and the old saying went 'Don't ask unless you want to know the answer' or something close to that, Ragnar thought. He was straightforward and did not, often, hold back.

He was not ashamed and therefore had nothing to hide.

Ragnar watched her as she rose, letting his eyes appreciate her for a moment. The scarred Scandinavian tilted his head to the side in a raven-like manner when she spoke that she would back, her wicked smile earning a soft snort from the Viking as he watched her turn and disappear into the distance. There, Ragnar stayed until her form entirely disappeared like a wraith into the distance. Will you? The heathen asked aloud though the sound was quickly swallowed by the noise of the ebbing and flowing tide as it crashed upon the shore. He honestly didn't know if she would be back but whether she decided to return or not his offer, likely, wouldn't change.