Finally, she had found him.
Ragnar’s scent had grown old, and following it’s fading wisps had provided to be quite a challenge; even more so when she had eventually lost it entirely. Sveið persevered despite the seemingly impossible circumstances, encouraged forward by her desire to find the once Jarl of Odinn’s Cove. Váli had brought her departure upon himself, she thought with a twinge of unhindered bitterness. Despite what the youngest Eirkrsson thought he was not Ragnar Lothbrok - would never be, frankly. Sveið had stated her intentions of leaving to the “Jarl” and his “wife” Sif who claimed that the pups she carried were not Ragnar’s but in fact Váli’s and for once Sveið was unable to deduce if the words both of them spoke with vehement adamancy were true or not. Every time she thought to speak up that the timing wasn’t right, that they would have to have been Ragnar’s for Váli would have never have staked a claim upon Sif when Ragnar was still around, she was full of trepidation. Wouldn’t he? They could have been having a tryst in secret behind Ragnar’s back like the vicious snakes that Sveið considered them to be. To see how Sif had fluttered all over Ragnar, how she would preen his fur with her teeth and giggle like some little child when he spoke had always turned Sveið’s stomach, anyway. With disgust and, if she was being brutally honest with herself: jealousy.
That viper was not worthy of the great Ragnar Lothbrok, just as none of his wives had been.
Nostrils flared as she caught a hold of a recent scent trail that was wholly Ragnar even with the taint of others - of other women - clung to it. Pupils widened within their pools of a minty blue-green irises as she bowed her head and inhaled at the musky scent of her Jarl once more, just to determine that it was indeed his. Pushing out of the forest (Ravensblood) she followed the scent until she began to near the heady scent of a pack’s borders, plagued with Ragnar’s scent, knowing she had found him. Nervous anticipation bubbled in her stomach, rising into her chest until she was unsure if she wanted to laugh or weep from joy. Ragnar, Even in her head his name was a soft caress, a silent summoning of the platinum silver Berserker she had grown to admire and though she would never admit, quite taken with. His libertine antics made him the impossible target, and logically, any other man would have been better, more worthy of her time and attentions. Sveið knew this, and yet there was something captivating about the Viking male that had drawn her admirations from afar even when he had been but a simple Berserker.
Tilting her muzzle skywards she let out a call, announcing her presence at their borders, wondering as her small song ended if he would recognize her voice and be the one to greet her.