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*Ragnar* · (This post was last modified: May 22, 2014, 06:39 AM by Ragnar.)

I assumed that Pump and Ragnar exchanged information on the members they had accepted to each other because the welcoming howls sent out IC would be to all of the pack, lol.

Ragnar had intended to be the one to greet the newest batch of new members at the borders, but had found himself caught up with Julooke and Verrine when the other: Surra, he remembered Pump telling him the second new male’s name was, had sent up his call and it seemed that Pump had taken care of it. Of course it wasn’t entirely unexpected there wasn’t a chance that she would let all the potential joiners to him alone. She was still the ultimate leader in the Ridge, he was just her Second in Command, her enforcer. It was a role that Ragnar fit well, admittedly, just so long as he could keep his ambition in check. It was measurably easier to keep himself from doing something …what no doubt his wife would call stupid with the birth of his sons so nearly upon them. Thistle had a day or two now, not long at all. Hours, even. Ragnar had no intentions of shirking his duties as both Head Warden and Beta but the birth of his sons would be placed first on his priority list and he waited for Thistle’s summoning howl with a sharp bubble of anticipation that seemed to frequently lodge itself into the Viking’s throat.

Ragnar’s limp adopted as his flesh and muscle sewed itself back together — as Thistle had warned it would need to do — slowed him down. Not enough to make him anywhere near accepting of ‘denrest’. The simple truth was that even if he was on his death bed he would probably be doing something not just sitting around waiting to cough and hack his last breath of life. He wasn’t designed to be idle, and had not been raised to let things as insignificant as wounds (despite how severe they sometimes were) keep him down. It was like lying on your stomach, exposing your entrails and throat and accepting defeat by saying ‘Go ahead, Kill me’. His wife worried and fussed over him and the incorrigibly stubborn Viking brushed it off and continued on his way. He had grown up in a much harsher environment where a healer was not always in the pack lands to attend to wounds. Many of his wounds (namely from spars) had been left to heal on their own without medicinal help.

The Viking paused when he became aware of the sound of approaching footfalls against the earth, ears thrusting forth atop his skull to pick up the direction of the sound and the Viking peeked over his scarred shoulder to see the form of the earthen toned male — one that he decidedly did not recognize — seem to melt from the copse and shadows of the trees. Ragnar turned so they were facing one another, scenting lone wolf but over that the scent of Pump. “You must be Surra,” The Viking greeted the other man, voice soft despite his size and heavily, thickly accented. Unless, of course, Pump had accepted another new male and that information had yet to circulate through a howl as the others had.