“Ég veit,” Ragnar ground out, spitting out the simple acknowledgment viciously in his native tongue the ferocious stare probably enough to translate it for Ragnar though he offered no common translation. It was not often that Ragnar slipped up so carelessly, shedding the conception that he was not of a different place (though his accent was a dead giveaway) with an ease that was too relative. Either had been too long since he had versed in his native tongue or the lessons he was giving Thistle and Julooke had caused nostalgia to take a deep root within the Northman. “Get off.” Only once would Ragnar ask, albeit the tone in which the Warden used could hardly be considered polite — it was a demand, not a question, nor a statement. If the Viking’s demand was not meant, if the adolescent of whom Ragnar immediately assumed was arrogant and inherently uncaring did not comply Ragnar would revert to force.
The dip of the adolescent’s head, and according aversion of the boy’s gaze went intentionally unacknowledged by Ragnar who was in no mood to play games with a child that the heathen was confident he could take. “When there is a sufficient distance between my borders and your body we will talk,” Ragnar spoke sternly, leaving no room for negotiation as he observed that the other was injured, tell-tale even if the injuries weren’t visible by the scent of blood that clung to him. Suspicion enough made Ragnar weary, never mind that the boy had been sitting square on their borders as if he held any rate to be so close to the urination markers. Only once — no matter how it was achieved — there was a sufficient buffer between the adolescent and the Ridge’s borders would the Viking even be a little bit open to considering it and even then there would be many questions.
