There were days when Ragnar felt like his life was some kind of joke to the Gods of whom he was obviously the butt of but whose punch line he didn’t get. If it wasn’t some kind of joke it was definitely full of enough obstacles and trials that he was slammed with over and over without what felt like reprieve then he better become something legendary so his struggles were not forgotten to his children, to his grandchildren. He had taken a break from urinating upon the borders if because he needed to replenish what he had lost. He lapped lazily at the cool water, thinking for once that the path ahead of him was becoming easier to navigate, that he could see the reprieve he sought because he was weary; weary and blood sick. However, he far from being done. The stresses of leadership, menial in the face of the intruding pack and the murderous bear, of which he would gladly welcome fully back with welcome arms once they were relocated back into Stavanger Bay.
For once the Viking imagined something closely resembling peace, even if it lasted only a little while…the wolves of the Ridge deserved at least that: a little bit of peace after the aftermath of the tempest that raged over them. Ragnar was battle born, following Eitri’s famous saying among the Berserkers of the Cove: I came into this world covered in blood and that’s how I’ll go out of it. Ragnar was born and bred to raid and fight, to lead and ensure his wolves prospered at any cost. For now, however, the Viking simply wanted a break from what he had considered a shit storm that had begun ever since the Isle wolves had parked on the Ridge’s doorstep. …Or maybe it had started before that when the landslide had nearly destroyed the small pack.
He recognized the Priestess’ scent almost immediately as she drew nearer to his little spot of respite, and almost as immediately sniffed at it again, black, leathery nostrils flared as he shot to his paws, startled. Of course Ragnar was no stranger to the scent of a woman in heat, the enticing perfume they put off to let any man capable of reproducing know that they were receptive. Still, as he ghosted his way towards Nerian’s position he denied it, told himself it was something different. That the Gods weren’t that cruel to him, all the while knowing that he hadn’t scented it wrong. She came into his view soon kicking back grass, marking the borders with scents in her paw pads rather than squatting and, closer now, it was impossible to deny what he had foolishly tried before. His Priestess was in heat. At the same time the Viking’s heart sunk as it sprinted in it’s prison of scarred flesh and blood that pulsed like the thump of a booming drum in his veins.
This had to be some kind of trial.
The primitive urge was there, the drive and desire to stalk forth to her and claim her. To take what he had claimed was his that day long ago when he had stolen her from her home and sister Priestess’. He was nearly three and had yet to sire a litter of his own …or a living litter anyway. Twisting it to his way of thinking: it wasn’t particularly fair. Thistle had been pregnant with Crete’s (deep in Ragnar’s heart he wasn’t that stupid to think the children were his) when he had filled her with his seed and when he had fallen in love with her…even if he had thought about killing Crete’s children it would have destroyed Thistle. In that: he had been stuck, hook, line and sinker. He did love the children, the sons and the daughter he had deluded himself into thinking was of his seed because she was silver, too.