Horizon Ridge if i had a voice i would sing

Gyda had parted with Stavanger Bay though it had been harder than she had once known it to be. The territory was desolate and the forest of Sentinels to it's western border had been claimed. The audacity that a pack had claimed a territory right on the doorstep of her father's legacy did not settle well within the territorial Viking Queen's mind but she attempted to put her discontent to rest. Stavanger Bay had long since been gone and while, technically, she could not blame them it did not mean she had to like it. Ragnar would not have stood for it ...but if Ragnar had lived still the pack would not have gone anywhere near the Northman's land — unless they had a certain death wish. If, one day, she decided to reclaim the Bay, to begin anew the pack that was her father's legacy their presence would create complications. Mostly from Gyda herself. She might have looked every bit sweet like honey and docile, as her svelte and small build lend the impression but she was no sheep. She was a Valkyrie and her feminine wiles were that: coquettish charm and beauty. She was every bit as dangerous as Ragnar had been, though this realization had taken the Nordic beauty some time to realize. 

It had not been until she stood over the rapidly cooling body of her uncle Vali, his blood staining her chin and the silver fur of her chest did she come to realize that she was truly a Viking; and the power the realization had given the young drottning was nothing short of intoxicating. It allowed her to adore Freyja in ways she had not before. Freyja was Àtta's goddess in the way that Oðinn had been Ragnar's. A favorite. 

Gyda was not sure what had drawn her to venture through to Horizon Ridge yet she had entered the territory after slumbering the night through in the early grasp of morning. Thick clouds obscured the moon and the myriad of colors the rising sun painted in the skyline and the air was chilled, so frigid that she could see her breath as it rose from her black, leathery nose in tendrils of white steam that writhed and curled before it dissipated. She had been born in this territory, and young when Ragnar had taken siege of the pack and led them away to the safety of Stavanger Bay. It held a slight warmth for her, though the Ridge had not been her home as Stavanger Bay and Odinn's Cove had been. She was not sure where her mother had fled to, presumably after the death of Ragnar. Perhaps the pack had simply... disbanded or perhaps they had relocated. She wished desperately to see Thistle again, to hold her mother and mourn her father's death with someone she knew would understand, but she did not even know where to start and so she settled for wandering, fixating upon the places that Ragnar had been in the hopes (perhaps futile as it might have been) that she would find some sort of clue.

To her lost mother, to her fate in these Wilds; and then there was the deliberate scarring in honor of the Gods. She had desired to do it when she'd been younger, but learning of Ragnar's passing had only strengthened the young viking queen's resolve for it. Her face, too, would bear the markings — though not of Odin. Of Freyja, the queen of the Valkyries. Simply, she needed someone who would be willing to make the wounds.