More and more time had spent in the presence of the sacred lands of Ravensblood Forest with anticipated impatience that seethed like a demon beneath his skin. How many times did he have to continue to scout these lands, rubbing his scent along the trees as if he were creating a barrier until they moved as a cohesive unit to claim them? He supposed that Pump was waiting for Kennedy’s recovery but that would be months to complete and it wasn’t as if they were claiming the whole forest, despite that Björn inherently and stubbornly thought it was the best thing to do. There was nothing worth keeping on the Ridge and so long as they lingered there in part they ran the risk of another avalanche or mudslide happening. It was foolish, but of course, Björn managed to keep that particular opinion to himself. After all, there was a cemented respect for Pump even if he disagreed with her on levels, plus, he wasn’t looking to jeopardize his potential for the Beta rank. No, there was no other way to gain it because it wasn’t as if anyone occupied that rank currently - or else he could have challenged.
Needlessly, he kept up the charted path of what Pump wished to claim, rubbing his left, uninjured shoulder (though the right was healing nicely now that he was careful about not tearing it open) along the bark of the trees. Pause was given in the warm morning as a sweet scent filled his nostrils. Curiosity was never something Björn felt inclined to ignore especially since Odinn was the God of curiosity (among other things) and with a reckless abandon he followed the scent to a crabapple tree, sniffing at the fruit on the ground, catching the scent of venison that had likely passed through their earlier. Ice blue eyes glimpsed at the green canopy of the Heavens, knowing that this was a gift from Odin - this tree. It would attract the herd and Björn made a small mental note to let Pump know about it in the hopes that she would want to include the Godly gift into their claimed portion.
Whiskers trembled as his tail swayed once in a flicking motion against his hindquarters, wondering besides the sweet scent what it was that attracted the deer to these apples. Björn was first and foremost a carnivore, but in that moment he was feeling akin to how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, the devil whispering decadent temptations offering the apple to her. Lips parted to grip the fruit in his jaws and crashed down upon it, chewing the softened fruit, it’s sweet juices filling his mouth and dripping off of his chin as he swallowed and licked at them, before he ate another, and another, and another for good measure, and then a fifth because there was something buzzing in his veins and he suddenly couldn’t get enough of the unknowingly fermented juices that he was consuming with vigor.
Ragnaarr, A deep voice boomed from all around him bidding the Viking to pause and wearily, with great reluctance he peeked up at the tree where the voice came from, snapping his jaws close to the sixth apple he’d been about to consume, stumbling slightly though he’d been standing still, as his vision blurred and the tree began to morph before his eyes into the glorious goat that he had only heard of from his mother’s grand stories of Valhalla. “Heiðrún…” Burst from betwixt the Viking’s lips with awe and reverence as reality and drunken stupor battled it out within him.
Unfortunately, that distraction was Björn.
He burst into view like a star, ethereal white and badly camouflaged - much like Bazi, whose own fur was now regularly groomed and without blemish. To make matters worse, she had stumbled directly into the warden's line of vision - within less than a of the spectral goat his glazed, wandering eyes were now struggling to focus on. As far of Bazi could tell, something - perhaps fever - had separated him from his wits, and the unsteady gaze made it look as though he was targeting her, not a figment of his imagination.
"Heiðrún…", he slurred, forming the foreign word with reverence and love. It shared sounds with the words he had murmured mere days earlier, and the force of her reaction to it made Bazi's toes curl into the needle-strewn. Her posture morphed from alert to defensive - ears flat, head lowered, and lips twitching over sharp teeth.
From Björn's point of view, her head was exactly in line with the hazy shadow of his beloved deity.
Reality was losing the battle rapidly, giving him one last burst of groggily clarity that lasted but a few seconds before his sense of what was real and what was imagined was disrupted and abruptly gone. Brow furrowed for a few moments as Ragnar tried to make some sort of drunken sense of what he was seeing. “Heiðrún,” The savage slurred to the imaginary goat unable to mask his confusion even in drunken stupor as he glimpsed from the tree “goat” around him, the trees blurring into brown and green walls, before he tipped his muzzle up to glimpse at the green canopy above that had taken the form of thousands of shields above him. The great goat did not reply, or even acknowledge that Ragnar had spoken to it at all and there was a brief moment of absolute frustration as he let his glazed gaze fall back upon it, demanding some sort of answer from it. “I have died and gone to Valhalla but…” While it was like the stories in some ways, in numerous others it …wasn’t. Where was Odinn? Where was everyone else? The Viking let out a hefty sigh then, not even bothering to finish his sentence, discouraged by the goat’s stony silence. The only thing that Ragnar could figure, muddled and clouded though his thoughts were in that moment, was that everyone else was off training.
“Where is my ale, Heiðrún?” Ragnar stumbled closer to the tree then, his body rocking slightly as if he were on a ship, having not acquired any ‘sea legs’. His paw came in contact with another fermented apple and he bowed his head, sniffing at it before he ate it, a contented noise vibrating in his broad chest as it’s sweet, tangy juices flowing down his throat and dribbling off of his chin as he chewed thoughtfully, glimpsing up at the tree goat with a silly smirk on his face. “It is the finest I have ever tasted, Heiðrún.” The savage complimented his delusion.
It was as he went for his second apple (which was in reality like his tenth or something like that) that he, peering from under the tree goat’s legs that the wraith presence of another was caught. Ears perked into an alert position as he stared at the other not recognizing her as the Creek wolf he had meant at one point. “Come and drink with me,” The Viking invited her, “Heiðrún’s ale does not disappoint.” A wobbly, charmingly drunken grin played at the edges of his lips as he waited for her to accept his invitation.
"Are you seeing things?" she demanded, oblivious to the fact that Björn - or Ragnar - was under the influence of a huge number of fermented fruits. In Bazi's mind, he had simply succumbed to his own inherent mental weakness and finally gone insane. The Ridge alpha would need to be informed.
To Ragnar his words were familiar, meaningful and in that moment with a swell of nostalgia, dearly missed. It had been too long since he had used his native tongue and they flowed from betwixt his teeth like a caress. The Viking appraised his companion for a few moments, unable to understand her hesitation at joining him for the drink. Heiðrún was a generous God, his ale for all of those who had made it to Valhalla and the Hall’s valkyries. He had initially assumed she was a shield maiden but not revisited that assumption instead deciding that he was in the presence of a valkryie. Admittedly, when Ragnar had imagined them they hadn’t been so…cold. Slowly, his silly grin began to diminish like a flame slowly suffocating until it was gone all together. Caribbean blue eyes stayed focused upon her - or rather as focused as they could be considering they were glassed over with his intoxication, his pupils blown wide. The valkryie demanded of him if he was seeing things which did not, exactly, make sense to Ragnar (though in truth he his senses were too far dimmed). What in Valhalla did she mean was he seeing things? Of course he could see what kind of stupid question was that? “I have eyes don’t I?” He sniped at her, irritated that she had not agreed to his invitation. “If you will not drink with me then leave Heiðrún and I be. Go back to Odinn and the others.” If she wasn’t going to share in his mirth then she could leave him be to it, surely.
"Clearly not.." Bazi grumbled, looking over her shoulder for any sign of 'Odinn' before realized that this name too belonged to Björn's fantasy. Despite his peculiar behaviour, he seemed..placid, somehow. Calm. Bazi had the presence of mind to reel in her aggression. Perhaps there was something to be gained from this encounter.
"Tell me about Heiðrún," she told gently, taking a cautious step forward. "What is it that you drink with him? Or her?" If she could just get Björn - or Ragnar - to admit to his penchant for child sacrifice, she would have something concrete to bring to the Ridge alpha (and Fox).
She appeared to have mumbled something under her breath that Ragnar failed to, in his inebriated state, catch. Ragnar, far too intoxicated to care let it roll off of his shoulder in an errant shrug not wishing to pay her any more mind if she was going to mumble under her breath at him. If she was what a valkyrie really was then frankly, he didn’t want anything to do with the females. He watched as she glimpsed over her shoulder, in his mind searching for Odin - unable to know that it was indeed who she was searching for. “Well go on maiden,” Maybe she wasn’t a valkyrie, maybe he was just so overwhelmed with ale and awe that it was hard to determine - minus the giant goat, of course - who was who. The female’s questioning, despite Ragnar’s general drunkenness roused his suspicion through the muddled and slowed confines of his brain, causing his eyes to narrow in physical display of this suspicion. If she did not know who Heiðrún was how did she possibly get into Valhalla the Pagan could not help but wonder. “How do you not know about Heiðrún?” He demanded brazenly, expecting an answer, unable to wonder if he was truly in Valhalla before the consideration that this could all be Loki playing a cruel trick on him re-surfaced.
It was not something Ragnar would easily put past the trickster God.
“Heiðrún,” Ragnar sighed with exasperation as if he were explaining this to an ignorant child. “is a giant goat who gives us warriors of Valhalla ale,” He glimpsed around his paws then in search of another fermented fruit before finding on and plucking it gently, just barely resisting to consume it himself, in betwixt his jaws and dropping it between them, nudging it towards her with his nose. “Drink.” He encouraged his suspicion attempting to offer him some fuzzy clarity.
"I must be new," Bazi replied tightly, accepting Björn's ridiculous reprimand with clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. Of course it's a giant, ale-dispensing goat. Of course it is.
He dropped a half-rotted apple at her paws then. It smelled strongly of something Bazi couldn't identify - much less deemed safe for consumption. But she was determined to play along, and stooped to lick at it. "I am but a maiden," she lied, "and must take my time with this... gift. What did you do to deserve such a fine feast, oh -" she trailed off, lingering on the 'oh', "... fine warrior? Did you sacrifice a banquet's worth of babes to your Odinn?" Yes, it was a bit much, but she was desperate to get to the point and be gone from the forest.
“New,” Ragnar repeated the word as if it were something foreign he had never heard before, though of course given his fluency in the common tongue this was not true. It was a simple enough word to understand yet, the Viking did not understand. How did one get into Valhalla without being a Viking. She should have known about Valhalla and, essentially Heiðrún from the stories - even if she was a convert Viking she would have been told until they were at least, familiar. Ragnar watched with a contented expression as she lowered her head to lick at Heiðrún’s gift. “Good,” He murmured before his piercing gaze (albeit glassy with drink) settled upon her face. “Eat it,” The Viking encouraged, letting his suspicion send little red flags through his brain though he did not let his suspicion show. “It is insulting to reject a gift from a God. For his docile nature no one wants to be around Heiðrún if he gets insulted.” Ragnar informed her, determined to see how far she would go. Even while drunk Ragnar was nothing if not clever even if it was hard to focus and things were fuzzy. From her general lack of knowledge - and further response that she was a maiden; only shield maidens and warriors went to Valhalla - led him to believe that he was not actually deceased and in Valhalla.
He was probably just wasted.
Her following words were stranger still, and Ragnar swayed - partially in truth and partially in cover of hiding that he was aware that something wasn’t right - and smirked, a slow, tantalizing twist of his lips heavenward. Sacrifice? Babies? No Viking made a habit of sacrificing babes to the Gods. It was true that Ragnar had only made one sacrifice to Odinn during his time here thus far and that it had been a baby cougar - not yet off it’s mothers teat, its mother having been killed by the grizzly that haunted this forest. And then, slowly, as if a light struggling to illuminate began to glow it’s dimness fading as it warmed up, Ragnar began to put the puzzle pieces together in his mind. It was obvious this girl did not know of Valhalla or any of his customs, or even how one got into Valhalla which was a dead giveaway to him at first. The sloppy conclusion he came to was that she must have, somehow, witnessed his sacrifice of the baby cougar to Odinn.
Immediately, he wanted to defend himself, to assure her that the babe would not have lived without it’s mother (and at any rate what was Ragnar supposed to do with a cougar?); that Odinn had been doing it a kindness by giving it a quick death as opposed to a long and suffering one it would have endured. That babe was growing strong in Valhalla under Odinn’s careful and powerful guidance, Ragnar knew.
For a moment Ragnar simply shook his head before his lips parted to speak, “You shouldn’t play coy if you know nothing about what you speak,” He told her simply, his words sluggish but letting her know that he had figured her out. “I’ve met you before on the Ridge’s borders, and I know that you saw my sacrifice but you are wrong.” He told her a little sharper than he had meant too. “Odinn did a kindness to that babe and you know it. It would not have lived without it’s mother, it was still too young to eat meat. By demanding it’s death then and there it was clean - there was no suffering, whereas if I would have let it go it would have had a slow and painful death if it was lucky. That bear might have doubled back and tore it apart which, also, would have been slow and painful.” Ragnar told her meeting her gaze to show that he was serious and not afraid to speak what they both knew.
“And no, neither Odinn demands nor do I sacrifice babes unless, like in that case, there is no other way.” Ragnar told her firmly - or rather as firmly as he could manage.
Busted. Bazi pushed the soft, fermented fruit away and listened impatiently to his incoherent blather (a judgement she would have stuck by even if his speech had not been impaired by alcohol).
"You're wrong!" Bazi screeched back at him, lip curled in anger. As long as he was wobbling, she felt safe enough to continue their battle of wits - the Ridge was not a Viking pack, and she could hardly be done for verbal sparring on neutral ground. This utter nonsense about Odinn and noble deaths had her quite riled up. "You killed it, and that would have been totally fine if you were talking to the sky some some kind of lunatic, and telling me that some 'God' demanded that cub die. It wasn't a noble death, nobody went to any kind of hall with a giant ale goat; it was just natural and sad and a little bit shit." She huffed angrily. "You didn't have to defile its last moments of life with your stupid little ritual."
There was no point to this, really. She and Björn never crossed paths, and were even less likely to now that Bazi kept to the east of the mountains. But something about the very fact that such a deeply devoted wolf could even exist rubbed her the wrong way, and an itch must be scratched.
In hindsight, Ragnar realized, they were both ignorant in accordance to one another and, given their different views in regards to religion would always be so because he would always believe that he was right just as Bazi would always believe that she was right. She screeched at him, an abrupt and rather annoying sound, that he was wrong. There would never be anything more than their inability - willing or otherwise - to understand each other. In turn, Ragnar thought she was wrong, all the while getting upset about something that had not concerned her in the least bit. The ritual had not been meant for her and she should not have been spying upon it, but she did and that was why they were here in the first place. The drunk Viking and the screeching girl.
"It doesn’t concern you, it wasn’t your child so I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it."
That was a good point, but Bazi was in no mood to concede this. She opened her mouth a few times to speak, but shut it with a loud snap each time. Truth be told, his beliefs had no impact on her - at all. They weren't in the same pack, they were separated by a mountain range, and what did it matter? But it did matter - she was sure of it. Somehow, it mattered that he was so bullheaded and wrong and ridiculous, and one day that would become proven fact and not just speculation.
Bristling and irate, Bazi turned on her heel and stalked off in the direction she had come without a word. The Ridge guardian would no doubt take her silence as a personal victory, but she would just have to live with that. He was becoming more lucid by the minute, and she did not want to stick around when his patience ran out. Who knew what other ale-titted goat demon he would attempt to sacrifice her to.
A slow, lazy smirk began to curl the edges of the Viking’s lips upwards into a coy sexy smirk that was often displayed when he was angry or, in this case, victorious as he watched her mouth open and then close several times as if she had something to say but suddenly became unsure if she wanted to say it. Or perhaps it was merely that Ragnar was as stubborn as a bull and believed in his Gods and the necessary sacrifices so much that she figured it was pointless to argue further because they would be there until the end of time unless someone gave in. Ragnar intended not to give in because just as her believing that he was insane, he believed so fervently in his Gods. He knew nothing else, and likewise, refused to know nothing else. He watched her turn abruptly and storm off, amusement dancing in his still, clouded with drink eyes.
For now, the Viking had won.