<style type="text/css"> r1 {color:#5e6d7c; font-size: 10px;} .r1box {background-color: #0b0c14; width: 500px; margin: auto; background-image: url('http://i.imgur.com/TdbsUHq.png'); background-repeat: no-repeat; border: 1px solid #4b4e55; outline: 10px solid #1f2633;} .r1text {margin: auto; width: 350px; color:#313d4a; text-indent: 15px; font-family: georgia; line-height: 15px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; padding-left: 20px; padding-right: 20px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-top: 420px; margin-bottom: 30px;}</style>
The moon was large where it hung in the sky, a silvery beacon to the nocturnal creatures who reveled in it’s beams instead of those crafted by the son. It made him think of Hati, the wolf that would eat the moon in Ragnarök and also his sister (well half sister). Admittedly, he had not thought of his half siblings in some stretch of time — identical twins both named for beings of Ragnarök and from Kenna’s second husband: Sigurd. Ragnar’s opinion of his “step father” wasn’t terribly high but he was a biased creature at best and despite that understood that his mother could not mourn Eitri forever. After all, it was hardly fair for Ragnar to expect her to live the rest of her life in mourning when he had went through three wives within literal months of one another. There was a difference, Ragnar had been ready to argue, he hadn’t loved any of those women, but kept his argument to himself if only because Kenna seemed happy with Sigurd and the man had worked hard to win Ragnar and Váli’s approval as her sons. His little siblings were …siblings. Family. And no matter what he thought of their father they were of Ragnar’s blood, if only half of it.
Idly, he wondered how they were growing, how Váli, of whom everyone who had came to him from the Cove swore he was not the same boy he once was, was treating them. Tucking those thoughts away he rose from the mouth of the birthing den he guarded, glimpsed down at the forms of his sleeping wife and children with a look of yearning before he stretched and headed out of the Ridge’s borders knowing that sleep would continue to elude him as one thought melted into another. He did not sleep soundlessly, had rarely done so since the Isle pack and parked their proverbial trailer on the Ridge’s doorstep and knew that the only way to calm his thoughts would be to move and to cease thinking about things he otherwise couldn’t help.
Swiftly the Viking moved, platinum silver fur illuminated by the beams of the large moon, crossing into the free lands beyond the Ridge’s borders, slowing when he caught the scent of another. Female. Loner. Black, leathery nostrils flared as he processed what her scent gave away and for a lack of anything better to do he picked his way towards her not sure why. She wasn’t terribly close to the Ridge’s borders — certianly not close enough for Ragnar to react with hostility towards her. When he neared her, the sound of her crunching down on the bones of whatever she had caught he slowed and studied her for a second before he let out a low woof to announce his presence.