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The sun had gradually began it’s descent into the horizon, painting the world in blazing and passionate crimsons, oranges, and gold basking the canopy of trees in Ravensblood in the departing sun’s golden gaze, reminding Ragnar of fire licking at them as if it had been set ablaze. Icy Caribbean blue eyes watched the world above from her perch atop the ridge where he often came to observe after his patrols had been ran, climbing his way up the treacherous remains of the landslide that had made a nice little path, if one knew where to look for it, up to the Ridge. For the most part, much of the pack had dismissed at the lands beyond being impassable and in a way, they were. There was no safe way over the scar of rocks the landslide had left in it’s wake and aftermath. The view from atop the Ridge was astounding and for a moment Ragnar was granted the ability to appreciate the exquisite beauty of the life around him; but there was only one exquisite beauty he wanted and his thoughts went to Thistle and at the mental conjuring of his wife’s face to the forefront of his mind the beauty of the landscape dimmed. Slowly, the silver Viking began his descent from the top of the Ridge, his steps careful and measured as the darkness quickened, the moonlight trading places with the setting sun to guide his path, back to his family, back to his love. Though upon giving birth she had lost the hormonal scent of her season that had made a reappearance and hung there, tempting him sorely because she was forbidden from him, too close to giving birth as she was.
Ragnar’s love had not diminished any with the birth of their children, if anything it merely reinforced his undeniable and gravitational love for Thistle; beyond that he had to let her know that the fires of his passion had not cooled just because she no longer tempted him with intoxicating hormonal scent. The fires of passion and carnal desire was not an issue either. He hoped to steal her away from their children — not far and not for too long, mind — hoping they would be solidly asleep for the night that he would lavish his wife with kisses and steal her for himself for a bit. Briskly, the Viking moved through the claimed territory of their home towards the den his family dwelled within. Outside of it, he paused, holding his breath, listening for signs of the children being awake. He heard gentle snores and the absence of suckling which meant that none of them were feeding and there was a breathless quicken in his breast.