She beckons them away with a sheer brush of night wing. Her feathers carry more age, her beak has plucked more eyes, her talons crushed a baskets worth of fledglings. Not revered but feared. The younger migrates resist her claim and she moves to slash with the sharp edge of her beak. A fresh battle brewing in a flurry of squawks and wing thrashing. Something else moves in the night and the rest of the small flock disburses at the smallest shudder of the forest.
Her eyes turn to the foliage, curious, cautious, she watches the movement of the leaves. The tips of her talons dig into the dried pelt of a half eaten stag slain by some other creature; the lone raven moves to pick at the carcass, but hovers in a breath of hesitation.
Despite that Pump had yet to act on claiming the forest of Ravensblood - lands having been made sacred upon their naming by Odinn even if the wolves at the time had not been aware of it - the forest had became a regular haunt for the Viking who made a point to rub his scent on the trees of the portion Pump intended to claim, small though it was, to ward off any unwanted guests when the day came. Not that a foolish creature lingering amidst what he had attempted to bar off like security tape at a crime scene would be enough to stop them - to stop him. It was of no real surprise that once the portion of the forest was claimed for them he would deign to make a new den on the holy lands. Relocating himself was nothing and his lack of possessions and family made it measurable easier to uproot from his current den that, frankly, he only got to spend a small portion of time in. Most of his nights after the landslide had been spent out in the open with the others where Thistle could keep an eye on his wound through the night. It had been convenient only when his wound had hindered him and now that it was healing nicely he had returned to his den, reveling in the quiet and solitude of it.
It was effortless these days to extend his border patrol to include the part of the forest Pump and him had scouted out though it wasn’t technically part of their claim yet. It was a small matter and not one that Ragnar spent a lot of time contemplating. As the Viking moved he subtly altered his direction towards the scent of a carcass not too far away from his position, shrugging through the bramble and branches of the forest as his Caribbean blue eyes landed upon it only to flit up, as if on some sort of puppeteer string to the raven that circled it, watching it’s graceful and purposeful movements with nothing sort of admiration. Though it was likely no more than a common raven, Ragnar immediately likened it to either of Odinn’s Huginn or Munnin, affirming what he already knew: that his god lingered in the heart of this forest.
Salem receives the pale figure with a wave of indifference, considering him with the avian tilt of her head as she watches him with the of rotation both eyes. The raven does not immediately shy from the sight of wolves, having shared unspoken kinship in their scavenging. But not all wolves are kind to birds, having been flashed a wicked fang on more than one occasion. She finds another perch, crossing her wings as she lands on a thin upright root which quivers beneath the new weight.
Caribbean blue eyes watched the raven with unhindered curiosity and continued reverence, sensing Odinn’s presence thrumming within the confines of the forest like the hum of some giant dragon beneath the surface. A sole glimpse was spared to the carcass of the deer, studying it for the briefest of moments as if he were determining there was anything worth attempting to salvage and take back to one of the pack’s caches before he decided abruptly against it. No. It would stay here and feed Huginn or Muinnin - whichever regal raven he was in the presence of, for surely this raven had to be one of Odinn’s pets. The sound of the raven’s wings tucking in close to it’s body called the Viking’s attention once more and obediently, his fierce irises turned their oceanic colored depths to focus once more upon the feathered creature. For a moment, he said nothing, leathery black nostrils flaring as he inhaled the rank scent of death and saccharine decay of the carcass a few paces from where he currently stood.
It occurred to the savage in the next few moments of thought that this raven could even, possibly, be Odinn. The Allfather had many forms and many talents, but regardless of who the raven was Ragnar knew one thing: Odinn was watching. “Huginn,” Ragnar breathed to the avian in his soft-spoken quiet voice, full of his inner curiosity, “Or are you Muinnin?” He was unsure if it even understood what he was saying to it, but waited with almost baited breath, anyway.