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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    i'll use you as a warning sign - Isobell
    #1

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    The most direct route takes him straight north through the Riverlands and into the sea.

    He has not been below the water in weeks, not truly.

    The springs of Loess are deep and warm even in winter, but they are not freedom. Up and down on, his movement limited and constrained. They’ve been enough to take the edge off, but they were nothing compared to the ocean. Smooth and salty, the water slides against his scales as he moves, a dark figure at the bottom of the sea floor.

    The moon does not reach him there, and only as the water grows shallower and the point of Nerine’s peninsula rises before him does the kelpie ascend.

    He seems he can sense her on a supernatural level, the familiar pulse of her heartbeat is like a beacon. Only seems though, because he has been watching her on the beach, waiting for her to be alone.

    The crowds around her seem to never thin, especially since the beginning of spring. Ivar has waited, like he promised he would, and yet she has not come. This trip to Nerine – to find her himself – was a last resort, the actions of a frustrated man. He has his collection in Loess to pass the time, but they are only distractions.

    He has been waiting for Isobell.. Yet she does not seem interested in coming.

    Not until the sun is well and truly set is the piebald mare left in solitude. Ivar lingers in the shallows, and in the cover of a thick cloud across the moon, he climbs atop one of the many blocks of granite that litter the fine grey sand. The water drips off him as he watches Isobell quietly, his pale head tilted and his eyes so dark as to seem almost black.

    “Are you coming?” He asks, his voice filling the pause between the crashing of the surf. “Or have I lost you to the land?”


    kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis
    minimal grullo tobiano king of loess

    #2
    Isobell
    i'll wait for inside the bottom of the deep blue sea
    The painted mare had been idly watching the shoreline as the it combed back her two toned mane, the silk moving across her scales in a lulling caress. Spring sun spills over her scales, warming her body as she shuts her eyes to the wickedness of the world and she leans against the wind to wash it all away.

    The flurry of horses was fast after her mother had made a proper turnover and Isobell needed a quiet spell to adjust and realign. She had not expected for him to be there. 'Are you coming or have I lost you to the land?' His voice fills the places between the sounds of the waves lapping the shore. Isobell opens her eyes to see Ivar standing tall and close to her more lithe frame. She tilts her upwards to him as her eyes are liquid steel. "Nerine needs me in more important ways." The kelpie mare remarks as she stands with her upturned face. She was smaller than the grown stallion but the woman did not budge from her position. She was queen now after all and surely if he had been lurking on the beach for her then he had witnessed the change of command. "You understand, yes?" She quips with the tilt of her pretty head, all most challenging the thin barrier between their bodies, near enough to reach for him but not daring for fear she would never let go of the damned stallion. Isobell turns and steps away lightly, speaking with her back to him. "Mother has stepped down." She throws a glance over her shoulder at Ivar with the quicksilver of her eyes flashing. "Doesn't Loess miss you? I am certain your woman  does." She comment is offered casually with the shrug of her scarred shoulders, nothing close to the sweet lover's whispers they had shared for weeks in the water. She stops to look upon him with pressed lips curled slightly into a teasing smirk that he could interpret as he pleased.

    On land he was Loess' Ivar, Heda's Ivar, Beqanna's Ivar but in the water...in the water he belonged to her and maybe she to him...Isobell was leaving it up for debate. Isobell had seemed to notice the further the distance the weaker the hold he seemed to have on her thoughts and body but now as he was so close...she would feel the primal urges to be close to him (not necessarily anything else but the simple act of contact) though she was able to control it...for now.
    #3

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    Ivar cannot think of a single time when then mare in front of him has been anything less than intriguing.

    Not always interesting in the same ways, of course. First she had been a friend, and then a younger sister – protected and cherished. She was the crown princess of Nerine as well, a position which he owes familial loyalty. That had all seemed simple enough when they were children, but the innocence has long since left them.

    This last year she’d become a woman; a pewter-eyed beauty that stole the breath from his lungs and infuriatingly had refused to put it back. Their time below the waves had been paradise, and their time on land was meant to be a temporary thing. He has waited for her to say her goodbyes to Nerine, and to come seek him out. He has busied himself by gathering a little herd of bright eyed mares that enjoy his company, amusing ways to pass the time while he waits for Isobell.

    It was only as he realized that his herd had grown rather large that he simultaneously understood just how long Isobell has kept him waiting.

    And for this? For a crown? Surely she’d forsaken that beneath the water, surely she’d understood what she was giving up. Yet this is more important, her responsibility to a herd of land bound old women.

    She is never anything less than intriguing, but she is frustrating most of all.

    This close, Ivar can see the sleek scales along her skin, the perfection of her dark face and the way she watches him. She is kelpie and she is his. Yet she stands before him slim and lovely; another failed broodmare.

    “Step being so petty,” he retorts, but it is without venom. His dark gaze is tracing the scar on her shoulder, the undeniable mark Ivar had given her when he’d drowned her beneath the waves. Ivar does not hesitate the way Isobell does; he is reaching for her as soon as she is close. He presses his chest against her shoulder, wrapping his neck around hers in a warm embrace. Her sleek scales click delightfully against his own, and Ivar nips playfully at the dark curve of her jaw.

    “If Nerine can be more important (he parrots back her words with eerie perfection) “to you, why can’t I have more important things of my own?”


    kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis
    minimal grullo tobiano king of loess

    #4
    Isobell
    i'll wait for inside the bottom of the deep blue sea
    He closes the space between them with silent steps and lukewarm words.
    Isobell had not expected him to take her reply so easily, expecting the fight and readied for hit, but when his body is pressed to her own then she is without sword or shield. The click of their scales is a methodical ticking sound that reminds Isobell the eternity that lay before her.

    He radiates a heat that warms her own skin despite the chill in the salt air. She falls quiet as he teases, imitating her voice,
    slithering around her throat. Isobell pulls back her lips to run her teeth along the scales of his neck after pressing her lips to the curve for a moment, plucking at them and ignoring his question. He was a terribly blunt creature with a quick eye and sharp tongue. How had this happened? What magic made her belong to him? The silver eyed queen shakes from the trance of his scent and caress, her head still twisted around to look upward at the stallion. "Do what you want Ivar." The woman finally replies with a shrug of her scarred shoulders. She may have moments of intensity but she would not attempt to rule the kelpie man. Why would she need to? He had plenty on his plate to appease his carnal appetites. She offers him a polite smile and kiss to the underside of his jaw, teeth nipping at the thick scales before sliding away.

    "Does Loess not keep you entertained?" The painted woman asks him with a toying smirk, enjoying the site of his painted skin against the grey of evening ocean. She curls her neck, tilting her head, listening for his answer. The mare shifts her weight from one pretty hip to the other as the salt breeze plucks at her mane. Ivar was unpredictable and the young mare could only anticipate his response.
    #5

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    When she leans into him, Ivar sighs contentedly into the salt-crisp wave of her dark hair, lipping gently at the smooth dark scales along her neck. He does not protest when she pulls away, but his there is disappointment in his dancing eyes as she tells him simply to do what he wants.

    He’d always intended to, of course, but he finds her lack of a protest is more grating than he’d expected.

    The seasalt princess has always parried back with gusto; he finds this queen to be soft and disappointing. Her politeness is not what he wants, even with paired with the playful nip of her teeth as she slides away from his grasp. Ivar does not move to follow her this time, and there is an uncharacteristic solemnity to his pale face as he allows her to become more distant.

    “Does Loess not keep you entertained?” She says. There, there she is, hiding in that playful smirk. That is his Isobell, not this polite creature with important responsibilities. That is his woman, fiery and bold and lovely.

    “It does,” he replies honestly, “but I do not want Loess. I want you.”

    He does not expect her to come, he realizes.

    She stands, tall and beautiful, a vision against the granite cliffs of her homeland. This is where she belongs, in this grey and chilly land. She has said as much, but Ivar has always chosen to ignore what he does not want to hear. The kelpie is sure that he could make her come, could reach forward and press the need for the sea and for him into her heart to replace these silly responsibilities. He’s done the same countless times before, overcome the protests of less interesting women in the hunt for his own satisfaction. Yet it is Isobell’s stubborn refusal that makes her all the more enticing, her refusal to give in to what Ivar knows she really wants.


    king of loess
    minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus

    #6
    Isobell
    i'll wait for inside the bottom of the deep blue sea
    She had expected a thousand other words to trickle from his lips. She had expected a sharp tongue and a searing gaze followed with names of the paltry and destitute that clung to his loins. She expected to feel him sling threats and dirty words of the women he kept to make her understand that she were very much replaceable.

    She is turning away from him...

    But-

    His words tip toe over her lovely curves and drag their edges along the scales of her spine. She twists sharply when they have crept into her ears, silver eyes blazing a quicksilver fire. She stares at him hard, the space between them feeling thick, as she swallows into his eyes with unflinching impudence. Dare he strip her right now of her wary naivety? Isobell watches as the water collects and falls into the thirsty soil from his pearl and matte scales. She feels her own throat swallow at the way the salt water clings to the tender parts of his neck. She can feel her heart rattle it's bone cage but she stills herself with feral desperation.

    "Take me away?" She is moving closer to him with a lifted head and her pale hooves drudging paths in the dark sands. Her words are mumbled softly as she looks into the depths of his eyes for a hint of wayward truth, of jest masked by a few simple words. 

    But she knows that Loess holds his collection.

    "I will not be added to a shelf, Ivar." She is close to him now, her words low and captured within the space between them.  She leaves the statement hanging, a warning, that she would not settle for the mere satisfaction of his shared company amongst his harem but she does not make her demands (yet). Nerine helped to keep her distance, to keep her guarded, to keep him and his activities at the edges of her mind.

    But now...

    Now, she closes her eyes and presses herself against him while exhaling softly. There was a tangle of many things within the painted mare and she wonders if Ivar was the master weaver. She lingers here now, hardly listening to anything more than the sound of his heart, enjoying the way she fit against him.

    Silently, she damns the kelpie king and she damns her own self for feeling the flood of satisfaction within his embrace.
    #7

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    Women seem to always be thinking of the future. It is a fascinating and unfathomable concept to the black and white kelpie. He lives solely in the present. Ivar does what he wants regardless of consequences. There has never been an insurmountable barrier in the young stallion’s path to self-satisfaction. He takes what he wants, when he wants. He wants Isobell, but it is something more than that too. He wants her to want him back, without being compelled to do so. There are no words for such a feeling – at least none that he is willing to admit to himself.

    He does not have time to respond to her question before she crushes him again – always thinking of the future! Why? They are happy here. They are happy now. Why can’t she just stay?

    Ivar is rougher in his embrace this second time, wrestling with the internal frustration that her contradictory words and actions have caused. He rests his chin on the rise of her rump, enjoying the warmth of their scales against each other from end to end. Ahead of him, the sea stretches endlessly, a black horizon lit with the last rays of a setting sun. A few stars shine in the darkness, stars he recognizes. He has not truly seen them from Nerine in years, only in memories of his childhood.

    “You’re sure I can’t convince you to leave Nerine?” He asks. Despite the intensity of the question, Ivar sounds disinterested, as though resigned to the answer he knows is coming. “We could find somewhere where it’s always warm. Someplace like Ischia, but better.” The kelpie is musing aloud, mindlessly drawing circles in the scales of her back with her muzzle. The questions are rhetorical, and Ivar pulls away, moving back and turning until he faces her directly.

    “But no.” He answers his own musing questions. “You have duty. Duty and honor and responsibility, blah blah blah.” His words are sarcastic, but he is gentle as he presses a fleeting kiss to the bridge of her nose before pulling back. “But do let me know if you change your mind.”He places another kiss, but this time lingers, sliding farther until the bridge of his own nose is flush to her neck. He inhales deeply, and finds that Nerine’s scent is indistinguishable from Isobell’s. Ivar releases the breath in a sigh, but does not pull away from the tobiano mare.


    king of loess
    minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus

    #8
    Isobell
    i'll wait for inside the bottom of the deep blue sea
    She listens to the way his words weave like a rope around her lungs and around her heart. She does not pull away despite the soft chastising she receives from his warm mouth. In this moment, quiet and small, she feels lost against his scales. Her silver eyes are looking to meet his beneath the black of her thick forelock and he in return he presses a kiss to her nose and she giggles unexpectedly. Isobell is shocked she makes such a noise and shocked that it was Ivar to draw it out of her. The pied mare pauses as she looks at him in visible surprise and stormy grey eyes.

    "Ivar-" Isobell starts with searching eyes as she is not sure what spell he weaves with his words and his body but she does not want to fight it anymore. She yearns for this moment where she is wrapped safely against him to brave the storm that brews between the space of their hearts. "Do you not have duty to Loess? A responsibility to it?" She asks the question as his lips are creeping along her neck and she can only close her eyes as the words become a murmur. Her next question,
    depending on his answer, is how he can shake it all away so easily. What is the secret?

    "Ivar." She summons her strength to breath his name. "What would it take to keep you in Nerine?" The mare reverses his request with soft, prodding words. She can not read him (and it was aggravating) and could not imagine how he would respond. What would he give up for her, if anything at all? Isobell steels herself for his answer no matter what it could be.
    #9

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    She feels more than good against him – she feels best. The others are only distractions, warm bodies that will never truly feel the Isobell-shaped space in him. It is an odd and sudden realization, and it occurs instantaneously as he accepts the fact that she will never leave Nerine.

    Isobell is bold and beautiful, but she is also strong-willed and independent. Ivar is much the same, but he is also unwilling to bend. Nerine is too cold and too grey; there is too much to lose.

    Does he have duty to Loess, does he have responsibility?

    “Of course I do,” he tells her truthfully.

    “But it doesn’t matter. I’d give it up for you, if you’d do the same for me.” The brunt truth of his words is tempered by his gentle touch. Ivar tugs the knots from her salty mane, working until the fall of her mane is a dark curtain that shivers in the wind. Not quite right, he decides as he looks at her. Undeniably lovely, of course, but he prefers her wet from the sea.

    He can recall her breathy moans, the way her storm grey eyes rolled closed in pleasure beneath the waves. The gentle kiss he presses to her shoulder is cooler than the one that follows, and he presses his scaled body against hers as though memorizing the perfection in the way they fit together. It won’t last, he knows, and when he turns back to meet Isobell’s grey gaze with his own amber, there is something bittersweet in his smile.

    “You don’t belong on a shelf,” replies the black and white stallion. “and I don’t belong in Nerine.”


    king of loess
    minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus





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