Ragnar had taken his patrols out to the Totoka River though this was partially to keep an nose out for scents that might alert him to the presence of the Isle wolves hunting on the Ridge’s hunting grounds but also because he was sticky from the salt water carried on the ocean breeze, his legs covered in sea foam and sand and he wished to wash it off. He wadded through the shallows of the Totoka, daring the deeper ends for a bit to swim under the water though he was careful to stay close to the bank and not get caught in the stronger of the River’s current which he had learned from word of mouth proved to be treacherous. After he had washed his coat free of sand, salt water and residue dirt (he didn’t bathe very often considering I don’t imagine wolves generally care about cleanlieness) he pulled himself onto the bank facing the Ridge and shook his coat free of the water it had collected. He did this twice to try to assist in drying himself off as he made his way back to the Ridge figuring he could take a small break and help Thistle watch the children, or watch them for her if she wanted a break.
The sun was warm on his back, the morning humid which enabled him to dry realtively quickly though he was still a little damp as he approached the birthing den hearing someone — a little someone calling for him. Or at least Ragnar assumed the hollered ‘dada’ was supposed to be him as it was the shortened version of the common tongue word for ‘Dad’ which was another name for ‘father’. Which was definitely confusing to him considering he might have squealed ‘fafa’ as the baby version of Old Norse’s word for father.