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Ragnar’s patrols seemed to be never ending even if Pump and Gavriil each tackled a section of them, but as the Ridge’s new Beta he assumed the job of reinforcing them, again, if for no other reason that he knew that any day now his wife would be giving birth. It made the Viking, anxious with nerves and a breathless sort of excitement. He had been afraid during her pregnancy that Thistle’s body would abort them as Dagmar’s had that something would go wrong. It wasn’t that Ragnar fancied himself as pessimist; rather it was because it was the only thing he knew. It was also because of the fact that his children would come into the world at any day now that Ragnar felt on edge, rigid along the borders and fierce in his vigilance. He would not allow any harm to befall his wife or children, not in this life and not in Valhalla. The sun felt nice against the silken tendrils of his platinum silver fur, and he still moved with the pained gait borne of the limp of his back leg where the bear’s claws had caught him.
Thistle swore to him they weren’t deep enough to scar notably but Ragnar almost hoped she was wrong. He had no aversion to scars, he was already marred heavily with them as it was, and there were smaller, older, unnoticed ones beneath his fur that the others did not see. Scarred and unscarred ears remained alert atop his skull even as he paused and bent down to snuffle at the borders after he had inhaled their scent marking his routine of remarking them put on a sudden pause when a call rose into the air not far, Ragnar deduced, from where he was currently.
His arrival was slow - a painful thing to the Viking - and he was genuinely surprised to find that he was the first of them to greet the two strangers lingering closely to one another near their borders. They gave the impression of lovers though if his assessment and assumption of them was wrong he supposed he would find out in the given moments before them. He barked to announce his presence to them as he approached, attempting to hide his limp as much as he could - though the sickly colored paste Thistle kept smearing on it twice a day (after he cleaned the “old stuff” off) gave away that he was injured; while he might have been injured it would not have stopped him from protecting the borders, regardless. His body was used to being pushed past it’s limitations. His posture was dominant, as the Head Warden and now, Beta, his tail above his back to get the message across, his shoulders stiff.