It had been some time since Ragnar had last been in contact with a Swiftcurrent Creek wolf — the last time had been with Bazi and Ragnar was fairly certain she thought him some insane zealot — and longer since he had inquired about his eldest son. Icy, Caribbean blue eyes studied this girl before him pensively wondering if she might know of Týr or at least might be able to tell him of the boy’s welfare. She was a small thing and seemed timid still, her stuttering had led the Viking to believe. Or perhaps it was just Ragnar’s assertive and imposing presence that gave him the impression that the girl was fearful of him. Or maybe it had something to do with his scars, either way he did not intend to ask so he shrugged it off as what it was: unavoidable.
At her question Ragnar glimpsed out, coldly, at the Isle, the sea breeze ruffling through the fur along the nape of his neck, giving the impression that he had bristled. He had not but was fairly close to it.