 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
The scent of fear billows swiftly and without warning. Ivar’s golden eyes dilate unconsciously and his pale nostrils flare as the kelpie leans in. The taste is intoxicating, and the sharp edges of his teeth catch at the tangled strands of her bicolor mane as he pulls her roughly closer. She is bony against his broad chest, slimmer than he remembers, and that surprised him. He is not sure why, but that millisecond of hesitation is all she needs, and he finds his teeth closing on only air as the leopard woman pulls away. Ivar does not hide the sharp snort of irritation as she does, nor the frustrated click of his teeth against each other in his overlong jaw. Her compliment is met with a narrowed and carefully unamused glare. The expression darkens as Breckin attempts to excuse herself, as she tries to tell him she does not have time to swim. When she asks “Maybe another time?”, Ivar answers with a clipped: “No. Now.” A gentleman would’ve accepted her excuses as a refusal; would have done so on the other occasions that the spotted mare has deferred his attention. But Ivar is not a gentleman. He is the seamonster that he had named himself upon their first meeting, a kelpie who preys on the weakness of women and the frailty of their warm bodies. He is a predator, one who holds the rapidly pulsing throat of the appaloosa mare between his teeth, who presses his cold tongue to the heat of her jugular and imagines what it will taste like slipping down his gullet. Ivar growls, forces her neck back without thought of her comfort as he closes the space between them and presses his scaled shoulder against hers. And then he pulls away with an impossibly beatific smile, stepping backwards until his hooves hit the river – and then moving farther still. Breckin follows him. If her eyes look a little glassy, it might just be a trick of the light. If her movements are a bit stiff, it could be the unevenness of the ground at riversedge. It might also be the effect of hyponosis, of a wordless command pressed into so much of her skin that the spotted mare could no longer resist. The kelpie’s appearance is the lure; his touch is the hook. It is the hook that Breckin has been able to dance about every time before then, darting away and back to Nerine, back to her crown, back to her husband. This time, Ivar had chosen to simply drive it into her heart. They arrive in Ischia sometime during the night. Breckin is coughing and Ivar is saying something about krakens when they surface. It certainly looks like they’ve been attacked by krakens. Or rather, that Brecken has. Ivar’s scaled skin is entirely unmarked. Such arrivals are not infrequent though, and the scent of fresh blood coming from the northeastern islet of Ischia is nothing of note. The kelpie is attentive, brushing his muzzle across the scrapes along her neck and withers, his scaled nose turning pink in the moonlight. Each touch is laced with soothing commands, and when he pulls away from the dazed looking mare, it is with an expression of utter satisfaction. You’re happy here. You like it. Ivar will keep you safe. Nothing else is important. You’re happy here. You’re happy and you're safe and you never want to leave. Your child with the kelpie will be safe here. You're safe here. You'll never want to leave. that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind |
@[Breckin]