run rabbit run (joining)

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For a silent, ghosting moment Ragnar simply stared, the tell-tale buzzing of flies heard before they were seen by the scarred Northman flying around the child’s face. Her face. Ragnar didn’t look away from the wounds, having seen, quite literally much worse but knowing that didn’t exactly make this situation any easier for the stoic Viking. As it was the Savage had seen and, admittedly, done much worse but never to a child. Never to a child; though Ragnar was hardly nauseous he felt sick that something that someone had done this to her. He took a deep breath, inhaling her putrid scent mixed with the sickly sweet scent of death. No, not death. Decay. She smelled like decaying flesh of something that was still living and suffering. The feral Scandinavian ghosted forward wondering, reasoning if it would be kinder if he just took her life. If anyone was equipped and willing to deal death it was Ragnar; he did not kill children but if it was putting them out of misery? Out of agony? He could do it, he knew he could. Breath hitched in his throat, a quick short rasp of breath taken as he ghosted forward another step, muscles tightening beneath his platinum coat of iced moonlight as he prepared. The child let out an agonized scream causing the Northman to freeze in his tracks, his blood pulsing as cold as the ice that encased the river that had ran through the Cove every winter. Thick and deep, creaking with strenuous effort as it tried to move but couldn’t. His blood wasn’t ice, however; and now as he suffered from a unplanned and unexplained flashback it ran hot like fire in his veins. The female Priestess’ screamed as his ilk had their way with them before they killed them, slowly, but not before each had had their fill of her and she of them. Ragnar hadn’t stopped them. He never stopped them. He did not partake in their activities but he had no reason to stop them from taking their prizes. He only smirked as the women screamed to their God, his attention focused on his own captive Priestess who had lived, unsullied by any male to become his slave. He blinked rapidly as his eyes refocused upon the girl. He hadn’t touched her, wasn’t even really within touching distance of her and yet her scream had might have insinuated that he had to any who was near enough to hear it. Her head after a few moments moved towards him though to Ragnar the task looked arduous and with her eyes clinched tight, in between her rattling breaths she called out to him, a foreign word …or a name perhaps. "Ragnar," He corrected her in a softened, strong voice. "I am Ragnar." Despite that he was uncertain if she could comprehend what he was saying to her. He ghosted forward yet another step contemplating summoning Thistle knowing that the girl likely needed medical attention. The wounds looked deliberate upon her, being so well versed as deliberate wounds himself he knew the look of precision. It was cleaner, less frantic than a wound inflicted in a fight. Just as he recoiled, a snort pushing from his flared, leathery black nostrils, ears slicking back to his scarred skull he had been about to call for Thistle as Nerian came tearing onto the scene, lulled by the child’s piercing cry, nearly slamming into him in her haste. She simply side stepped him as his teeth raked the air having been aiming for her fur to yank her back. She seemed determined to ignore him and though her heat hormones were a little more bearable — was it just because of the stench of decay in the air? — the Jarl had not forgotten their last altercation and what she had begged of him and how he had ached to give her what she wanted from him, how he still did to a degree but shook those thoughts from his mind because there was a more pressing concern. "No," It seemed to be his favorite word to her, if only because he wasn’t pleased at her telling him what to do …and because he had not decided what was the kinder fate for this girl. "Even if you can heal those festering wounds, they are deliberate Nerian, are you going to heal her emotional scars with your God, hmm?" He hadn’t even realized that he had used her name instead of ‘Priestess’. His brief irritation had faded as quickly as it had came at being ordered around and reluctantly the Jarl took the leaves into his mouth and chewed them and trotted to her little rock palate and spit his on top of hers, his muscles in his flank twitching from the unintentional closeness to her. "The maggots would eat away the decaying flesh. I can smell it. Do you not?" He asked the Priestess in his usual cocky and coy manner, though his eyes were trained upon the girl studying her from up close. Perhaps he could smell death only because he was very well acquainted with it. Death and Ragnar were practically life long buddies, after all. "Child would you like some water?" He asked her figuring he could put some in the cranium of a skull for her if she was even able to drink. Likely, she needed food, too, but he figured one step at a time was the best way to tackle this because in truth, he had no idea what to do. This fell so far out of the normal border meet and greet and the Viking was a Berserker. Not a healer, and certainly no Seer.