Ravensblood Forest remained, still, a frequent haunt of Ragnar’s, and further than that: the land in which he intended to claim to revive the Cove in the posh lands of summer. In a way, the eerie and shadowed depths of the forest sort of reminded him of the North. The forest felt dark and savage, and beyond that was sacred to Odinn, this much Ragnar knew from ‘first hand’ experiences. It was here that he came to offer sacrifices to the Allfather, and sometimes even just to speak to him, though if the father-figure was listening he made no apparent moves to respond. Ragnar never expected Odinn to respond if only because he knew the line between God and Mortal was a thick and well defined one, though it had been blurred once when Odinn had taken possession of the silver Viking’s body; and left a small sliver of himself in Ragnar. It was a gift of wisdom, only a small fragment of what Odinn knew, but Ragnar cherished it all the same. It was wondrous, the Viking assumed, knowing all that Odinn knew. Knowledge was the ultimate power, after all. A fight based upon physical prowess alone could be lost but knowledge was indisputable. It was knowledge that had cautioned the ambitious Viking to take a step back, to separate his ambition from himself long enough to see how, if he acted in impatient haste, things would be fated to fall apart at his paws.
Patience had not been easily bestowed and learnt, but if Ragnar had taken anything from his time as Jarl it was that patience was a useful weapon. There would always be things that he desired in the here and now, but life rarely offered that as a viable option that could mean success. The birth of his sons took precedent over his own ambitions, and raising them, even more. Pump claimed their lives tied to the Ridge, and Ragnar knew that he could not willingly leave behind his mate or his sons. If he had not began his family, things would be different but he had taken a wife, and they had children on the way, and his followers were slim consisting of his mate and children (which given circumstances did not seem like they would be viable followers), perhaps his Priestess (though he hindered on the uncertainty where Nerian was concerned having not been present for her joining), and his half brother, Dagrun who had sworn his alliance to a pack in the south, whose leader he seemed to be contented to follow. In retrospect, he had plenty of time to recruit and plan, in truth, there was no need to be hasty and rush what should take careful planning to begin with.
Ragnar attributed this wisdom to Odinn.
It was slowly that Ragnar made his way through the winding copses of trees, the fog that seemed to haunt the forest writhing around him as he limped - the tug and pull of torn flesh where the bear’s claws had laid into his back leg/hip was uncomfortable, made even moreso by the sickly colored paste that his wife had deigned to (despite Ragnar’s insufferable protests) slather all over the wounds - with careful precision. A new scent tickled his black, leathery nostrils and as the Viking glimpsed at the other, unknown man in the distance he stopped, icy Caribbean blue eyes appraising him with due caution. Simply, the Viking let out a bark of greeting wondering what brought a pack wolf into the confines of his the forest.