It was with purpose that the wraith ventured further still than the forest he knew as Ravensblood. He could not stay there, nor did he hold any intentions of claiming it for himself. His nephew reigned as Jarl — a title ancient yet familiar with a sorrowfully reminiscent manner — over a territory called Stavanger Bay but the Sigurvegarinn could not bring himself to trust in Eitri's middle son. Draugur had no grounds to trust him. Why should Ragnar be any different that Björn or Váli? Ragnar might look like the ghost's deceased brother but fur and eye color did not make them the same man, and there was nothing but thinly veiled contempt for his brother's sons and their willingness to so easily betray he who had created them, who had given and allowed them to keep life. Joining Stavanger Bay, no matter what the child known as Gunnar had to say about Ragnar or the pack was simply out of the question. Besides, Draugur was not accustomed to bowing. He was of the mind set that you keep what you kill. It was how he had conquered and led in the name of the Cove before passing the position onto an emissary from Odinn's Cove who was the chosen candidate to lead whichever pack Draugur had taken over in the name of his Gods.
The parameters of his mission had not changed with his brother's death. Whether which idiot son led the Cove now recognized the Sigurvegarinn's orders or not did not matter. The mission was larger than any one Jarl; it had came from the Gods themselves — directly from the Seer's lips.
The afternoon was fair as the wraith moved further North, grateful for the distance between the Bay and himself. Though it was not any particular ill will held towards them, he had no intentions of running into them, or further interacting with them. Of course, he could not help if the Fates saw fit to draw them together, but there had always been the belief that the Fates were not always right. It was chilly, being the cusp of a newborn winter as it was but he barely minded. Further the ghost Viking pushed, unperturbed by the winds' nipping kiss upon his nose and face. It was only the oncoming scent of pack borders, the scent growing more pronounced with every placement of his large paws that drew Draugur up short, his steps ceasing all together. Black, leathery nostrils flare to inhale and test the acene that hung heavy in the damp air. There was still a more the adequate distanc between their scent makers and his body for he had no intentions of trespassing. Not that he'd never done it before, simply, this place was not a target for him.
It was only a mild curiousity that bid him to stay.