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Night had fallen over the Teekon Wilds but Ragnar could not bring himself to sleep. Restless, he had risen with the thought of telling Thistle he was going to take another patrol along the borders in the hopes that the repetitive motion might help release the coil of anxiety that was gnawing at him as a dog worried a bone. It was ceaseless and unending, no matter what he did in attempts to remedy it. Instead he murmured only a soft I'll be back, do not wait up in his native tongue to her, unsure if she was truly awake or not before he had exited the den he shared with her, Gunnar, and their foster children. Death was something that was celebrated in his culture, but that did not mean that he did not grieve the deaths of Verrine, Julooke, (and the assumed death of) Kevlyn. Despite how Ragnar put himself out to the world the scarred Scandinavian was not heartless. The sorrow took hold of him, as well, but the thought that they had earned their places in the great All-Father's hall, in Valhalla with Pump was enough to soothe the demon of worry any time it attempted to rear it's ugly head within the Viking.
The moon was high in the sky, Ragnar's breath slipping from betwixt his parted lips in plumes of white steam that coiled and kissed eagerly at his black, leathery nose. A small kiss of warmth before the cold rushed in to nip mere moments later. Doubling the long way around the den, following a sudden and intense urge. The deep, unintelligible whispers traveling through the ancient trees of their bay home in his native tongue. Silently, the platinum Jarl sought out his secret stash of Berserker mushrooms and stole one from the cache before he kicked the dirt back over in, to close it, packing the dirt down as he chewed the tiny, dried, seemingly harmless fungi. Knowing it for what it was, that it was mainly only used when he needed to go to battle. Ragnar had always considered himself lucky to not have became addicted to it as some of his comrades had been; and though he sought the fix in that moment he still did not consider it an addiction. It was not as if he had to have one everyday, or even week, and most of the time he was good about conserving them for actual purposes. This, he considered, an actual purpose. He needed to hear his Gods, to see them with his own eyes: so he might ask them why they kept punishing him and his pack, his family.
Not that Ragnar expected any sort of real response.
Heading into the very heart of the forest, he could begin to feel the trickle of the Berserker mushroom taking effect not overly potent for the lack of dosage. To feel no pain, for a couple of hours even, to be able to commune with his Gods, Ragnar was confident, would give him the peace of mind that the Viking sought. How could a Jarl so wrapped up in turmoil and mourning lead his wolves through the tough times that they were currently suffering through? First, he had to tackle his own demons, solve his own problems before he could even begin to tackle the bigger problems. hagl, trúr mitt, The deep, celestial voice of Odinn floated around the forest and on instinct, Ragnar stopped, eager to obey as ever. To prove to Odinn that he was still worthy of the All-father's favor.
The one eyed raven, the one that Ragnar felt confident was truly Odinn, the one that had led Julooke and him here to this Bay in the first place lighted down onto the debris littered forest floor, blink it's beady black eye up at him, head cocking to the side as if he were examining Ragnar. The believed to be Gods' stare was intense, and above Huginn or Munnin let out a shrill call from above as “Odinn” hopped closer. A eins fórn mun duga, Ragnar Loðbrók, Odinn's voice seemed to echo all around him rather than emitting from one place, such as the raven's beak, but still Ragnar did not believe in consequences. It was a one eyed raven that Ragnar very rarely saw, too rare for the Northman to believe that in such things. Ragnar took a step forward, attention grasped briefly by the fermenting corpse of rabbit that it appeared that the ravens had been pecking at. “Odinn” flew the short distance towards it and began to peck at the meat, tearing it from the bone.
Ég mun taka augað, hvernig Yggdrasil tók mitt! The hairs on the nape of Ragnar's neck bristled as the raven let out a loud battle cry and sprung into the air, talons slashing through the air as it dived at him, slashing deeply from brow to muzzle, slicing clean through his left eye. Adrenaline pulsed through Ragnar's veins, aided by the Berserker mushroom and at first Ragnar noticed nothing until he felt something warm seep from his eye leaving three bleeding gouges the perfect size of it's talons into his flesh, and a ugly, bleeding hole where his eye had been brutally gouged out. As the raven screech again, a deafening sound piercing through the sound of his rapid heart beat, though he felt no pain Ragnar realized that only his right eye remained functioning. Confusion was soothed out by the knowledge that Odinn had taken his eye as a sacrifice but Ragnar could not help the strangle cry of horror, despite understanding, and accepting the truth as it was.
Thistle absolutely hated the fact that Ragnar had hidden mushrooms, she hated it so much that it hurt. It was a foolhardy drug and she wished he would not tempt fate so. However, she had not control over what he ate, just as she had no control over the man himself. She could only be there when the high wore off and he came down to earth hard and usually bloody.
Thistle had fallen back asleep only to wake up with a start as a loud screech sounded. She listened again and the sound of the raven's call, made the hair on the back of her neck rise. She jumped to her feet and bounded from the door as fast as she could past children. Racing towards the forest she heard the strangled cry of her husband and increased her speed. Her mind going in fifty different directions. What had happened? What would cause him to cry out so? Why were the ravens cawing.
Tilting her ears to the base of her skull she came upon the scene and she stared silently at the blood and gore that littered the ground. Realizing her husband had gotten to close to the dead rabbit on the ground and the ravens had protected their supper. However, she could smell the mushrooms on him, and it was probably in a drug induced coma he thought he had been talking to the gods. She flapped her jaw shut once twice and then propelled herself forward and looked at her husband. By all the gods Ragnar! What were you thinking? You foolish, stupid man! Oh gods! She got nearer to him and licked at the side of his face fighting hard not to puke at the snot, and blood and tendrils of flesh that hung from his empty eye socket. She imagined if it had been anyone but the man she loved or her family she would have been alright. But the sight was frightening and sickening all at once.
Ragnar could barely hear the sound of approaching footfalls, fast and light in the speed with which the other moved over the rapid palpitations of his heart. To any third party observer the explanation of his injuries was as simple as him getting too close to an overly territorial raven's meal; but Ragnar knew the truth (or what he believed to be the truth, at any rate). All at once his body was hot, so hot that he'd began panting, but he was also cold and shivering. The Berserker mushroom had done it's job, blocking the pain so that he felt nothing but the sticky, warm liquids of his body as they oozed down his face, dripping down the length of his muzzle, staining the platinum colored fur crimson. Accepting what had happened to him was a step in the right direction, but it did not make the him feel any less disoriented. Having gone from two perfectly beautiful working eyes to only one, despite that it made him feel indefinitely closer to Odinn (for they were alike now), the Northman was suffering a severe moment of shock. His left side was black, only a ghost of a memory, an eye with a flame licking at the empty eye socket, a gift, perhaps from Odinn to aid in attempting to calm the Viking down. Outwardly, Ragnar wasn't panicking. Inwardly, he was. Maybe losing an eye didn't affect Odinn because he was a God; but Ragnar was no God.
And yet, it was the price that he'd paid to ensure that he and Stavanger Bay stayed in the All-Father's favor. It was a sacrifice to prove his devotion, and though it was, indeed, shocking, Ragnar didn't necessarily regret it. He had once said that he would give much more than his eye for knowledge, but he had given his eye and surely that stood for something.
When Thistle began to panic, her voice trembling — or at least that was how he heard it, it could have been because he was trembling, he bowed his head to allow her access to his face, as she began to lick it, in an attempt to clean it Ragnar assumed.
Lay down right now Ragnar. You need to tell me immediately if your pulse sky rockets, if you are confused, if you can't breath and if yo uare lightheaded. Though those damned mushrooms that i smell all over you are not going to help. She snarled again and continued to work quickly and as efficiently as possible. For a moment she was so very glad she was not pregnant or had any aversions to blood loss, because she probably would have been puking up her lungs had any of that been present.
She mentally went through all she needed to do, but frankly her heart was beating so hard she thought she'd die herself. What was she to do if she lost him? The fear of losing him was overwhelming and it was all she could really think about. Swiftly put was that he was not in the clear and she wasn't sure how his body would react to the dratted shock it was bound to go into. He could have a heartattack or lose his pulse immediately.
Ragnar ignored Thistle's growl, easily combating her words with his own justification behind what had happened. It was amazing how he was bleeding, and eyeless and she was angry with him. So confident was his Queen Wife that he was going to die that she attempted to use it against him, questioning him, uselessly, that if he died where would the Bay be? A small, snide part of Ragnar wanted to respond back sharply, about it probably being better. If he wouldn't have left to try to find Julooke's attacker maybe things would not have gone down the way they had. Maybe the Bay would be better prepared for winter, maybe their numbers wouldn't be so low. Perhaps, though, everything would be exactly the same way, even if he had stayed. Maybe someone could lead Stavanger Bay better than him, not that Ragnar planned to be alive to see that happen. It would take his death to usurp him, like it had taken for the Jarls, Earls, and Kings of Odinn's Cove before hand; and given that Odinn had promised him a long and fulfilling life a long time ago Ragnar intended to hold the All-Father to it.
The Northman snorted softly at her command, lips curling ever so slightly back from his teeth. After a few seconds of wondering if it was necessary, slowly the platinum furred Jarl folded his front legs beneath him and then settled his bum against the ground, ears splayed back against his skull as she continued to lap at his eye and the three gouges that Odinn had left against his skin. As always, she worried too much. Ragnar was made of much thicker, tougher stuff than that to left a missing eye and a few scratches end his life. It was not how he was destined to leave for Valhalla, and he was far, far too young yet. Though part of him would always desire Valhalla, he knew that his life upon the land of the living was far more important than Valhalla until it was actually his time to allow Odinn to take him.
Thistle stopped working frantically to clean his eye and looked at him. you don't know that. Shock is a tricky thing husband.
Don't you wrinkle your lips at me Ragnar Loðbrók. She shook her head and backed up studying his eye. It was the best she could do and then she spoke softly. Ragnar I honestly don't know what to do for your eye? I mean I would put herbs on it, but it's such a sensitive part of your body...it might be better to just let you eat something for the pain and fever? She flitted around him unsure what to do, but wanting to do something.
Thistle took a shuddering breath and leaned against him for a moment, not able to do much else for his eye here. Her herbs were all at home, My herbs are all back at the den, I have to figure out a way to cover it too, because that will scare the children, and they have enough trauma in their lives.
Ragnar felt his Queen Wife cease in her attempts to clean his eye, and though he could not see her looking at him, with her being on his blind side, he could feel her eyes burn into his skin.
Ragnar let out a soft, satisfied sigh when he felt her lean against him. Though she was on his blind side, he reached his muzzle for her anyway, knowing that he found her when his lips brushed against the soft fur of her own muzzle. He would do it all again, over and over, if it meant Odinn's favor for their family and the pack. There was no sacrifice too great, in Ragnar's mind. Some would think that it made his devotion to the All-Father dangerous, but the Gods wanted what they wanted and it was their duty to make it happen or feel the pain of their wrath which would be ten times worse than the sacrifice itself.
She leaned into his muzzle and a soft sigh escaped her followed by a whine. Ragnar you have to be more careful do you have any idea what would happen to me if you died? Any idea at all? I fear I may very well go crazy. She sniffed softly and gently preened at his shoulder and the side of jaw, in order to do something anything to keep her mind off of what she couldn't do at the moment. Because there was really nothing she could do to fix this, she could not reattach his eye, not that he would let her anyway. She also couldn't heal this, she couldn't tear the muscles and the sinew away, she couldn't do anything and that was a hard pill to swallow for the gentle healer. Very well Ragnar.
Ragnar felt her lean slightly against his muzzle, her whine picked up almost as soon as it left her lips.
Ragnar may have thought he wouldn't die, but it still scared her. She was a worrier, and she had not doubt if she had such a grievous injury, it would bother him and worry him. But perhaps not, she wasn't too sure. Physical ailments didn't seem to bother him like they should on anyone. It was strange to her. Thistle had been angry and hurt, simply because she loved him. He had the power to absolutely break her if he wanted too, and she didn't think he even knew it. It was the way of things. She was a spitfire, a wild thing when angry and she knew that. She supposed at this point he knew it too.
If Odinn could survive with only one eye, then so Ragnar was determined to do as well; and anyway he had known a male name Torstein who had, had an eye removed in battle who was still one hell of a warrior even for losing half of his sight.
She tilted her head and looked down trying to find something to use for it, but finding nothing. She wondered again at the muscle and sinew that clung to the eye, what should she do with it.
Ragnar had merely been teasing her when he had said that she was obligated to call him handsome as his wife, though of course that wasn't particularly true. Some women just liked scars, or the enigma of badassery that they created. It would seem to Ragnar that Thistle was one of those women. Or maybe she wasn't so shallow to consider outward appearance, though Ragnar remembered vividly that she had been intimidated by him at one point in time. Not that he hadn't expected it: when you were covered as many battle wounds as Ragnar the stares and hesitation became as normal as receiving someone's name. It had never been insulting, if because Ragnar was proud of his scars. They marked him for what he was: an experienced Berserker, and if you didn't have scars you were just a green boy straight out of the training; though there was hardly any Vikings without scars. Scars were respected rather than feared in his culture. Nevertheless, the Northman left it be. Noting that she seemed to be looking for something, presumably to cease the seepage that leaked from his eye socket, which involved physically turning his head so that he could see her, though upon his blind side he felt the air around her stir, the rush of cool air as she moved away from him.