Recently emerged from the river, Ivar stands still on the bank. The late autumn air is cold on his damp body, but he knows that it will quickly drip away. His scales do not hold the water as long as his horsehide did, and while Ivar is grateful for the ease of movement he now has in the water, he does sometimes miss the sensation of carrying around a bit of the water with him. His dreaded mane does still drip heavily, and he tosses it effortlessly to the other side of his neck and out of his brown eyes as he turns to face the forest.

The whole world looks like Sylva in the Fall. These trees though, will eventually lose their autumn colors and become naught but bare bones. Ivar’s homeland will remain evergold; but there is something appealing about this place as well. All places have their lures, the young piebald stallion has found.

He is thinking of thme as he walks, and he is as startled by the appearance of Isobell as she is by his.

“Hi.” Replies the smoky black colt. He’s easily rebalanced; socialization has always been his forte, even before he had his good looks to smooth the way. “I didn’t mean to scare you; I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Though Ivar doesn’t know the yearling, there is something about her that strikes a faint memory. She looks familiar, but he is sure that he has never met her. It’s not until he takes another look, and realizes that if she had an orange eye and not matching silver ones he would have realized sooner.

“You’re Castile’s sister, aren’t you?”

A better question might have been “Are you Nayl’s daughter?” but the minutiae of politics don’t bother him, especially not out here in the wilds. Ivar has only met the Nerinian Queen once (though has seen her from a distance a time or two). Castile is another matter entirely; Ivar considers the boy a good friend. He had not known that Castile had a younger sibling, but surely this girl who looks so much like him – and like his mother – must be his sibling.



kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis

Despite their initial surprise at meeting, it seems the two young horses have settled into amicable conversation. Isobell isn’t looking nearly so startled, and she responds to Ivar’s friendliness in turn. He is accustomed to caution from others, but it seems Isobell is appreciative rather than wary of his unique appearance.

“I do,” he replies with a nod. “We met in Nerine, and I just saw him the other day by the river.”

A criusp breeze whips through the woods just then, and Ivar shivers. The chill of the water does not bother him, but the air is another story. The piebald boy looks down at the small girl with her quiet voice, and thinks that perhaps it might not be so bad to have a little sibling of his own. He could show them Sylva – and the rest of Beqanna. He could teach them how to swim and run and climb.

He does not think that Castile will mind if Ivar practices his ‘big brother’ skills with Isobell.

“I’m Ivar,” he tells her. “I live in Sylva.” The admission of his homeland is another positive in his favor; their homes are bound together. Shaking his head clears the water that drips from his mane to his neck. “Are you here by yourself?” With any luck Castile is nearby; Ivar would like to see his friend again.



kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis