Ragnar was where he could generally be found most of the time: on the borders. As Head Warden he took his patrolling seriously and with the realized absence of Gavril — which the Viking found strange he had rather began to think of Gavriil as a fixture in Horizon Ridge (had even grown to trust the male) — had been picking up the extra slack that the male’s absence left in it’s wake, leaving less for Pump and Verrine to pick up because Ragnar felt like it was his job to pick up the extra word as Head Warden. Unsure, the Viking was left torn between what to think about Gavriil’s continued absence. If he saw it as a betrayal or an accident. Ragnar knew for a fact that neither Pump or himself had given Gavriil any sort of mission to explain his absence (surely Pump would have informed Ragnar if she had) and he was left feeling more and more …disappointment. He was disappointed in Pump and her unwillingness to address the issue with the Isle wolves and now he had to add the disappointment in Gavriil to the growing list as well. Clearly, Ragnar needed to stop trusting these posh summer wolves.
His ears had slowly began their descent until they were flush with the strong curve of his skull, knowing that there was nothing he could do to fix the situations other then challenge Pump or finally break off from her. He didn’t want to challenge her because for him a challenge was to the death and he really wasn’t interested in the Ridge territory anyway; but it wasn’t just Gavriil. Diluculo was gone (though he wasn’t complaining there) and Kennedy hadn’t been scented anywhere within the territory for some time. Now was not the best time for their numbers to be gradually dwindling down to nothing and it bothered the Viking. It was easy to pin the blame onto Pump without a second thought because he was frustrated with her, because while he was a leader too, she was the one who called all of the shots. He was done with trusting these wolves. All trust got him was disappointment and eventually: betrayal.
The soft call, barely loud enough to travel very far, pulled him viciously from his thoughts and his brow furrowed as he lengthened his pace to arrive to where the call had originated from on the borders. For a split second, with a lurch of his heart to his throat, he thought he was looking at his mother. Except the girl before him was obviously that: a girl. Far too young to be Kenna. He approached her cautiously; black, leathery nostrils flaring as he inhaled her scent. Faintly, he could smell the Cove and Sköll, and Fenrir, but it was obvious she had been traveling alone for some time. Instantly, Ragnar had to bite back the chiding that threatened to spill from betwixt his lips not knowing the situation that saw Hati — his (half) sister — to the borders of the Ridge.