Stavanger Bay Well it's too late

Kjalarr had been under his own misgivings that he was doing well, that things were progressing until he drew back and in a breadth of a moment between a beat of his heart and a soft flutter of breath in his throat Freyja had lashed out at him, her teeth snapping at his muzzle causing his ears to slick back to his crown and him to slink back in retreat, giving her, her space. His heart hammered within it's prison of flesh and bone, adrenaline rushing through his veins like ice as he studied her monochrome form acknowledging that he'd stepped over some boundary line. The softest of sighs fell from betwixt the Loðbrok's lips, perhaps a sound of defeat but she did not give way to a chase as he had expected. He wasn't sure what happened now, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd just been rejected; and really how could he, a mere mortal, compare to her husband the Allfather and King himself: Odin? Yet, she did not chase him from the shore, nor away from her.

She hadn't been rejecting him, Kjalarr realized as he watched her body bow into a playful position, her front half lowered with her rump in the air. The queen of valkyries' gaze was a challenge and a grin had tugged at the edges of her lovely lips up at him. The berserker was young, and in this situation lacked any sort of experience; but so long as she was willing to teach him how this dance went then he was more than willing to learn from her. His own body lowered into a play bow, mimicking her, a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his scarred muzzle, a cant of his head (in a manner that was eerily similar to Ragnar) ever so slightly to the side he hung back, inviting her to make the first move this time, to instruct him so that he could pick up on what she wanted and not make the same mistake twice.