Ragnar watched as Nerian’s pale silver eyes met his as she inclined her head, the strange cross marking on her fur that he normally was oblivious too, flashing at him like some sort of repellant. For a second the Pagan wondered if he was supposed to be burned or something, but felt nothing. It was just a marking, and had no more power for burning him than the earth did. Besides he didn’t even believe in her religion. She seemed adamant about wanting to go on a raid with him and though he thought her sudden desire was strange (perhaps a little suspicious) he drew in a tepid breath and let it out.
He studied her when she chuckled, as if she found something funny but he hadn’t said anything and she hadn’t said anything previous to it other than about the raid. He offered her a wry twitch of his lips when she spoke about her needing a slave to help with some water way and with watering Thistle’s garden. He knew his wife had a garden somewhere in the Ridge’s lands but he had never been to it because well he’d had no need. He found the Berserker mushrooms elsewhere (though he suspected she did not approve) and he would have been lost in what was just green plants and flowers to him. He knew how to cleanse a wound with saltwater to battle off infection but that was about as far as his field surgery knowledge extended.