The woman had noticed his bark, it would seem, as the Viking melted from out of the shadows he had been hiding within figuring he might as well warn the woman that she might get slapped for trespassing because according to the wolves of the Isle they owned both the Isle and Sea Lion Shore. They didn’t, of course, and the amusement of it made him want to urinate all over the beach just to see what they would do, but for some unfathomable reason, the Viking restrained himself. That would be sinking to their level and Ragnar wanted, desperately, to believe that he and his were more superior than them in every way. He was not one that typically held grudges, and really he couldn’t even consider what he felt as a grudge because it wasn’t. It was territorialness, a single minded drive to push those who were encroaching upon the Ridge’s doorstep and their pre-established hunting grounds to their demise be it fleeing or death. Whichever came first.
The woman returned his bark, which Ragnar considered unnecessary as he had merely let the sound go to alert her to his oncoming presence but chose to pick his battles and let it go, stopping his approach as she, too, began to cross the distance between them. For a moment he watched her, the breeze off the ocean salty, kissing at his fur which would, without a doubt, prove to be sticky with it later. She greeted him in a manner that was very prim and proper, reminiscent of the Princess that he had met shortly before he raided her pack. A coy smirk tugged at the edges of his lips as she called him ‘sir’. Ragnar was no Sir. That was a title wolves like her slapped on men to make them seem more polite. He was not polite, either.