A light snow had begun to fall upon the lands, though it did not yet stick to the hardened and frozen earth. Ragnar had known that winter had been upon them for several weeks now, but the first snow fall always confirmed it. For a moment, the scarred Scandinavian stood, stoic and statue like, looking up towards the gray painted heavens, watching as the frigid whiteness fell from above, the snowflakes melting at the instant that they touch his warm fur and black, leathery nose. Stavanger Bay was as prepared as he could have gotten them, without doing all of the work himself. He had been out of commission for a few days previous when his eye had been taken but unable to stay still for any measure of time the Viking did not remain bed ridden for long. Despite the excessive amount of fretting and fussing that his Queen Wife did over him and his injury. While Ragnar enjoyed the attention aspect of being a patient, selfishly soaking it up like a sponge soaking up water, he could not stand to not be handling his duties as Jarl. As the leader of the wolves whom pledged themselves to him and his family, he had to be the most prominent part of Stavanger Bay. Thistle had fretted about putting himself into an early grave but he was not so worried. Not because he thought he was immortal in any sense — Ragnar knew too well the extent of his mortality, having came close to being collected for Valhalla several times in his life. Odinn may have promised him a long and fulfilling life full of many sons but that favor was a fickle thing and could be revoked at any given point, Ragnar knew. Even so, death was no real threat to him. It didn't scare him.

Granted, there was much he would leave behind if Odinn were to steal him away to the hall of Valhalla, but aside from that sort of bubble of “regret” so to speak, he did not fear it like most others seemed to do.

Singular Caribbean blue eye went back down to his dominion, the familiar and ancient ash trees that held, just beyond them, to the west the sea, and to east the free territories beyond. It was a process still, having to physically turn his head to make up the lack of sight on his left side, or instead to use his other senses, which seemed to have all heightened in the absence of vision on that side. Enlisting the help of his only son left he trained every day, making himself stronger, teaching him how to fight just as brutally and demonically as he had with both eyes. His sacrifice was not a disability and he would never treat it as such. It was only a hindrance currently because he was not yet used to it.

Ragnar had been on his way to the borders when the first howl reached him. Ears cupped forth atop his crown to depict the point of origin. The second howl came when Ragnar was nearing her position, confirming that his tracking abilities had not been lost with his eye. Louder this time, it was accompanied by the scent that wafted off of her, foreign and unfamiliar to the Viking. Right eye caught sight of her, assessing her in the distance as he worked to close it, though the platinum Northman's steps ceased before he reached the edge of his borders. Head canted ever so slightly to the side in a bird-like manner as he shamelessly studied her. She appeared strong but there was more that he looked for in his pack members than just physical abilities. The Drottning herself was small but fierce as any fire that Ragnar could never hope to tame but got a thrill out of trying, nevertheless. A true heart of a Valkyrie beat in the chest of his shield-maiden, and it was a beat to match the Berserker's own.

“Halló” The Viking greeted the stranger in his natural, soft, heavily accented voice, slipping into Icelandic with an ease that was almost relieving. The word was simple enough to be able to translate, though he wondered if she shared in his native tongue or if she did not. Whether she did or didn't, did not truly matter. Simply, out of a fear of becoming “civilized” Ragnar had to implore more circumstances of his culture. The Viking's posture told of whom he was without being unnecessarily excessive about it. He was not as theatrical about it as he knew other Alpha's to be. They would recognize and respect his rank and his word or they would pay the price for it. It really didn't have to be any more complicated, or “showy” than that. “What brings you to my borders?” The Jarl inquired with simplicity, though he harbored something of a rather good idea of what she was at his borders for.