Ragnar glimpsed at Julooke to see that her eyes were narrowed playfully at him when she spoke about him calling himself a ‘heathen’. For a moment he was silent in contemplation before he answered, “I have been called it many times,” He told her, honestly and while Ragnar left it at that he was pretty sure that she didn’t want to see just how cruel and savage he could be. It was easy to draw conclusions while Ragnar was being modest about his ways because he did not have the liberty to be entirely true to his culture. While he refused to change who and what he was, he restrained himself from things simply because he was not in charge. It seemed that Ragnar was well adept at surprising Julooke who had appeared to have been taken off guard by him speaking of his eldest son as she asked him how many children he had. “Just four that are living,” He shrugged. “The newborns and my eldest, Týr,” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before he spoke quietly. “My third wife …the one before Thistle aborted our litter. Three boys and a girl. If we’re counting the deceased, eight.” He did not often count the deceased. In fact he rather hoped to forget about that horrible night, his anger at Odinn, at Dagmar and how he had nearly attacked her out of his rage because he couldn’t attack the Allfather and she was the closest living thing to him. It wasn’t Ragnar’s proudest moment but it was hard to forget it when all during Thistle’s pregnancy he had been haunted by it relentlessly.
He laughed, glad for the conversation change, grasping at it eagerly when they went back to the doe. “You might be surprised,” Ragnar taunted her playfully as he aided her in ripping it apart in smaller pieces so they could easily move it. If Ragnar had been a loner and didn’t have a family and wolves to worry about he would have taken it all for himself but given that he wasn’t and did have a family and pack to make sure got fed he had no intentions of stealing it for himself.
