It had been with the chunk of venison clasped in his jaws that Ragnar had said his farewells to Julooke for the time being and made his way to the birthing den where Thistle and their children would, without a doubt in his mind, be. The children’s eyes had opened a few days previous and Ragnar suspected their hearing would soon follow if it hadn’t already. While the Viking, technically, wasn’t a first time parent it was his first time raising newborns which meant that he didn’t know how quickly their senses developed or which ones developed first. It was easy to assume that their sight was first because all of their eyes had opened yet he didn’t know. Maybe their hearing had began first and they — meaning @Thistle Cloud and him — were not yet aware because it wasn’t as if they could speak. Though Ragnar’s own stomach was full from sharing what Julooke and him could manage before divvying the rest up for the caches he still salivated around the meat grasped firmly in his jaws; not that Ragnar suspected his wife minded eating meat he had drooled on (wolves weren’t hygienic fanatics like humans). Considering he had no other way to carry it his saliva would have to be ignored. In Ragnar’s personal opinion he’d rather deal with saliva then dirt, though this preference was just because Ragnar didn’t really like the taste of dirt though it was in a lot of cased inherently unavoidable.
Soon, Ragnar made a mental note as he moved sleekly through the Ridge’s claimed lands, the Rite of Birth would need to be preformed, serving as the Gods’ protection and introducing the children to the pack, recognizing them as members to be protected and given the same rights as the adults of the pack. Ragnar understood that many, if not all of the Ridge’s wolves thought that it was strange — Ragnar suspected even Thistle questioned it — but he didn’t care. He wasn’t budging on it and considering he intended for their children to be apart of his culture it was imperative that he do as his culture demanded of him.
The Beta’s pace slowed as he approached the birthing den, sitting the fresh(ish) meat down at his paws on a springy patch of green grass, tail swaying against his haunches as he took a few steps back from his offering, eyes peering into the dim to dark of the den.