ode to the fallen (m)

If Odinn could survive with only one eye, then so Ragnar was determined to do as well; and anyway he had known a male name Torstein who had, had an eye removed in battle who was still one hell of a warrior even for losing half of his sight. “You have to say that,” Ragnar teased her lightly, managing a characteristic coy little grin that tugged at the edges of his lips. It was a matter of opinion, the Viking knew. Many times he had seen others recoil from the scars that were made in dedication to Odinn when they first laid eyes upon the maimed left side of his face. Ragnar had learned to expect it though, just as he had learned to use their ignorance to his own advantage when they assumed that he was slow, or unobservant because in the face of an enemy he preferred silence to useless chatter. He gave the impression that he was not paying attention, when in fact he was and numerous times that had came to his ultimate aid on battle, or when he wished to strike up a negotiation, which was very rare. Thistle had fallen silent, and so did Ragnar, having nothing further to say in that moment, lest she think of something else to keep the conversation going. Even still, he could feel blood seep down his muzzle, slower than it had before.