There was a part of Ragnar that wanted to tell Pump, to alert her of the possibility but considering he wasn’t even sure what was going on he didn’t want to worry her with something that was nothing more than an assumption. If he was Jarl and one of his wolves had come to him with a suspicion (while Ragnar, admittedly probably would have checked it out himself as he was doing now) he would have been annoyed that no tangible sort of proof had been brought back to solidify it either way. There were more important things to be done than chasing something that might not be what assumptions made it be. Even for Ragnar there were more important things but his gut was telling him that his assumptions were correct and if he just let it go he would never be able to rest, and certainly never be able to sleep. He had to know, either way; and it had to be him who went because he had found the trail to begin with. The storm Thor had conjured that night might have washed away the exact scents that Ragnar had followed but he was good enough at tracking that he did not need them to find his way back. The Viking only hoped that if Verrine did agree to go along that at least some new scents were made so he could get a solid opinion out of the other aspiring Outrider.
It took Ragnar a moment to understand the gist of his wife’s impish grin and teasing to his ‘I am fine, my love’ his mind still settled upon the serious matter of things but also because he was not well versed on hidden connotations of words that the wolves who spoke the common tongue seemed to like. Ragnar had not meant those words to have a hidden connotation but Thistle had initiated it nevertheless. His small ‘v’ that had formed between his brow smoothed out and he offered his wife a wolfish grin, tail lashing in a carnal manner as he studied her with a coy, seductive smirk across his lips knowing that she would indulge him in taking his mind off of his worries for a small while if he asked. Maybe even she would though he had not asked. Ragnar could not say that he would mind the heady, carnal, passionate distraction of love making.
Thistle’s mock anger was merely amusing to Ragnar who let out a soft snort and a small, rumbling chuckle that died in his chest when Thistle frowned and expressed that Nerian made her nervous. The mood changed abruptly and Ragnar felt only confusion at his wife’s words about Nerian. This was the first time Ragnar was hearing that Nerian and Thistle had met and the woman had not sought out the Viking after he had rejected her — if one could actually call that a rejection. On the few times in the Cove when the Viking had went to his slave in the hopes that she might sate his carnal desires she refused on the terms that her “God” was the only one who could touch her or however she had worded it. Ragnar had decidedly stopped listening at the “No”. Eventually, Ragnar had stopped asking and had more or less brushed her off as an asset. She would never give him what he had wanted from her and thusly he had moved on (besides Ragnar didn’t like the idea of sharing a heart with something he felt didn’t even exist). For a terse moment Ragnar wondered if somehow Thistle did not know that Nerian more or less loved Ragnar (in a very sad bought of Stockholm Syndrome). That was what the Priestess had told him, not in those exact words but Ragnar was able to put two and two together.
Ragnar had not told Thistle about that because there was no reason too. Ragnar had rejected Nerian because his heart belonged wholly and inseparably to Thistle, his tiny Viking. Ragnar hadn’t planned to fall in love (not ever, really) but Odinn had and it had been Fated all along. He drew in a deep breath and let it out figuring they were already on the subject.