Tip the Dragon Scales

Chapter 7

When Ragnar speaks to the gods, it's always a bit different than the way anyone else might try. He knows the proper ceremonies and rituals; after all, he's helped Gothi with more than one blót over the years and has even led his own.

For something like this though- nothing more than a bit of insight on something he already knows is coming? It's not nearly as complicated or ceremonial.

Ragnar kneels before his window and carefully places a hand-carved bowl in the patch of moonlight streaming in. In it, he drops a bundle of dried herbs. They're not medicinal, but instead meant to relax and clear the mind.

He takes a small piece of wood and catches the end on the flickering candle sitting on a nearby table. With a practiced flick of his hand, the herbs catch light.

The way he speaks to the gods is also a bit different than anyone else in Berk might. He's been smacked by Gothi's staff more than once for it, but the way she's never actually stopped him says enough.

Ragnar knows what he's doing. There's something inside of him- some deeper, instinctual feeling- that lets him know if and when he might be going too far or presuming too much.

He takes a deep breath. "Alright, guys," he says simply. "Whoever's willing to lend me an ear right now, thank you. I'm not expecting anything. I never do. I've- I've been Seeing a lot lately though. It all seems to be centered around the war with the dragons."

Ragnar reaches behind him and tugs his long braid over one shoulder. He pulls the leather tie off the end and starts to mindlessly unravel and reweave the blond strands.

"Is there anything you can give me?" he asks after a moment. "Anyone? I've only Seen bits and pieces. There hasn't been a full vision so I- I don't know for sure how this all ends but-"

He stops abruptly, hands falling away from his hair with his bottom lip caught between his teeth and brow furrowed in concern.

"I've Seen fire," he nearly whispers. "I've Seen fire and heard screams."

The herbs continue to burn in their bowl- a low fire that sends tendrils of sweet smoke curling through the air. Ragnar watches the flames flicker and waits for a sign or message from the gods. He waits for an answer.

Finally, a cool wind blows through the window in front of him. It extinguishes the small fire and brushes Ragnar's hair back, the loose and unbound braid unraveling at the invisible touch. He closes his eyes at the feeling as his long hair falls freely down his back.

When Ragnar opens his eyes, they're nearly completely gray. He stares blankly ahead, frozen in place as he Sees something far different than his room.

Ashes falling like snow. A dragon's roar. The sickening smell of burnt flesh. The glint of a sharpened axe. Wet blood coating his hands. A roll of bandages. The familiar healer's hut.

Ragnar gasps when he comes back to the present. He sways slightly as he readjusts, one hand falling forward to brace himself while the other presses against his temple.

"Oh," he says quietly.

It's still not a very clear picture but, then again, the future rarely is even for a soothsayer like himself. The bandages and Gothi's hut seem to imply whatever injury he's been Seeing will at least be treatable.

Ragnar knows better than most how rare that can be.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, chin tilted stubbornly. "Right," he says, louder now in his acceptance. "I'll just- I'll stock up on supplies. I'll be ready for what's coming. Whichever one of you listened... thank you."