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| It wasn’t often that the scarred Northman bestowed praises and less often than that that he chose to be more open about praising. When he did praise Ragnar liked it to be subtle. He could not tell anyone what made the honest difference between wanting to outright praise Verrine instead of dropping the subtle hints that was much more customary of the savage. Ragnar speculated that it probably had something to do with the words he had spoken with strength and confidence but the usage of past tense made it sound like he had yet to do so to Ragnar and Ragnar did not want the Ostrega to think that he hadn’t noticed the effort Verrine put forth because he had. Ragnar couldn’t and wouldn’t speak for Pump but he sincerely doubted Verrine’s worth and loyalty (or Julooke’s for that matter) was ever in question; if on some bizarre chance it would have ever been Ragnar would have brazenly stood up for the pair no questions asked. He offered Verrine a rarer yet small, albeit genuine smile as they walked, the surf splashing up against his legs as it crashed a little more violently than the others against the shore. The rush of sand and cold salt water was almost an exhilarating feeling though Ragnar had a feeling Thistle would make him wash it off.
He was accustomed to dirt and blood and it had never bothered him being covered in one or the other, or at times both, to Ragnar is was apart of being a Viking, but he tried to bathe with some sort of regularity for his young wife’s benefit. She might have never said anything to him about it but he didn’t exactly what her recoiling from coming near him because he smelled to her. There was something of a stretch of silence between them, though Ragnar was find from finding it uncomfortable. He didn’t really like having massively long monologues unless he needed too and to his dismay there was always the occasion that called for them. He often wondered if his quiet disposition tended to intensify his intimidation factor but he had seen wolves recoil from his loud ilk just as quickly and eagerly as they recoiled from him. For the most part Ragnar had always attested it to the scars that littered his body but particularly the deliberate carvings on his face/head. Scarred left ear twitched as if on some kind of hidden cue, as Ragnar shook off those thoughts, eyes of Caribbean ice moving from the Isle that he had subconsciously been eyeing to linger upon Verrine when his companion spoke again, this time bringing about the question of Silvertip Mountain. Until quite recently, specifically Ragnar’s meeting of Majesty in question, he had not even known of their existence. Given that, he knew very little of them but accordingly did not dare underestimate them. "I only recently found out about their existence when I spoke to Majesty," Ragnar admitted, inhaling the salty brine that kissed at his fur before he let it out. "We have no quarrel with them as far as I know. We stay to ourselves for the most part unless circumstance requires otherwise," Lips hardened into a terse line at the thought of Wheeling Gull Isle. "I know very little about them," Ragnar admitted with displeasure, "Have you heard anything about them?" The Viking inquired of Verrine unable to help his now burning curiosity on the matter of Silvertip. |