Would Ragnar not have suspected that Pump was joking with him — despite how strange it was to hear Pump joke of whom Ragnar had with obvious falseness assumed was only serious all the time (even if it sounded ridiculous) — he might have taken offense to her words. However, her tone was light, teasing and it was easy for him to pick up on the fact that she was, indeed, just poking fun at him. He ignored her jest though this was mostly because he was unable to come up with something adequate to say in return; thusly he settled for an incredulous snort and offered his hybrid Queen a wolfish, perhaps even impish grin. It would seem to the Viking, that her definition of baby and his were two entirely different definitions that did not match whatsoever.
“I am,” Ragnar agreed gravely, acknowledging that, he too, was a keeper of secrets. Many, many secrets. With Pump’s last question about his shoulder — he was momentarily confused before he realized that she was making reference to his leg/hip and just got them mixed up — their …if one dared to even call it playful air was gone and in it’s place a strict business-like atmosphere. “You mean this?” He shifted to expose his leg/hip, the three claw marks slathered with the minty, sickly colored paste Thistle concocted for it to help it heal and keep out potential infection — Ragnar also suspected it was to keep him from biting at the flesh there when it itched, Thistle was learning his tricks and getting craftier in response it seemed apparent to the Viking — to Pump, before he reshifted his stance so it wasn’t in her direct line of eyesight. “It is fine. They are not deep wounds.” He shrugged it off because even if they weren’t fine, and even if they weren’t shallow wounds (luckily for everyone involved they were fine and shallow) he wouldn’t let it stop him, regardless.
"Your back is well?" Her Second in Command inquired, less out of the fact that it was a common courtesy and more out of his own, personal curiosity than anything else.
