Horizon Ridge Look whose talking now!

There was a soft fondness in the Viking’s eyes as he watched his son romp around within the designated area between Ragnar’s paws, a look reserved for his children; the one sign that perhaps showed that he was not a complete monster. That, despite the ruthlessness of his culture (namely the raids and sacrifices as he had been told many times over) that he was still a wolf. Still a man. He had desires, ambitions, sorrows, and perhaps the most unlikely yet: love like everyone else did. The child reared up, small paws pressed against the scarred Viking’s muzzle as Ragnar, obediently, held still so Tveir could study him in the light and wondered if what he saw there frightened him. If the scars bothered the Second Born in any small semblance he didn’t let it show and instead pounced at the shadows and lights cast by the movement of the tree leaves, how the sun played peek a boo using Ragnar and the trees with it’s sunbeams.

“Tveir,” Ragnar repeated slowly, though he did not expect the child to be able to say it anytime soon; when it became obvious his youngest son was attempting to say his own name. Or, rather his own number. Ragnar wondered if giving them numbers as Pump had instructed was a bad move on his part (despite that he secretly named Gyda). Ragnar had grown used to calling the boys by their numbers (and admittedly not calling Gyda by her number enough) that when they chose their names he would have trouble accepting them.

He supposed that their numbers would always be significant to them, that perhaps they would be nicknames as they grew.