Ragnar had been absent during the descent of his Bay, too busy seeking justice for Julooke when everything decided it was going to go to hell in a messy hand basket. It left Ragnar with severe regret. He shouldn't have left. If he wouldn't have left this wouldn't have happened; though he knew that wasn't true. His presence or absence didn't matter if the Norns had decided it. Of course Ragnar couldn't ever fathom how this was affecting his Queen Wife, who had been the only leader present during the shit storm. He didn't blame her for it, because it was ridiculous to place the blame upon her when she couldn't have done anything to stop it either, but Ragnar knew Thistle — and he knew she was likely beating herself up over the whole thing. Their subordinates were adults, capable of making their own decisions and henceforth, capable of dealing with the consequences of those actions. It was upsetting that Kevlyn, one of the Ostrega babies had went missing in the chaos, and with Verrine's trail ending at the sea with no body and Julooke gone there was nothing left but to assume the very worst. The remaining Ostrega children had been relocated to the Jarl's den, with Nerian and Gyda gone there was still plenty of space even with Mercury and Gunnar's growing bodies occupying it as well.
This was only another obstacle, and Ragnar knew that the All-Father was judging him, as he always did, carefully, weighing to see how much his faithful could endure, and how he was able to handle what the Norns threw at him. Ragnar knew that he and Thistle could never replace Julooke and Verrine to the children, was not what they wanted to do; but they were still very small children and they needed some sort of parental figure to take care of and teach them. Ragnar'd been down the parental road numerous times to think that he finally had a good grasp on what it meant to be a father — even a foster one. Ragnar was not sure if he would have any more children that were of his own blood, having only had one son with the Shield-maiden Sif, but right now spawning his own children was not a priority on his list of things to do. It had been for the longest time, but he had children that needed him now, and they were more important, foster or adopted, than future, theoretical children.
The scarred Scandinavian dressed in a coat of platinum silver, grown coarse to endure the harsh, biting winds and frigid temperatures of the oncoming winter had been going about his usual patrols, knowing that Thistle and the boys were aiding him in it, especially with the loss of Verrine when he scented her. Julooke. A mix of emotions welled up inside the Jarl as he made his way towards her, following her scent trail without hesitation. Anger, relief, the stab of betrayal. Of course he did not know why she'd left them, only that she was gone, and her babies were alone, especially given that he'd been left to assume that Verrine was dead. There was no evidence that proved otherwise. He remembered the harsh words he'd spoken to Thistle, in regards to his hesitation to let her back because at the current moment all that he knew, and was left to assume, was that she'd gone AWOL on them, and no one knew anything different. Ragnar's approach slowed as he came upon her, noting that she had a few wounds(?), expression stoic as he hid behind the cold mask. Ragnar greeted her in expectant silence, icy carribean blue eyes locking upon her. The Northerner would, at least, hear her out — not because she had (once) been a good friend of this, but because he was a Jarl and that was his job. To listen to the other's side of the story and make a rational judgement on what he had to work with, and Ragnar Lodbrok was a Jarl first and foremost.