Stavanger Bay Frigga bless me

Please allow, the puppies, and Ragnar to answer first, then any others after that. Set for 4/5/2015.


For days Thistle had been both waiting impatiently and dreading the birth of the babies. Dreading the pain that would come, and the adjustment. And perhaps a little bit of worry for the future. However, she was also waiting impatient for them to arrive, overjoyed to be able to see them soon. As well as the fact, that she felt like an oversized whale, ready to pop at any given moment or touch. It was most unbecoming.

Thistle strode around the den site, anxiety and instinct adding flight to her paws. These pups were coming today, whether she was ready for it or not. She mentally went over everything, before a crippling pain began in her abdomen and worked its way backwards. She howled for @Ragnar and swiftly slid towards the entrance of the den. Determined as usual, not to cry out as she gave birth, they needed and wanted strong sons.

First the panting began, then the crippling pain again, and again, and finally with a tightening the first pup, pushed herself into the world. Thistle bent her head to the side, and though it was difficult. She grasped their daughter and pulled her forward, anxious to get the sac off of her head, and let her first breath of real air happen. As she licked her clean and dry, and coat of ivory was shown, with brown accents on her toes, her ears and tail. She was tiny, but might and Thistle smiled to herself. Hello @Ragna She pushed her daughter to the closest teat and waited for the next pain to begin.

About forty minutes passed, in a haze of bliss and slight pain, before the tightening and pain began to build again. Thistle scrabbled at the floor, as she kept silent, and pushed this one out. Larger than his sister. Pulling him forward she began to lick at his face and ears, forcing him to open and breathe. Platinum like his father, but with stockings of sand, like his elder brother. She smiled at him, licked his face one last time, and pushed him towards a teat, and his sister. You shall be @Jorunn Eitri . She lay her head to her paws, anxious to rest between, the babes, because she could tell this day was far from over.

Thistle wanted to walk around, the pain in her middle reaching a crescendo, instead she had to suffer through restless legs, and heavy head. When the third crippling pain began, she couldn't help the small, sigh that left her maw, as she pushed. As she pushed the next pup out her surprise was evident as she licked him clean, and he was a carbon copy of his brother. She smiled, Aren't you a little trickster @Floki stealing your brothers colors. She licked him dry and clean, thinking perhaps she was done. 

As she rested, she grunted when the pain began again, dipping her muzzle to the ground, she pushed as the youngest of their children came to meet the world. Encased in ivory, with brown smudges around his eyes, she smiled. Little @Kaylan She licked his fur, clean and laying her tail across the ground, she lay down and waited, catching some sleep finally while she could.

Ragna came into the world a thought, pure and bright and quiet. The moment she could, she gulped great breaths of air in, filling her chest with shocking cold. It came as a shock to her, along with the cold of the air around her. The warmth of her mothers tongue registered, but it could do little to replace that of the womb. Upset, Ragna began to cry out, protesting squeaks. How rude!

The only way to quiet her was to fill her mouth, which is exactly what the amorphous shape of her mother did. A nose prodded her to her mother's teat, which Ragna drew into her mouth with a squeak. And so she began to suckle, and continued to do so despite the jostling warmth of her siblings.

It was time to leave the only home he had ever known and head out to the real world. Except the puppy did not know where he was going today, for he knew nothing of the world except for his mother's womb and the constant squirming of his siblings beside him. But today, the little Loðbrók was kicking and squirming about harder than usual, surely upsetting his fellow siblings and the dear mother that carried them.

When his turn came, the boy attempted to resist, wishing to stay in the familiar warmth of the womb but Floki arrived in this unknown world nonetheless and moments later, when he could finally breathe, the first thing the trickster did was to open his tiny mouth and let out loud yelps which continued even when his mother's warm tongue licked him dry and clean and pushed him gently towards a wall of warm fur. He quietened then.

Instinctively, Floki latched his mouth around his mother's teat and began suckling, the warm liquid sliding down his throat for the first time, filling his belly. He ignored the squirming bodies of his siblings beside him, pushing them aggressively away when they came too close but not bothering them when they did their own thing.

he was a thousand warriors. he was one hundred kings. he had seen the nine worlds. he had lived upon yggdrasil. he had dined with odin at his table. he had run with freyja in her field. he had lived countless lives. in death, he was limitless. memories of all his lives remained in tact. all of those lessons. he was enjoying a feast with his brothers. retelling the glories of all their lives and all their deaths. but perhaps he had partaken too much. the edges of his vision began to slip. his memories grew harder to reach. there was a burning in his lungs.

there was nothing.

and then he was floating. warm. he did not think. he did not remember. he was only warm. suspended in space. unaware of the beings that were nestled close. his every need was tended. he did not know suffering. he was unaware even as the sacs so close to his own disappeared one by one. it was only until his body was being squeezed that he remained so content and oblivious. then, he began to twist and rebel against the interruption of his comfort.

there was a burning in his lungs. his tiny mouth instinctively gasped as the life-giving sac was cleansed from his body. he did not squall. he was the last. he was the youngest. perhaps a runt. but he did not know this. he only knew the instinctual desire for food. he sought the warm of the body that had forced him into this life. it did not matter if there was no room for him at his mother's teats. did not matter if the way was blocked. he would determinedly clamber over them. push his way through them.

it did not matter what he needed to do. he would latch upon a teat. he would feed until his tiny body was full to bursting. and then he would sleep. a thing that was not so different than wakefulness. except that in his dreams he would remember.

There was no need to upset what was already a perfect universe; yet this perfection weaved with love and care – delicate in it's design – was shattered. It began as a spider web crack. Tiny. So very easily brushed off as tremors ripped through the womb of his mother. Perhaps the others were disturbing her, restless as they all had seemed to be in the past few days. Ragnarok had been taking place inside Thistle's womb during these days though Jorunn had no sense of time and thus it had no real consequence to him, as they battled – kicking one another and her in the process – like the Gods would do at the end of the world. His sense of awareness was minimal, barely existent and yet he was rousing like some beast lain dormant beneath the earth. Awakening. The spiderweb crack had splintered out then as another tremor rocked Jorunn's world and then the previous claustrophobic space had been emptied of one of them. There was some more space to stretch and inside his sac, a little bit more room afforded to him though his other half was never further away then a stretch of his paw. The other half that had been split from his own egg during their ...creation.

There was a blissful pause, and with it a false hope that the shattering would cease and that he might be saved. This hope was obtuse, however, as the tremors rocked Thistle's womb again and this time it was he that was being pushed through her, torn away from what he had known. The second Lodbrok and first born son of Ragnar scrambled restlessly in the sac as he felt it move beneath him, disoriented, a defiant scream leaving his little mouth as he felt Thistle's tongue, warm but unfamiliar bathe him clean of the sac that had kept him alive in her womb. The outside world felt indefinitely larger, colder, but he was pacified soon as Thistle pushed him in his bum towards her side. He army crawled – about the best that he could move at this point – mouth seeking her teat as he nestled beside the first one, drawing warmth from the two bodies sensing that his twin had yet to make it into the world. Jorunn suckled reluctantly, unable to fully resist the temptation of Thistle's warm and sweet milk – but also knowing he would not be able to be fully content until his other half was beside him.

As Thistle gave birth to his twin, Jorunn nuzzled closer to Ragna, drawing from her warmth, unknowing that she was perhaps doing the same (not that he would ever mind, really). It was only when he felt his identical twin come to his place beside him did the boy give out a breath – something akin to a sigh – and suckled at Thistle with vigor then, taking the pushes from his twin in nothing less then stride. The young Berserker did not mind, for he was a the legend and he had fought, endured and survived much worse.

Going to go ahead and say that this is now open for others. :-)

Thistle's howl did not come unexpected to Ragnar, who had known his sons were coming any day now, if going by the fact that his wife literally looked like an overstuffed teddy bear ready to bust at the seams at any given moment. If Ragnar had been a better man he might have taken some pity upon his shield-maiden, but he took her rotundness as nothing short of a good sign: his sons would be big and strong, just as Odinn had promised him so many years ago. Had it truly been over four years since his own birth? He had managed to out live his father, Eitri, by a half a year, for his father had only been three, almost four when Björn had slayed him in battle for the throne of Odinn's Cove. There was some sort of symbolism in that, Ragnar couldn't help but feel. Berserkers did not often times live long lives given the toll the mushrooms took and the battles that they threw themselves into without fear of death. 


The Northman's course had changed immediately, his long legs taking him further away from the borders in the interest of moving towards the den he shared with his growing family. He had not obsessed over Thistle's birth so much this time as he had last time, though the circumstances were different. He assumed that since she had bore a healthy litter her first year of being sexually mature that she was more than capable of bearing more. That their children would not be born still and cold with death, Odinn's work; that she would not bear him corpses as Dagmar had. Dagmar had been an omen of death and though he had harbored some sort of lustful affection for her, he hadn't been so glad to rid himself of a woman before. 

The Viking was silent as he lowered himself to his belly, pushing into the dark confines of the den, the scent of blood combined with the sweet scent of Thistle's milk heavy in the tepid air. She was panting, no doubt already in labor with their first born. Ragnar watched greedily with a singular eye, giving Thistle her space as she drew the first sac towards her and began to clean. A girl, he saw, beautiful and pale a Northerner through and through in her coloration. Delicate, but strong. The Viking felt a contented sigh rumble in his chest as he studied his blood daughter, unable to help but think that she reminded him of his mother, Kenna, and that would she have been there – well if his mother would have been here then she would have chased him out a long time ago because he was of no help to Thistle. His purpose was to be support and to welcome their children into the world. Hearing the girl's name he could not help his soft smile, assuming that she was named 'Ragna' for him. “You do understand you are asking for trouble, my love?” Ragnar murmured, deep baritone low as he offered his Queen a cynical smirk, though he was ...flattered at the hand of his own assumption. He did not know the delicate little girl nursing at Thistle's side yet, but perhaps where he failed with Gyda he could prevail with little Ragna: make her the true Viking princess she was truly born to be. Only Gunnar seemed to be the one of Crete's children that had any interest in the Viking culture for both Mercury and Gyda were gone to the four winds and Ragnar was not so hopeful to see them ever again.

He hadn't tried to convince them to stay – as adults it was their choice. Just as, eventually, it would be the choice of Ragna and the children Thistle had yet to bear him. Ragnar was not sure how much time had passed but soon enough Thistle's middle appeared to seize as another tremor ripped through her and in a succession (time was unclear to Ragnar who was in a bit of a birth stupor) another child came forth. A boy, larger than Ragna and draped in a coat the color of his own, except for the sandy stockings that he bore. His first born son, big and strong if the defiant scream that left the child's tiny mouth – surely too big of a scream for such a tiny, delicate creature – his little Jorunn Eitri. A good tribute to his namesake, Ragnar thought. Shortly after came another boy, the exact same as little Eitri, Floki. Twins. Not entirely uncommon in his family. Two perfect little boys named after the two meaningful men in Ragnar's life: his father and his best friend – the only true brother he'd ever had despite not being blood. Spilling blood together was just as good of a bond as sharing it.


More time passed and a fourth and final child came into the world: ivory with smudges of brown under his eyes – reminding Ragnar of Tyrr and Mercury when the ebony child had first been born. The latter's smudges had vanished as he'd aged though Tyrr's still remained quite prominent against his chocolate brown fur. Of course the thought of his estranged and truly eldest son brought with it an unbidden memory of a girl in his youth of whom Tyrr was nothing short of a carbon copy of. The Amazon's Queen: Quetzalcoatl. In favor of paying attention to his wife and the newest additions to their family he moved closer then, giving Thistle a soft pepper of kisses. “You did well my Queen. Frigga and Freyja were with you this day,” The Shield-Maiden and the Mother Goddess. There was little doubt that the two favored Thistle Cloud, in Ragnar's mind.

Surely, they had for giving him three healthy children last year and four this. There was no doubt looking at his children pallid in their coloration, platinum silver and ivory – colors of the icy North he was born of, that he was their father for they all looked like him in some way or another, though he saw Thistle in all of them, as well. They were all perfect; replicas of Ragnar and Thistle together. The Viking offered each of them a kiss atop their heads, muttering their names to them as he paid attention to each one in turn before he drew back, giving the children and their mother room to breathe. “I will tell @Gunnar , @Charon and @Levi they can come meet their new siblings if they want, and let the others know. We must sacrifice to Odin, Frigga, and Freyja this night. We must thank them for the lives they have given us, and for the future.” A big sacrifice. A sacrifice of many. What ever the Gods wanted for Ragnar Lodbrok was feeling mighty generous. 

With those words he slipped outside the den and sent up a howl for his three sons, and then after a few moments sent out another one, this time directed at the pack as a whole, announcing the birth of the four children though he kept their names out of it, true to his traditions.

Though Thistle knew that Ragnar was there, she paid him no mind. Intent upon delivering and delivering well, their children. She was however, grateful at his presence, happy he was here to share this with her. Despite that it was rather grotesque, and unbecoming she really did not care. For blood forged bonds did it not.  Thistle chuckled quietly at his words, Yes I know this, dearheart, but that it okay.

Thistle lifted her head and panted, nodding her head. Far too tired, and exhausted to say much else. She did nod her head, when he spoke of calling the other three boys. As he was walking, she lay her head to the ground, with a softly whispered, Love you dearheart. Before exhaustion overtook her, she would be wakened as others came to see them, but she did not mind. However, until they did come she was going to sleep, her body had been through a lot on this day.

<3

Levi had heard the struggle from his mother's den, had understood that he needed to keep away from it now that she was in labor. He did not fully understand what was happening, but at least he understood that. He worried at a bone while he waited, using his powerful jaws to crack at it, exposing the marrow. It was not long after he had sucked one half of it dry that his father's howl rose up to him and Charon and Gunnar. With a grin, he dropped the bones where he lay and dashed toward the birthing den.

Ragnar stood outside it, smiling. Levi approached cautiously, lowering himself slightly as he neared the patriarch. Though he was not the alpha anymore,  he was still in charge of Levi's world, and the boy accepted his place among the others as easily as he had rejected it before. "How is mother?" he asked softly, placing his nose and tongue beneath Ragnar's chin in greeting. He stepped back and peered inside, where the darkness shadowed his new siblings, but brought forth the scents of four new suckling babes to his nostrils.

Charon had been nearby too, eager to meet his new siblings, aware of what was to happen. When Ragnar's call came, dotted ears immediately poked upwards and the brash youth galloped back to the den as fast as he could. Levi had already arrived, and Charon licked the bottom of Ragnar's chin in respect before he turned to the den.

"How many are there? What's their names??" Charon asked eagerly. If Ragnar would allow it, Charon would move past him to poke his head into the den and welcome his new siblings to the world.

Aesop knew the day was drawing near, but had not realized how close it truly was.  Sure, Thistle Cloud had been close to bursting last he saw her, but she had seemed so for a while.  Had it really been so long already?

A howl announced the births.  Four children, welcomed into the world.  A dancer, a fighter, and what else?  Only time would tell, he supposed.  At the call, Aesop drew himself up, loping from the beach to the source of the howl, Thistle Cloud's den.

Outside stood Charon and Levi, as well as the father, Ragnar.  Aesop dipped his muzzle at each.  "Congratulations," he rumbled, curious to see whether they'd be allowed to see the children.  He was not family, and didn't expect much, but he still wanted to offer his congratulations.

To Atreyu, the call announcing the birth of the leader's children came as a surprise. While he had known Thistle had been pregnant (it wasn't hard to notice, as round as she was), he was unaware of how long she had actually been carrying the pups. He didn't know the first thing about pregnancy — how long did they actually spend in there? What would they look like? Was he even allowed near the den? Questions buzzed around inside his mind as he heeded Ragnar's summons, quickly loping towards the den, both eager and hesitant to see the newest additions to Stavanger Bay.

Already, a small crowd had gathered. Atreyu gave a respectful nod to the Jarl and Aesop before drawing his gaze over a grey-furred boy and Charon, who seemed to both be the same age. Brothers? He skipped greeting them, though, in favour of inching towards the den, though still keeping his distance, wary of the presence of the father that loomed nearby. The heavy, slightly sickening, scent of milk and blood wafted from the entrance, along with the faint, high-pitched squeaks and squeals of newborns. Turning his head so his deaf ear was facing the den — ah, much better — the boy turned back to Ragnar with a toothy grin. "Congrats," he offered with a wag of his tail, truly excited to meet the babies. When they were older, of course.