wrath of the northmen

Feel free to throw Pump in here at any time. :D

Ragnar fumed in his contemplative silence, pacing too and fro like a caged animal, beating a path in the dirt and trampling the grasses as each step a stomp within a marching like rhythm like an army about to slaughter and destroy. Maybe he was the savage one of them, the feral one, ruthless, selfish and a heathen to his core but at least he could claim that his respect and trust was genuine, that he did not go back on promises he made, that he swore with the specific purpose of Odinn hearing. So caught up was the Viking that he did not even notice Thistle, Caribbean blue eyes fierce and furious trained upon the scar he was leaving upon the earth with his relentless pacing that was not doing the job it was supposed to be doing. His rage still ravaged through him as if it were created by Thor himself, reminiscent of the drug induced rages he had used to put himself into as a Berserker back in Odinn’s Cove (that he was sure if Thistle knew of would likely give her a heart attack given her vast medical and poison knowledge). As Thistle moved into his direct line of vision, he caught only her sandy toes in his peripheral vision it was then that the Viking ceased his rapid pacing and lifted his head to focus his stormy (and perhaps even hurt) gaze upon his wife, for a moment letting her familiarity wash over him, letting the roundness of her sides caution him that she should not be dealing with this kind of stress, that it wasn’t good for her and the babes she carried.

The bear-like Viking moved in silence with purpose towards her, drawing his tongue across the underside of his wife’s chin in greeting with the intention of ignoring her question for the moment, before he moved brushing his muzzle against her rounding sides, the product of their coupling (not really) having decided that he no longer cared if her one night tryst’s seed was the one that took (it did) because to him they were theirs, they were his children because his wife’s Crete had long ago given up any rights to being their father. “I will make this right,” He whispered to the children within her womb, before he pulled back some putting distance between Thistle and himself. “You should go back to the den and rest, I do not wish to stress you with this.” Because if she became to stressed and lost the children he would never forgive himself.