Ragnar tried not to let his duties take him too far from the den where his young and new family resided but that was not always the case and though his duty as father should have came before all else — something he firmly believed in, as a surprising family man — he could not shirk his duties as Head Warden and Beta. It was not too much of a burden on the Viking because this was not his first time around that proverbial block; though granted when he and his fellow Berserkers had kidnapped Týr and the boy had lost his memory in the fight and Ragnar had decided to adopt him, he had managed to continue as the Lead Berserker, Jarl and Father and when Ragnar had led Odinn’s Cove he had led it by himself for a long measure. Granted, the boy had not been a newborn but Ragnar was not sure how it could be that different (he was possibly in for a surprise). He tried to make quick work of his patrols without sacrificing the quality of his sentry-like sweeps and moved to linger like a silver, scarred wraith near the den, watching it in the shaded moors, body like a broad and muscled sphinx where he lay, ears alert atop his skull, eyes fixed on the den in the nearby distance.
At the approach of footfalls, the Viking tensed, pushing himself quickly into a sitting position, muscles pulled taunt beneath his coat as he watched the shape emerge, black, leathery nostrils flaring to inhale. He recognized the shape as Julooke — something swinging from the clutch of her jaw, one of the Ridge’s newest members that had expressed her skills in watching pups. While he had not made a decision upon the matter he supposed he would have to make one rather soon, as he rose to all fours and began to head in Julooke’s direction as the woman laid her catch down, her chuff heard by the Viking as he neared.