Thistle’s pregnancy was progressing Ragnar watched with equal mixtures of fascination and pride as her sides grew rounder what seemed to be each day. With each sigh of discomfort that left his young wife’s lips Ragnar felt the anticipation for something bad to happen rush and slam against his chest like someone had their teeth wrapped around his heart and lungs. Not having any other pregnancy experience to go off of aside from Dagmar’s which had gone so wrong left Ragnar seeing doom signs in small, normal signs. Despite this he did not fuss needlessly over Thistle, trusting for her to listen to her body and to tell him if something felt wrong. Or, he recalled, maybe she wouldn’t after hearing that he had blamed Dagmar for his miscarriage and then promptly shipped her off to the neighboring pack’s Alpha who had had his eye on her for a while. Ragnar cared for Thistle - not just the babes growing within her womb - there was a major difference between the two girls’ marriage to him. Regardless, he hunted for three now (giving two hares to her since she was feeding more than just herself) before he went about his patrols.
It was during this usual patrol that a call rose up, breaking Ragnar free of this thoughts. The Viking warden wasted no time moving towards the origins of the call, slowing when he came upon the ebony cloaked woman at their borders. Icy, Caribbean blue eyes assessed her once as his leathery, black nostrils widened as he inhaled her scent. It was a scent he knew only because it was very similar to the scent laced with Crete’s musk that had clung to Thistle’s fur after their coupling fresh into her season. The Plateau. Ragnar found her presence here curious and wondered, perhaps with a sneaking suspicion if this was about their Crete.