Duck Lake weeping willow

Ragnar Björn’s usage of the term ‘years’ had sounded more grander and longer than it had actually been. He had slain his brother, whose name he stole and now bore as his own for selfish intents and purposes, before he had came to his sexual maturity and led Odinn’s Cove as it’s Jarl for the rest of his youth, and nearly the entirety of his second year. In reality, the singularity of ‘year’ would have been more appropriate but in the slew of things, Björn doubted accuracy mattered. As far as the Lothbrok male was concerned he still remained the Cove’s true Jarl for Váli’s hold upon the title was untrue, given to him in the event of short notice. Odinn had given no warnings of the gifted vision that would lead Björn to this place for his own devices, different than Sveinn’s. When one of the Gods came calling, it was not to be ignored. Fox’s question was to have been expected, after all, would the roles be reversed here he would have very well asked a similar question.

For a moment, the scarred Viking was silent as he contemplated if it was wise for him to share the true reason behind taking a leave from his pack, and if he decided too how much detail would be required before it was accepted. Björn did not go into detail about his visions of Odinn, not to anyone. It was private, something he kept hidden safely as if it were a treasure. In many ways, it was. “Because my Gods demanded it of me.” The Savage told her, gaze unwavering from her to show that he was quite serious but that he had no intentions of going into any further detail than that. His loyalty and devoted faith to the Norse Gods was unparallel and perhaps the one true trait that proved that he was not a complete monster.