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Ragnar drew in a deep breath, the morning air chilly but not cold — nothing by comparison to the winters that the Eldingar Valley suffered, but this place was not his homeland. He missed the Cove, he missed Eitri. Though Ragnar was nearing his fourth name day he felt so lost and wanted nothing more in that moment than to speak with his father, to hear the man's advice. Advice as a young man Ragnar had been quick to scoff at and spurn. It was a downfall of youth: thinking that he knew all the answers, that he had the world by the rear end. Confidence was not something that Ragnar had ever lacked, believing so fiercely in his Gods. He still did, but Odinn's guidance had never been more confusing to the Northman than it was now. He needed a Seer. Someone skilled at speaking with the Gods to interpret what he could not. It felt as if the language of the Gods had suddenly became unintelligible to him and Odinn was screaming at him in an otherworldly tongue that try as hard as he might Ragnar could not make sense of.
Though Ragnar had always spent majority of his time upon his borders, since stepping down officially from leadership the Jarl practically lived upon them, aware that he had yet to make the journey to the Caldera to return to Peregrine that Thistle Cloud and him accepted the offer, if it was still open to them. Too many things had happened. Ragnar had been busy on the borders, guiding Thistle and offering her his advice when she asked for it, and now Charon was missing. The absence of the uniquely marked Ostrega child left a painful hole in the Viking's heart, an ache that could not be assuaged; the two Ostrega boys having became his own children though they did not share blood. That had never made a difference to Ragnar: not with Tyrr, and not with Gunnar, Mercury, or Gyda. And though he desired to go after the boy, though likely his trail was likely long faded, Ragnar resisted. Charon and Levi, the only two children remaining, for Ragnar assumed Kevlyn and Liyani to be long dead like their parents, was all he had left of his departed friends, and he was failing them all. Over and over. Though Thistle's heat season was over now, Ragnar did not feel inclined to leave his Bay for any measure of time. There should have been no doubt in his mind that his seed had taken for they had consummated several times during her season to ensure that it did; but even so he did not know for sure. Even if he did: he would not leave. He had left Dagmar when she had been carrying his children and they — all of them — had came too early, stillborn.
And now there was the matter of the strange scent all over his prominent urine markings. He could not determine any pack scent but it was unmistakably a wolf despite that it was attempted to be masked with sea brine and salt. Whomever was responsible had not been subtle. Stupid the Berserker thought with a curl of his lips. He knew her scent, lone as it was, though how he had missed her hitting every once of his borders when he practically lived upon them he did not know. All he did know was that she should be kissing the ass of whatever God she worshiped that he hadn't caught her; though Ragnar had every intention of hunting the bitch down and gutting her. He was suspicious of these actions, knowing that he would need to speak with Thistle about it urgently. There was a reason for it, he had no doubt. For the lone female rubbing in his piss markings, there would be no mercy and no remorse because the Viking was confident he would catch her, and that she would rue the day that she crossed his path. He would show her what it was like to piss off a Viking, though she would not live to pass on the message to anyone else who found it tempting to tease him by rubbing in his scent.
She had wanted his scent, though, that much was obvious and that unhinged the Northman, having no motive of any sort and currently nothing to go off of than the individual scent tied strongly as it was the scent of brine and salt.