It's new and grand....but bittersweet

*Ragnar* · June 21, 2014, 06:25 AM

You mean the code you use if you want to hover your mouse cursor over the icelandic and see the english translation? The one I use is:

Code:
<b>"<a title="english sentence here">icelandic translation here</a>"</b>

for speaking text. It's my favorite because it's not as complicated as some of the others you can use and this way it's really easy for me to remember, lol. :-) Again, no need to match the length. :p

He cut through the fog, thick but not dense, already burning off by the morning sun …or perhaps it was becoming thinner the closer Ragnar drew to the inlet where Thistle’s call had originated from. The snaking river cut through the western part of the ancient forest providing a fresh water source not only for the wolves that would soon inhabit this territory, but the prey that he had scented that frequented this Bay as well. At any rate it was becoming easier for Ragnar to navigate it as he weaved through the thick, towering trees, low hanging branches and thickened bark like tough leather snagging at his fur as he shouldered past, brushing against them as he moved, ducking his head in the nick of time to avoid being smacked in the face by said, low hanging branches forcing his body to do some kind of limbo as he slid under them. Odinn (or rather the one eyed raven that Ragnar had himself absolutely ~~perhaps in a mad zealot manner~~ convinced was Odinn) came and went, studying the wolves progress with his single beady little eye. Ragnar would catch the magnificent avian form of the All-Father from time to time, renewed in what he took to mean that he had not lost the All-Father’s favor and that his wolves, too, through him had it as well.

The forest thrummed with the life of his Gods, a much lighter feeling than the darker feeling he had felt in Ravensblood and did not question that Stavanger Bay was where they were meant to be. Besides the fact that Odinn had led him here, it felt right and safe to the Viking, so far from the other packs and nestled contentedly as it was like the Vale had been. Far from Horizon Ridge where death haunted every corner of the living. The lands were cursed and the sooner he freed his wolves from it, the better.

The Viking melted from the creeping fog as if he had been born from it’s writhing depths, icy Caribbean blue eyes touching upon the familiar form of his shield maiden as he waited for her response. He drew nearer to her when she turned to face him, smiling softly at her when she spoke to him in his native tongue, eyes going instinctively to the tear tracks that still stained her fur, that were still fresh and felt his heart give a tight and painful palpitation in his chest at the sight. He knew she was mourning their previous alpha’s death …possibly the hardest for out of all of them Thistle was the only one that could claim she had known the hybrid woman the longest. In a way, Gavriil’s unexplained and sudden departure from the Ridge two weeks ago suddenly made Ragnar glad for the simple fact of how the lovesick man would have reacted to the death of the woman he loved. Selfishly, so very dark and selfish was the thought that Ragnar was glad it had not been Thistle that the bear had slaughtered that came along with the thought that Pump had been the eye of a man’s affections. To even consider it was enough to nearly send the man into a natural born blood frenzy and so he shook off that secret and selfish little twinge of joy and hid it deep, deep inside himself for no one to know of because the truth of it was he would have rather no one had been killed by the demonic bear.

Ragnar had only wished he’d have been able to keep Thistle from seeing that. Seeing Pump’s broken and mutilated body her spine jutting in a grotesque manner from her skin. It had to be harder still knowing Thistle’s trade and having to accept that there was no small miracle that was going to fix her. He drew his muzzle alongside hers and drew his tongue against each tear track that stained her fur. “We do not cry for our dead, my love,” He reminded her gently, his soft, heavily accented voice a soothing whisper. “We celebrate their life with us and the accomplishment of making it to Valhalla with Odinn and his glorious Valkyries, where they train all day and then fest and drink with the Gods all night.” Of course, it was likely easier for him to accept this as truth because he had been raised that way, on the belief that death was not a sorrowful occasion — at least not on the grander scale of things. It would always bring sorrow for those close to them; Ragnar, too, felt sorrow at Pump’s passing for the woman was not just his co-leader but she had been his friend as well even if they had not seen eye to eye on many things. He had without a doubt respected her greatly, and still did. Her death did not change that.

Ragnar pulled away from her then, breaking the intimate contact with his wife and led the way to the borders, peering back every now and then to make sure she was still following him. He paused for a moment as he reached them, lowering his nose to the ground to sniff for the fog was still thick though he could see the harsh light of the sun attempting to burn it’s way through it. “I do not believe I’m ever going to be able to relieve myself again,” He spoke in jest with a rumble of a chuckle as he lifted his leg and nothing happened. “See, wife? Nothing.” His leg lowered and smirked coyly at her shifting to the side to make room for her. “If you would,” He encouraged knowing it would be a little bit for the water he had consumed to work it’s way through his body.