For a split second there was nothing but a stormy ire brewing within Ragnar; a tempest of anger, annoyance and irritation that built upon the distant horizon as he considered how much Horizon Ridge no longer felt like home. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. And why, out of all the wrong that had been done was it that the Horizon Ridge wolves have to suffer when they hadn’t done anything wrong? Why did they have to suffer the consequence of a new pack parking right next door, intruding on their long established hunting grounds? Why did they have suffer a bear whom they had wrongly assumed they had chased off but as it turned out was just biding it’s time to extract it’s vengeance? In that dark and savage moment when his thoughts were blurry with the injustice of it all and that it was Ragnar’s wolves that had to suffer when everyone else got off happy-go-lucky, scotch free that he wanted to storm the Isle’s lands and slaughter and steal …like the old days. I found it and it filled the caches. To end the bear’s miserable existence once and for all. It wouldn’t be the first time Ragnar would have taken on a bear hell-bent on taking his life (granted the time in Odinn’s Cove he had the team of Berserkers fighting with him). The faint raises of skin on his hip and leg where the bear had clawed him were a faded, puckered pink. Not nearly as impressive as his more visible scars because of the depth difference but he had not forgotten their presence marring his body. In fact, he had the uncanny ability of being able to name where each visible scar was given to him.
He let that bloody and ferocious vision borne of his anger and the weight of stress and burden that plagued every single hour of his life that was spent on this infernal, damned Ridge go. He had to let it go. As far as Ragnar was aware the only fighters the pack currently had were Verrine, Sköll (though Ragnar knew the Tiny Viking detested violence) and of course, Ragnar himself, and perhaps Surra though Ragnar could not attest for the man’s ability personally, yet. Thistle wasn’t a trained fighter (which Ragnar planned on seeing too, even if she never used her knowledge at least she’d know it and be able to adequately defend herself), the children were far too young, Nerian was a Priestess and he doubted she knew much in the art of war, Julooke …he wasn’t sure if she could fight or not, and Hati was just a girl despite her Viking upbringing. The last thing Ragnar was going to do was let his baby sister fight in some stupid war. No, they didn’t have nearly enough of a force and given the tensions that had been running high since the Isle wolves moved in the Ridge wolves deserved peace. Even a Viking’s life wasn’t all about war, or battle. They had lives to be living, families to start.
Relocating, no matter what Ragnar’s primitive instincts screamed at him was the best option. He could not blatantly, stupidly risk the lives of his men and women who put their trust in him to lead them straight and true. Granted, they had no choice but to put their trust in him but if the amount of Cove wolves that had came to find him over the past month or so, and the fact that near everyone was telling him it, he was a good leader. If nothing else…at least he had that.
Ragnar had broken himself out of his thoughts as he watched Thistle approach to meet him half way, pressing his body against hers without first asking permission when they had drawn near enough to each other, his chest pressing tightly against her side, his muzzle curving around her neck akin to a wolf version of a resembled hug. As if the Viking could feel her tension he pressed against her tighter, shifting his paws so he did not step on hers, willing to take her tension onto himself in the same manner he willed to erase the sight of Pump’s broken and barely alive body from her mind …but he couldn’t so he did what he could.