raise me from perdition

The Bay would always belong to him, even after Odinn saw fit to steal him away to Valhalla if he ever made it to Valhalla — it was his legacy as Odinn's Cove belonged to Verndari, a whispered demi-god. Son of Odinn and a mortal female. The founder and first Kóngur of Odinn's Cove's real name was never known, never spoken of. Simply, his wolves knew him as Verndari — the protector. The fact that Odinn's Cove had been around long enough to have these legends was, in and of itself, an accomplishment, and it was what Ragnar aspired for Stavanger Bay. He did not necessarily fancy himself as the Bay's Verndari but to pretend otherwise wasn't giving himself enough credit. He would not be forgotten. As his blood line spread and expanded he would be known as the Lodbrok patriarch. His people had never had a need for sire names. Blood was not important, titles were not inherited: they were earned; but these Wilds were a different place and in order to achieve his goals Ragnar had to fit in, even in small ways.

“Do not doubt it,” Ragnar would make sure she did not regret the days of her heat cycle. Perhaps, if Ragnar had not exhibited a surge of selflessness by stepping down he might have put his paw down about children but he had been selfless enough. Gave enough. Now, he was going to take what he wanted. Ragnar was a patient man — when it came to certain things and others, he was not. Patience was a flighty virtue within the Viking and not one that he readily aspired to tame. He showed it now as his wife continued to tease at him, curious to see how long he, himself, could hold out in this little game.