Upon a deeper look at the unrelenting gaze of the pregnant woman, the manner in which she held herself and ground reminded Dagrún of a shield maiden. They were the toughest of their free women, brave enough to raid and fight alongside them. They were few but those few were often great women. “I can see that,” There was amusement in his heavily accented voice as he responded to her simple and obvious answer. She was the wrong color, wrong size, had the wrong parts to be Ragnar, but she smelled heavily of him, leaving Dagrún with his assumptions that would either prove to be true or false. “I can’t imagine any that would lie of knowing Ragnar,” Yet it did not seem like she would be so easy to believe him. In a way, Dagrún both understood and loathed her suspicion. It was true that he did not look, even remotely, like Ragnar but he was a Northman through and through. Her questions were easy for him, given that he knew all of them well, but it also proved one of his suspicions correct. Whoever and whatever she was to Ragnar, she knew him well enough to know his reverence to Odinn and about his “true” brothers.
“Björn, the oldest, dead at Ragnar’s own jaws and Váli, the youngest, current Jarl of Odinn’s Cove, father of Ragnar’s gift’s Sif’s babes.” No doubt that would stick into Ragnar’s crawl when his brother heard of it. Maybe, just maybe, Dagrún could not help but hope it would be enough to inspire Ragnar’s premature return to the Cove to end Váli’s idiotic reign. “Turns out they were not Ragnar’s after all.” It was almost hilarious to Dagrún how desperately Váli wanted to be Ragnar even going so far as to repeatedly stab his older brother in the back to accomplish it.
“He follows Odinn, the scar upon his face is Odinn’s symbol - a disjointed raven.” No one ever said Floki was a good artist. “Does that satisfy you?” Dagrún asked her then, wanting to know more about her.