Stavanger Bay into the rushes - Printable Version

The cliffs were formidable, daunting in their dominance over the seaside and the two packs that resided there. Gluska did not believe it to be a suitable home for wolves, but he had appreciated the seclusion and mystery that surrounded Ankyra. It was certainly a home suited for the dark-furred Caiaphas, and possibly even Kaliska. The wraith of a male did not believe their ranks to be suitable for him, however. His nature did not reflect well on being treated like swine; Gluska relished in tricks and mayhem. He would, however, be required to stay close to his family. Their protection was of the utmost importance to the half-breed. He did not doubt for a second, though, that they were not capable women.

Trailing the edge of the nearest pack, Gluska trained his lengthy ears on the noises beyond their marked territory. His narrow muzzle was pointed towards the heart of their pack, nearly as secluded as Ankyra Sound had been. A firm frown had curled his inky lips downward. Sharp yellow eyes sought an edge to their lands, hoping that there was a strong line he would not be allowed to cross. Not that he cared too deeply about it; the sacredness of their lands was of very little concern to Gluska.

There was a sharp burst of wind that carried his ochre-tinged fur upwards and sprang goose-bumps on the flesh beneath his pelt. Curling his lip, Gluska lowered his skull towards the earth in hopes that he could escape the frigid air. His appearance cast the image of a hunkering savage, lurking on the edge of their land.

Winter had finally come to these lands, bringing with it an undeniable chill that could be felt in the very marrow of the Northman's bones. Thus far, the winter here did not seem to be like the winters of the North, but there was always that possibility that these Wilds could take the Viking by surprise. At any rate, he was prepared for a harsh and unforgiving winter because it was the only type of winter that he knew. Stavanger Bay was as ready for it as Ragnar could physically alone make them, their caches filled and saved, now, for dire emergencies. Their pack hunts, Ragnar thanked Thor, had all been successful as of late which helped tremendously in keeping the caches full. On the more sorrowful side this also meant that looking for Liyaní would be harder by seven-fold. As much as Ragnar hated to “give up” the search for her, he had to set his sights much closer to home, even if that meant earning and bearing the hatred of Charon and Levi for the rest of his life. It stung, of course, because Ragnar had grown to care for the orphaned Ostrega children, but they were young and could not possibly understand that he was trying but that, as Jarl, he could not stop the world for one wolf, nor could he brush off the pack in favor of finding their sister. If he wished to do that then his only option would be to step down and Ragnar was too deeply rooted in his own ambitions for that. Stavanger Bay was like a child to him, he had created it, and it seemed fitting that only he lead it until his death, or until he was challenged, though to challenge him would be a fight to the death. Ragnar might not have ran his pack as a Viking pack as he had first envisioned it to be, the Scandinavian held true to his culture's traditions. He would accept nothing less.

Not that Ragnar thought any of his current subordinates was interested in challenging him. Ragnar did the best he could with what he was given to work with, and spent longer days and nights out patrolling the borders, or hunting, making sure he put in more hours than his subordinates because it was his job. At the end of the day, their welfare and the welfare of the Bay was his top priority; and that included making the tough decisions that no one, truly, wished to make.

Ragnar had been doing a routine patrol of the borders when the scent of a lone wolf wafted his way. Steps paused for a moment, as black, leathery nostrils flared as he sought the origin of it. His path resumed, for luck would have it, that he could intercept the loner without having to deviate from his patrol path. Ragnar saw the male soon, close to his borders but not over them, yet. Hackles bristled against the chilling sweep of the winter winds, as his remaining, right eye, assessed the other male. “You are close to my borders, stranger,” Ragnar spoke his observation aloud, head rising as he neared, a coy smirk tugging at the edges of the Viking's lips as his soft, heavily accented voice cut through the frigid air between them.

A lumbering white male appeared before long, casting a disapproving glance to Gluska before remarking that he was awfully close to the borders. A crinkling smirk curled the coywolf’s lips upward and he peered, unafraid, at the pale creature. “Close,” he repeated, though left the remainder of the sentence open for interpretation. The accent that had played across the opposing male’s words was one that the trickster was entirely unfamiliar with. Their lands were peculiar and boasted a vast variety of beliefs and cultures. It had, originally, been curiosity that had dragged the nimble Gluska to the borders of the bay, but as he stood on the edge of their lands, he wondered if it would be curiosity that kept him there. He could have toyed with the thought of pledging himself to the ranks of a pack, and one so near to Caiaphas would have been ideal, but he was more interested in the specimen before him.

The hulking white creature was something of a beast to behold. Tall figure, thick muscles, donned with battle scars – no doubt. Gluskap was quite the opposite. His lengthy ears and lightsome frame only demonstrated that he was cut from an entirely different cloth. The Viking that peered at him was a creature of mass and action. Gluska was a creature of tricks and baneful actions.

Lifting his narrow muzzle upwards, the coywolf flicked his tongue across his fangs and leered at his large companion. There were no more words to fall from his dark lips. He could not see a reason to speak unless a question was posed for him. Still, Gluska was waiting to see what the Viking would do with him. His sharp yellow eyes danced like a flickering flame as he followed the sharp curvature of the pale man’s shoulders and back. A specimen indeed…

Typically, Ragnar did not mind a lapse in conversation, having always considered himself a quiet, brooding man himself. Whether that self assessment held true or not the Viking did not know and could not being himself to care. A few more moments of silence passes in between them before the Jarl decided to break it. He had no time to play games. "I am Ragnar, Jarl of Stavanger Bay," He began with an introduction of name and rank, though his posture spoke for itself. "What is you seek by lingering near my borders?" The Northman inquired hoping that with a straightforward question he would receive a straightforward answer in return.

Ragnar was not so confident that it would happen as such, but a least the question was posed, awaiting the loner's response. The Viking showed patience as he felt the weight of the Libner's gaze upon him, getting the distinct impression that he was being studied.

The pale brute opted to break their silence with an introduction. Formalities had never been fair to Gluska, though he did understand why Ragnar would follow with such statements. Flicking his tail, the coywolf male nodded his head once, and slowly, before fixing his eyes on the lands behind the white Alpha. The pallid beast called himself a Jarl. Gluska found this odd. He was a dominate figure, therefore suggesting that his rank was at the head of the pack. Still, the trickster had never heard such a title before. He wondered where Ragnar had derived from to use such jargon.

“Jarl?” the coywolf echoed with an inquisitive gleam in his yellow gaze. He canted his head to one side and drew his lengthy ears forward on his skull. This single word was not uttered like the previous. This one was spoken with a genuine curiosity. “Strange…” Gluska then mused with a small smile and a spark in his vision. While he was not entirely looking to rile the massive white wolf, he was curious to see if his disregard for the male’s lifestyle would cause tension. Until that point, Ragnar had been quite patient. The ochre-tinged coywolf was there to see if it would last.

It was not long before an inquiry followed the pale wolf’s introduction. Gluskap drew his muzzle upwards and peered strangely at the Jarl before drawing his salmon-colored tongue across his dark lips. “I have lost something very important… her scent leads to your borders,” he lied with a frown.

The stranger repeated the title of Jarl, the word sounding unfamiliar and perhaps even questioning as it left the other male's lips. Ragnar had grown to expect this from those who were not familiar with his culture. So many were unfamiliar with his culture in these Wilds, but then again Ragnar had been here for long enough to understand that it, too, was to be expected. He had attempted to bring his culture and customs to these Wilds but Stavanger Bay was a failed attempt. They were too diverse and Ragnar, for all of his flaws, could not force another into believing something they could not, or did not want to believe. If they were curious then he would speak and if they were not then he would not force his culture, nor his religion down the throats of his subordinates. Ragnar knew that if someone tried to shove a different religion and culture than his own down his throat he'd have ripped theirs out in compensation. “It is one of the numerous words in my native language for leader,” The Alpha's of Odinn's Cove had all called themselves different though the end result was the same. Eitri had been the first to call himself Jarl, and Ragnar had taken all that he had left of his father: a title and used it in the once great warrior's honor. He was a great warrior in Valhalla now, and someday, Ragnar would join him there, he was determined.

Ragnar ignored the other male's murmur of it being strange, for Ragnar did not agree with that assessment since it was nothing but “normal” for him and he saw nothing strange about it. There were some things, Ragnar had learned since becoming Jarl of Odinn's Cove back in the day, that he had to let go and choose to ignore. The Northman's velveteen ears perked slightly when the stranger spoke that he had lost someone valuable to him and that her scent led to his borders. Per Ragnar's usual the Jarl was inherently suspicious but he also did not think it may be uncommon for someone to come looking for someone he had in his ranks, either. Especially if they were family or something similar. “Name her, and what she is to you and maybe I will consider letting her know you were here.” The cunning Northman spoke in his naturally quiet tone, cocking the good, unmarred, still handsome half of his face upwards, towards the stranger, fixing him in a singular, observing gaze, waiting.