The poignant scent of blood tainted the air, mixed with the minty-esque scent of the paste that Thistle had slathered his wounds with and though the urge to peek a glimpse at his leg was great he resisted. It was never wise to show weakness around strangers and his leg would certainly hinder him if things turned sour for some reason. He was almost sure that the movement he had made, purely out of instinct with a lapse in memory and judgment on Ragnar’s part had torn one of the wounds open again. As much as Ragnar wanted to groan at the thought of telling Thistle that he had torn it open again, he knew that she would worry and potentially be upset with him if he did not seek her out immediately after this …meeting.
Ragnar was silent when Ayvo spoke, explaining that the Vale’s numbers had began to decrease and that he was one of the few left. Interesting, Ragnar thought with a curious cant of his head, his eyes thoughtful as he observed the male once more. However, he did not have the full story of why this male left the Vale, only that he swore he was not a deserter along with a rather cryptic words that there had been nothing else he could have done. If this male had left, surely there were others, too. Homeless wolves that were, perhaps, desperate for shelter; despite that Ragnar was still unclear on what happened to the Vale’s leader(s). It was something that Ragnar saw to be a massive opportunity but before he offered he still deigned to know more.