the spice of life

*Ragnar* · (This post was last modified: February 28, 2015, 06:36 AM by Ragnar.)

~~Daddy~~ Ragnar to the rescue! :D Also, I can change anything in this, if necessary. :3

Ragnar was hesitant to leave the borders of his Bay, even when he did not intend to be gone longer than for a few hours, especially with his Queen Wife's pregnancy, now evident with the supple roundness of her sides, evidence of the life growing there, of their children. Yet, the borders had became constricting until it felt like drawing even the smallest of breaths was a struggle. His own sanctuary had somehow became his own noose and he knew that he needed to free himself from the Bay for even a small while. A chance to step outside and breathe fresh air. The stresses had not ceased when he had stepped down from leadership: for they lingered in the undying love for his pack that he held, in the threat that the strange sea drenched woman had left all over his piss marks, in the unknown but feeling of icy dread in his chest, in the fact that his son was still missing and that Ragnar had no idea what to tell Levi. The Viking had no soft words of comfort, and did not deign to make promises that he was not sure that he could keep. Charon and Levi might not have been born of his loins, or even Thistle's, but that did not change the way that Ragnar loved them: all that he had left now of Verrine and Julooke. They had become his sons, as Gunnar, Mercury and Tyrr had. He was a guardian of them; the orphaned — despite the technicalities of the eldest three. Whether Levi and Charon though of Thistle and himself as their parents he did not know and had decided long ago it did not matter. How they chose to see him would never change his level of affection for them, nor that he considered them his sons as much as he considered the elder three sons. Blood mattered to Ragnar, but in a contradictory form it also did not. Odinn had promised him many sons, yes, and so far Odinn had given him six of them (if we're including Ragnar's bastard).

His journey took him out to Gyrfalcon Keep, singular eyes of piercing Caribbean blue eye scanning the landscape, as he kept an even pace, noticing that it felt good to stretch his legs. That he was never meant to be nailed down to one place. He was a Viking; a mercenary, a traveler, but he was also a dethroned King, a husband, a father. He could not disconnect himself so swiftly and leave this family as he did the one in the Cove. The Cove hadn't needed him, not with Dagrun and Floki to keep a swift and loyal eye on everything, even though leaving the pack in Vali's paws had obviously been a mistake as his youngest brother had proved to be very alike to his elder: Bjorn in the fact that he stabbed Ragnar in the back, too. Stavanger Bay needed him, even if they did not know it. He felt it and so he stayed, out of devotion and love. Still, staying trapped within it's borders was not a smart move on his part for it had nearly driven him stir crazy. Steps slowed, ears slicking back to rest at half mast atop his skull as he caught the scent of a corpse, and another familiar scent that caused his breath to leave his lips in a short gasp. Charon. His scent wasn't right necessarily, but it was no doubt Charon's.

Ragnar came upon the scene just as an ebony creature came out of the foliage, and possessively screeched it at Charon and then with a snarl lunged at the boy. The quick glimpse of Charon did not leave a good impression upon the Northman: his son was injured and unwell; and currently about to be attacked. He would not lose Charon, he would not let this ebony creature touch a hair on his body, as bad as it looked. Ragnar charged at the ebony beast then, a snarl tearing from his parted jaws, intending to deter the other pack wolf from attacking Charon, who obviously needed the food more than he. “Get away from my son!” Ragnar demanded, attempting to put himself in between Charon and the ebony male, pulling himself up to his full height, fixing the ebony male in a fierce, unrelenting stare. “If you do not let him eat until he is sated, if you try to harm a hair on his head,” Ragnar's voice , heavily accented, dropped lower. “I will kill you.” The Viking promised. “There will be more than enough for you when he is finished.” The Berserker spat, watching the ebony creature's movements obsessively, assessing. After all, the corpse was more than Charon could eat even when he was at full health. Ragnar hadn't even looked at it, didn't care really what it was Charon was eating. All he knew was this ebony creature wasn't going to hurt Charon, not while he still drew breath and considering he had no intentions of dying any time soon: it would not be today that Odinn stole him to Valhalla.

Ragnar was blood sick and weary, and it had been a measure of time since he'd had a real fight; his training with Gunnar to learn how to combat missing an eye and still be the skilled warrior he'd once been had, hopefully, if this erupted into a fight would have paid off. Odinn didn't need his second eye: and neither did Ragnar.