Stavanger Bay Frigga bless me

Going to go ahead and say that this is now open for others. :-)

Thistle's howl did not come unexpected to Ragnar, who had known his sons were coming any day now, if going by the fact that his wife literally looked like an overstuffed teddy bear ready to bust at the seams at any given moment. If Ragnar had been a better man he might have taken some pity upon his shield-maiden, but he took her rotundness as nothing short of a good sign: his sons would be big and strong, just as Odinn had promised him so many years ago. Had it truly been over four years since his own birth? He had managed to out live his father, Eitri, by a half a year, for his father had only been three, almost four when Björn had slayed him in battle for the throne of Odinn's Cove. There was some sort of symbolism in that, Ragnar couldn't help but feel. Berserkers did not often times live long lives given the toll the mushrooms took and the battles that they threw themselves into without fear of death. 


The Northman's course had changed immediately, his long legs taking him further away from the borders in the interest of moving towards the den he shared with his growing family. He had not obsessed over Thistle's birth so much this time as he had last time, though the circumstances were different. He assumed that since she had bore a healthy litter her first year of being sexually mature that she was more than capable of bearing more. That their children would not be born still and cold with death, Odinn's work; that she would not bear him corpses as Dagmar had. Dagmar had been an omen of death and though he had harbored some sort of lustful affection for her, he hadn't been so glad to rid himself of a woman before. 

The Viking was silent as he lowered himself to his belly, pushing into the dark confines of the den, the scent of blood combined with the sweet scent of Thistle's milk heavy in the tepid air. She was panting, no doubt already in labor with their first born. Ragnar watched greedily with a singular eye, giving Thistle her space as she drew the first sac towards her and began to clean. A girl, he saw, beautiful and pale a Northerner through and through in her coloration. Delicate, but strong. The Viking felt a contented sigh rumble in his chest as he studied his blood daughter, unable to help but think that she reminded him of his mother, Kenna, and that would she have been there – well if his mother would have been here then she would have chased him out a long time ago because he was of no help to Thistle. His purpose was to be support and to welcome their children into the world. Hearing the girl's name he could not help his soft smile, assuming that she was named 'Ragna' for him. “You do understand you are asking for trouble, my love?” Ragnar murmured, deep baritone low as he offered his Queen a cynical smirk, though he was ...flattered at the hand of his own assumption. He did not know the delicate little girl nursing at Thistle's side yet, but perhaps where he failed with Gyda he could prevail with little Ragna: make her the true Viking princess she was truly born to be. Only Gunnar seemed to be the one of Crete's children that had any interest in the Viking culture for both Mercury and Gyda were gone to the four winds and Ragnar was not so hopeful to see them ever again.

He hadn't tried to convince them to stay – as adults it was their choice. Just as, eventually, it would be the choice of Ragna and the children Thistle had yet to bear him. Ragnar was not sure how much time had passed but soon enough Thistle's middle appeared to seize as another tremor ripped through her and in a succession (time was unclear to Ragnar who was in a bit of a birth stupor) another child came forth. A boy, larger than Ragna and draped in a coat the color of his own, except for the sandy stockings that he bore. His first born son, big and strong if the defiant scream that left the child's tiny mouth – surely too big of a scream for such a tiny, delicate creature – his little Jorunn Eitri. A good tribute to his namesake, Ragnar thought. Shortly after came another boy, the exact same as little Eitri, Floki. Twins. Not entirely uncommon in his family. Two perfect little boys named after the two meaningful men in Ragnar's life: his father and his best friend – the only true brother he'd ever had despite not being blood. Spilling blood together was just as good of a bond as sharing it.


More time passed and a fourth and final child came into the world: ivory with smudges of brown under his eyes – reminding Ragnar of Tyrr and Mercury when the ebony child had first been born. The latter's smudges had vanished as he'd aged though Tyrr's still remained quite prominent against his chocolate brown fur. Of course the thought of his estranged and truly eldest son brought with it an unbidden memory of a girl in his youth of whom Tyrr was nothing short of a carbon copy of. The Amazon's Queen: Quetzalcoatl. In favor of paying attention to his wife and the newest additions to their family he moved closer then, giving Thistle a soft pepper of kisses. “You did well my Queen. Frigga and Freyja were with you this day,” The Shield-Maiden and the Mother Goddess. There was little doubt that the two favored Thistle Cloud, in Ragnar's mind.

Surely, they had for giving him three healthy children last year and four this. There was no doubt looking at his children pallid in their coloration, platinum silver and ivory – colors of the icy North he was born of, that he was their father for they all looked like him in some way or another, though he saw Thistle in all of them, as well. They were all perfect; replicas of Ragnar and Thistle together. The Viking offered each of them a kiss atop their heads, muttering their names to them as he paid attention to each one in turn before he drew back, giving the children and their mother room to breathe. “I will tell @Gunnar , @Charon and @Levi they can come meet their new siblings if they want, and let the others know. We must sacrifice to Odin, Frigga, and Freyja this night. We must thank them for the lives they have given us, and for the future.” A big sacrifice. A sacrifice of many. What ever the Gods wanted for Ragnar Lodbrok was feeling mighty generous. 

With those words he slipped outside the den and sent up a howl for his three sons, and then after a few moments sent out another one, this time directed at the pack as a whole, announcing the birth of the four children though he kept their names out of it, true to his traditions.