Ravensblood Forest run devil run

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.