Blacktail Deer Plateau That Little Fallen Angel

Kjalarr was a lot of things but unobservant had never been one of them: while she studied him the viking returned the favor, analyzing her body language, as mimicking of his own as it was there was a difference, a small twitch of her tail in what he perceived to be interest. Whether it was interest in him or interest in their conversation Kjalarr could not yet deduce but he was willing enough to rise to the challenge of unraveling what was, currently, a mystery to him. It was arrogant to assume that he knew everything just because he'd spent time with Freyja — shared some heated looks and sensual touches (and perhaps more but it's still ongoing so Tori doesn't want to assume). He knew that though he had some experience that he would perhaps not be so oblivious to advances in the future; and otherwise would not be such a novice. If her interest in him was in that way he couldn't tell from the few seconds they'd been conversing but he was observing, nevertheless. Curious, as always.

“Oh?” Kjalarr inquired as she explained that she needed some time away and space. “What is troubling you?” Could he claim that he truly cared? No, not really. He collected information simply because knowledge was power. No one had ever discouraged his natural ambition and hearing Thistle's stories about Ragnar (at Kjalarr's unrelenting demand, mind) only helped to inspire Kjalarr where ...perhaps, if one were to ask his biological family now, it had been the wrong idea to do. He hadn't meant to become obsessed with his father's culture, the Gods ...and the man himself but it had happened nevertheless and Kjalarr worked tirelessly to maintain Odin's favor and not only live up to but exceed Ragnar's own legacy. He would do better.

“Kjalarr,” The viking spoke on a soft, knavish purl. “And what is yours?” The more he mimicked dream Ragnar's accent the easier it was for him to maintain. Practice made perfect, it would seem.