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It was early when Ragnar stirred from his sleep, having for once, fallen into an irrevocably deep slumber, dreams of ravens, of blood and victory moving like a vivid force of nature through the Viking’s subconscious. The restful slumber left him feeling more refreshed than he had in many weeks of restless power naps, plagued with the constant worry of the Isle wolves and the fact that they were growing in numbers to rival the Ridge. With each wolf that joined their ranks they presented a bigger threat. More wolves meant more food and more food meant they would be imposing much more on the Ridge’s long established hunting grounds, of which maybe Ragnar would be more inclined to share if he actually cared about the welfare of other packs (obviously he never had since he had led more raids than he could count back in the Cove) and if Majesty had at least came to Pump and him about settling on their doorstep; he hadn’t and Ragnar felt no inclination to change the ways of his thinking or his culture.
For a moment longer Ragnar laid at the mouth of the birthing den, scarred ear cocked towards it to listen to the soothing sounds of the sleeping bodies within as he contemplated the message he knew had been hidden in the context of his dream. It had been a message from Odinn, of this Ragnar felt entirely confident, but he was groggy and in no real frame of mind to be deciphering the Allfather’s coy messages. As the God of wisdom it seemed only fitting to his devoted descendant that it took wisdom to figure out the hidden connotations of the dream.
Ragnar took his breakfast from one of the nearby caches if only because he was eager to begin his patrols, knowing that the sun was still a ways from rising yet and he had a while before he would have to pause in them to catch Thistle her breakfast …and possibly, recalling his conversation with her a few days ago, things for the children who would be beginning to eat regurgitated meat to their diet of their mothers’ milk. Already, they were developing rapidly, their eyes had opened and Ragnar was sure they had begun to hear though he really had no way to ascertain that just yet; and just as quick he was already strategizing about Thistle’s next heat cycle. The time approaching them in the next eight months there would be no mystery as to who the true father was, it would be him without a doubt. He knew that even though he was the Beta that he would still have to seek Pump’s permission for the children and contemplated going to her soon about it so he would not have to endure the intoxicating scent of Thistle’s heat cycle tempting him while he held back like some chained dog. His philosophy was if he got permission early on in the game there would be no ‘I accidentally got her pregnant because I couldn’t stand it anymore. You have no idea what the hormonal scent of her heat cycle does to men’.
Ragnar did not like seeking permission, much preferred taking what he wanted and being done with it but his respect fur Pump reminded him that he owed her that much.
With the bones of his meal left discarded for the ravens to pick at — Huginn and Muinnin needed to eat too, after all — he began his patrols starting, this time, at the far stretch of the shore, icy eyes focused coldly upon the Isle in the distance, hackles bristled at his renewed annoyance at their presence.