Ragnar glimpsed down at Thistle when she spoke up, correcting him that the she coy before him was part wolf by some grandfather or other. He had heard of coy wolves, heard that in most packs would take them but they were usually outcasted. He had never met a coy wolf so was not able to make much of an assessment to their character. Was that enough wolf to get her into the pack, though? If it were up to Ragnar…well, he wasn’t sure what he’d do though as it was it was not up to him. Her words served to irritate the Viking that showed his anger in the way he had taught himself as a small child. To hide it with a smirk, a grin - the exact opposite of what one expected to see. Ragnar’s anger was ever rarely so easily apparent, unless one, like Thistle, knew him well enough to notice such things. Though the she coy proceeded to tell him how she had saw him and how he had been loud, he accepted her words as lies. A lucky guess because he had been far enough back, hunkered down among the thickly packed leaves and shadows that he could just barely make out a few words, no where near enough for her to see and certiantly, Ragnar added to his thoughts, he was not loud enough for her to hear. As a Berserker who led raids with discression and stealth he was well versed as being quiet, having always been the quietest of his ilk and kin.
Instead of responding to her sneering comment of him needing practice - a fact that he highly doubted - the Viking instead ignored her figuring there was no point in stooping down to throw back petty comments. He had had enough of petty jibes from their newest recruit and likely, if she wished to call him angry, he would show her the truth of his fury. Ugly, ruthless and feral as it was. lap dog puppet and he had to do as his hybrid leader commanded him to do.