Night had fallen over the Teekon Wilds but Ragnar could not bring himself to sleep. Restless, he had risen with the thought of telling Thistle he was going to take another patrol along the borders in the hopes that the repetitive motion might help release the coil of anxiety that was gnawing at him as a dog worried a bone. It was ceaseless and unending, no matter what he did in attempts to remedy it. Instead he murmured only a soft I'll be back, do not wait up in his native tongue to her, unsure if she was truly awake or not before he had exited the den he shared with her, Gunnar, and their foster children. Death was something that was celebrated in his culture, but that did not mean that he did not grieve the deaths of Verrine, Julooke, (and the assumed death of) Kevlyn. Despite how Ragnar put himself out to the world the scarred Scandinavian was not heartless. The sorrow took hold of him, as well, but the thought that they had earned their places in the great All-Father's hall, in Valhalla with Pump was enough to soothe the demon of worry any time it attempted to rear it's ugly head within the Viking.

The moon was high in the sky, Ragnar's breath slipping from betwixt his parted lips in plumes of white steam that coiled and kissed eagerly at his black, leathery nose. A small kiss of warmth before the cold rushed in to nip mere moments later. Doubling the long way around the den, following a sudden and intense urge. The deep, unintelligible whispers traveling through the ancient trees of their bay home in his native tongue. Silently, the platinum Jarl sought out his secret stash of Berserker mushrooms and stole one from the cache before he kicked the dirt back over in, to close it, packing the dirt down as he chewed the tiny, dried, seemingly harmless fungi. Knowing it for what it was, that it was mainly only used when he needed to go to battle. Ragnar had always considered himself lucky to not have became addicted to it as some of his comrades had been; and though he sought the fix in that moment he still did not consider it an addiction. It was not as if he had to have one everyday, or even week, and most of the time he was good about conserving them for actual purposes. This, he considered, an actual purpose. He needed to hear his Gods, to see them with his own eyes: so he might ask them why they kept punishing him and his pack, his family.

Not that Ragnar expected any sort of real response.

Heading into the very heart of the forest, he could begin to feel the trickle of the Berserker mushroom taking effect not overly potent for the lack of dosage. To feel no pain, for a couple of hours even, to be able to commune with his Gods, Ragnar was confident, would give him the peace of mind that the Viking sought. How could a Jarl so wrapped up in turmoil and mourning lead his wolves through the tough times that they were currently suffering through? First, he had to tackle his own demons, solve his own problems before he could even begin to tackle the bigger problems. hagl, trúr mitt, The deep, celestial voice of Odinn floated around the forest and on instinct, Ragnar stopped, eager to obey as ever. To prove to Odinn that he was still worthy of the All-father's favor. “Odinn,” Ragnar murmured respectfully to the bodiless voice that would command a massive army of dead in the coming Ragnarök. Ragnar waited, head bowed, for Odinn to speak more but the All-Father did not. Slowly, the Lodbrok lifted his head and glimpsed around the small clearing he'd stopped within, expecting to see some corporeal form of the King God materialize before him. Ragnar glimpsed up at the trees when the sound of ruffling feathers broke the commanding and unusual silence of the forest all around him. “hvað myndir þú hefur frá mér, Óðinn? hvað þarf ég að fórna til að sanna hollustu mína?” Ragnar asked of Odinn in their native tongue, his voice barely more than a respectful murmur. Softer than his naturally soft voice, afraid that if he spoke too loud that he might shatter his God's presence.

The one eyed raven, the one that Ragnar felt confident was truly Odinn, the one that had led Julooke and him here to this Bay in the first place lighted down onto the debris littered forest floor, blink it's beady black eye up at him, head cocking to the side as if he were examining Ragnar. The believed to be Gods' stare was intense, and above Huginn or Munnin let out a shrill call from above as “Odinn” hopped closer. A eins fórn mun duga, Ragnar Loðbrók, Odinn's voice seemed to echo all around him rather than emitting from one place, such as the raven's beak, but still Ragnar did not believe in consequences. It was a one eyed raven that Ragnar very rarely saw, too rare for the Northman to believe that in such things. Ragnar took a step forward, attention grasped briefly by the fermenting corpse of rabbit that it appeared that the ravens had been pecking at. “Odinn” flew the short distance towards it and began to peck at the meat, tearing it from the bone. “Odinn...” Ragnar was not entirely able to make sense of what the All-Father wanted from him, nor what a “like sacrifice” was supposed to be. Lowering his head the Viking ghosted closer to his believed God, nearing the feasting creature.

Ég mun taka augað, hvernig Yggdrasil tók mitt! The hairs on the nape of Ragnar's neck bristled as the raven let out a loud battle cry and sprung into the air, talons slashing through the air as it dived at him, slashing deeply from brow to muzzle, slicing clean through his left eye. Adrenaline pulsed through Ragnar's veins, aided by the Berserker mushroom and at first Ragnar noticed nothing until he felt something warm seep from his eye leaving three bleeding gouges the perfect size of it's talons into his flesh, and a ugly, bleeding hole where his eye had been brutally gouged out. As the raven screech again, a deafening sound piercing through the sound of his rapid heart beat, though he felt no pain Ragnar realized that only his right eye remained functioning. Confusion was soothed out by the knowledge that Odinn had taken his eye as a sacrifice but Ragnar could not help the strangle cry of horror, despite understanding, and accepting the truth as it was.

Ragnar could barely hear the sound of approaching footfalls, fast and light in the speed with which the other moved over the rapid palpitations of his heart. To any third party observer the explanation of his injuries was as simple as him getting too close to an overly territorial raven's meal; but Ragnar knew the truth (or what he believed to be the truth, at any rate). All at once his body was hot, so hot that he'd began panting, but he was also cold and shivering. The Berserker mushroom had done it's job, blocking the pain so that he felt nothing but the sticky, warm liquids of his body as they oozed down his face, dripping down the length of his muzzle, staining the platinum colored fur crimson. Accepting what had happened to him was a step in the right direction, but it did not make the him feel any less disoriented. Having gone from two perfectly beautiful working eyes to only one, despite that it made him feel indefinitely closer to Odinn (for they were alike now), the Northman was suffering a severe moment of shock. His left side was black, only a ghost of a memory, an eye with a flame licking at the empty eye socket, a gift, perhaps from Odinn to aid in attempting to calm the Viking down. Outwardly, Ragnar wasn't panicking. Inwardly, he was. Maybe losing an eye didn't affect Odinn because he was a God; but Ragnar was no God.

And yet, it was the price that he'd paid to ensure that he and Stavanger Bay stayed in the All-Father's favor. It was a sacrifice to prove his devotion, and though it was, indeed, shocking, Ragnar didn't necessarily regret it. He had once said that he would give much more than his eye for knowledge, but he had given his eye and surely that stood for something.

When Thistle began to panic, her voice trembling — or at least that was how he heard it, it could have been because he was trembling, he bowed his head to allow her access to his face, as she began to lick it, in an attempt to clean it Ragnar assumed. “No,” Ragnar rasped in correction. “Not foolish. Odinn took my eye as a sacrifice to keep his favor. Not just for me. For all of Stavanger Bay.” As far as Ragnar saw it, he was lucky that the All-Father didn't want anything more than just Ragnar's eye.

Ragnar ignored Thistle's growl, easily combating her words with his own justification behind what had happened. It was amazing how he was bleeding, and eyeless and she was angry with him. So confident was his Queen Wife that he was going to die that she attempted to use it against him, questioning him, uselessly, that if he died where would the Bay be? A small, snide part of Ragnar wanted to respond back sharply, about it probably being better. If he wouldn't have left to try to find Julooke's attacker maybe things would not have gone down the way they had. Maybe the Bay would be better prepared for winter, maybe their numbers wouldn't be so low. Perhaps, though, everything would be exactly the same way, even if he had stayed. Maybe someone could lead Stavanger Bay better than him, not that Ragnar planned to be alive to see that happen. It would take his death to usurp him, like it had taken for the Jarls, Earls, and Kings of Odinn's Cove before hand; and given that Odinn had promised him a long and fulfilling life a long time ago Ragnar intended to hold the All-Father to it. “I'm not going to die,” Ragnar murmured hotly to her, another shiver teasing down the length of his spine.

The Northman snorted softly at her command, lips curling ever so slightly back from his teeth. After a few seconds of wondering if it was necessary, slowly the platinum furred Jarl folded his front legs beneath him and then settled his bum against the ground, ears splayed back against his skull as she continued to lap at his eye and the three gouges that Odinn had left against his skin. As always, she worried too much. Ragnar was made of much thicker, tougher stuff than that to left a missing eye and a few scratches end his life. It was not how he was destined to leave for Valhalla, and he was far, far too young yet. Though part of him would always desire Valhalla, he knew that his life upon the land of the living was far more important than Valhalla until it was actually his time to allow Odinn to take him.

“I am okay, wife,” Ragnar murmured soothingly to her. “I am calm and lucid, my love.” Though the Berserker blood rage was nothing to play around with, it wasn't the blood rage that had taken him. If anything, they kept the incredible pain that Ragnar was sure he would come to feel later at bay, and if at anything it aided now in calming him down. Their purpose was for war, but they held medicinal purposes as well. No different than her poppy seeds, except if they were used to induce the blood rage. “It was only one, and I ate it to clear my head.” Not that he had to justify the use of his own collection to her. He was an adult, and had been using them since likely before Thistle had been born, or at the very least while she was still a little child.

Ragnar felt his Queen Wife cease in her attempts to clean his eye, and though he could not see her looking at him, with her being on his blind side, he could feel her eyes burn into his skin. “I am not going to die, wife,” Ragnar repeated, this time more resolute than the last. “Odinn has promised me a long life, remember?” Ragnar reminded her, whether she would listen or not. The Northman took a deep breath when she reprimanded him for exposing his teeth to her, barely resisting the urge to tell her that he would do what he wanted. “I am not in pain,” The Berserker mushroom had seen to that. Of course, it was insinuated that when it wore off he would be in severe pain but Ragnar was a Viking and wasn't going to let something so insignificant as pain stop him for seeing to his duties as the Jarl, nor from his patrols, nor from hunting. Both would be difficult with only one eye, but he was resilient and he would adapt.

Ragnar let out a soft, satisfied sigh when he felt her lean against him. Though she was on his blind side, he reached his muzzle for her anyway, knowing that he found her when his lips brushed against the soft fur of her own muzzle. He would do it all again, over and over, if it meant Odinn's favor for their family and the pack. There was no sacrifice too great, in Ragnar's mind. Some would think that it made his devotion to the All-Father dangerous, but the Gods wanted what they wanted and it was their duty to make it happen or feel the pain of their wrath which would be ten times worse than the sacrifice itself. “No,” Ragnar told her gruffly when she spoke of covering it. “I will not have it covered,” It felt like an insult to Odinn, and the platinum colored Jarl was insulted for his God. “It is a symbol of Odinn and his power. I will wear it proudly,” After all, Ragnar couldn't imagine how much more gruesome it was than the ugly scars upon that side of his face, anyway.

“It will be worth it,” Ragnar insisted roughly, believing fully that no longer was Odinn upset with him, and though he would have to suffer with the absent of his eye for a while it would become like the scars that marred the left side of his face, eventually. Another battle scar, and soon no one, himself included, would notice it. He almost told her that he had suffered far worse but bit his tongue at the last moment. “At least Odinn took it from the less attractive side of my face,” Ragnar spoke in soft jest, attempting to make ...not a joke out of it because the last thing he wished to do was to upset the Allfather, but attempted to lighten the mood a bit. He was not, probably, as perturbed about the whole ordeal as he should have been. Then again, he was a Viking, and he had seen wolves with much worse coming out of battle.

Ragnar felt her lean slightly against his muzzle, her whine picked up almost as soon as it left her lips. “I'm not going to die, my love,” Ragnar murmured, feeling like a broken record that kept skipping to the same line, over and over again. It was strange to the Northman, to hear her admit that if Odinn saw fit to break his promises, to take Ragnar earlier than expected to Valhalla, that Thistle would be so distraught by it. Perhaps it was because for a while there she had been so angry with him that Ragnar had begun to worry that she had no other emotions, that her anger had swallowed and destroyed the love she had felt for him. That one day she would divorce and leave him. Ragnar thanked the Gods everyday that it did not come to that.

If Odinn could survive with only one eye, then so Ragnar was determined to do as well; and anyway he had known a male name Torstein who had, had an eye removed in battle who was still one hell of a warrior even for losing half of his sight. “You have to say that,” Ragnar teased her lightly, managing a characteristic coy little grin that tugged at the edges of his lips. It was a matter of opinion, the Viking knew. Many times he had seen others recoil from the scars that were made in dedication to Odinn when they first laid eyes upon the maimed left side of his face. Ragnar had learned to expect it though, just as he had learned to use their ignorance to his own advantage when they assumed that he was slow, or unobservant because in the face of an enemy he preferred silence to useless chatter. He gave the impression that he was not paying attention, when in fact he was and numerous times that had came to his ultimate aid on battle, or when he wished to strike up a negotiation, which was very rare. Thistle had fallen silent, and so did Ragnar, having nothing further to say in that moment, lest she think of something else to keep the conversation going. Even still, he could feel blood seep down his muzzle, slower than it had before.

Ragnar had merely been teasing her when he had said that she was obligated to call him handsome as his wife, though of course that wasn't particularly true. Some women just liked scars, or the enigma of badassery that they created. It would seem to Ragnar that Thistle was one of those women. Or maybe she wasn't so shallow to consider outward appearance, though Ragnar remembered vividly that she had been intimidated by him at one point in time. Not that he hadn't expected it: when you were covered as many battle wounds as Ragnar the stares and hesitation became as normal as receiving someone's name. It had never been insulting, if because Ragnar was proud of his scars. They marked him for what he was: an experienced Berserker, and if you didn't have scars you were just a green boy straight out of the training; though there was hardly any Vikings without scars. Scars were respected rather than feared in his culture. Nevertheless, the Northman left it be. Noting that she seemed to be looking for something, presumably to cease the seepage that leaked from his eye socket, which involved physically turning his head so that he could see her, though upon his blind side he felt the air around her stir, the rush of cool air as she moved away from him. “Perhaps we should go back to the den where your medicinal supplies are, hm?” Ragnar suggested. He was fine, or well, as “fine” as he could possibly be at the moment. Not to mention, he wanted his mushroom supply close lest he start to feel the pain that was sure to catch up with him sooner or later.