Duck Lake a game you're gonna lose

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Ragnar was silent as the woman seemed to be gathering her thoughts, finding silence holding some measure of comfort. His Priestess Wife said that he spoke too much but Ragnar was in disagreements with that notion because he thought that he spoke only what was necessary. His silence painted an illusion, a deception of lack of intelligence despite that, in reality, it was not cleverness that the scarred Scandinavian lacked with any sort of measure. Many times that fools illusion gained him the advantage during raids and he was not about to lose the years of perfecting it simply because he hadn't raided since he had left Odinn's Cove. He missed it — raiding. He intended to get a small group together to raid Wheeling Gull Isle if he could convince his subordinates that it was worth it. The satisfaction of gaining the upper hand, the thrill of battle if they were caught which was something of a fifty, fifty. He had not been trained in the art stealth and hardly feared the forever question of death. Attention focused upon his companion when she admitted that she wasn't sure what she was living for. With a twitch of his scarred ear, Ragnar contemplated the possibility of that. He could not imagine what it might be like to not have something to live for, and felt a pang of pity for her in the secondary thought that it must be awfully frightening to be so lost within oneself. Ragnar, himself, lived for many things. For battle, for the love of his wives, for his children, his legacy, Odinn and most importantly he lived for Valhalla. It was the driving force between everything that he did in his life: prove his worth to the All-Father so that he would, when he died, go to Valhalla and fight alongside his ancestor in Ragnarök. That was his ultimate goal. The woman's anxiety was clear, the exposure he had created by his curiosity even more clear. He had managed, it seemed, to take down this stranger's guard with relative ease. Whether this was a new weapon to add to his arsenal or something Ragnar had had all along he couldn't be sure but he had a desire to see if the Consular in him could aid her. Eyes of caribbean ice studied her with a softness borne of his pity. "Why?" Ragnar inquired, not letting her know that he was the Jarl of one of the packs in the valley. It was true that he would be hesitant about accepting a wolf with no real skill set but in the end he considered the usefulness of it, that she was pliable and could be taught. "There are many trades that are accepted by the packs of these wilds," Ragnar assured her with a twitch of his lips coyly. "I could teach you," The Viking offered her simply waiting patiently for her response.