The race she gives him is exhilarating, but it is not a challenge. Isobell is a young mare in her prime, but Ivar is as young, taller, and has been building his speed and stamina through daily training. He does enjoy it though, the way they swallow the ground beneath them with long strides, the way the land rushes by in a blue of green and growing gold. Her laughter echoes along side him, and he has reached across now and again to bump her shoudler with his muzzle, the motion never detracting from his speed or attempting to slow her own.

They arrive, and it seems he has read the weather incorrectly. The storm clouds have rolled over Loess already, and the hills sparkle and glisten with fresh rainfall. It reminds him of the tale of a dragon guarding a hord of jewels, and he looks down at Isobell to see how she is reacting.

Ivar finds her already looking up at him, then her lips on his neck. He’d think it as friendly as his contact during their race, but there is a coyness in her smile. The desire to press, to find out exactly how much she’ll stand behind her coquettish look is still present, he finds. He’d thought perhaps being in Loess would dull it, and so he is grateful that her heaving sides and his own shortness of breath are enough to dull a need for yet more physical exertion.

“Careful, kitten.” He replies as she presses her damp nose to the pale scales of his shoulder, “You don’t want the Queen to think you’ve got your eye on her lover.”

Ivar greatly enjoys when Heda is possessive (it makes reassuring her all the more worthwhile), and the too-daring part of him wonders if Isobell will be the same. He wants it to be so, he realizes as he watches her head toward the water; he wants see those silver eyes alight with green envy. Perhaps it will make her reconsider her rebuff of his previous temptation. Perhaps it will send her running into someone else’s embrace. That image has him smiling as he trails after her toward the water. Not the embracing, exactly, but rather the idea of watching the light fade from some poor fellow’s eyes for the crime of touching what did not belong to him.

The piebald horse steps up beside the mare, lowering his head to the water to drink. When his thirst is sated, he wades in a few more feet. Ivar bucks out in Isobell’s direction, drenching her already damp coat in a spray of water as he spins around to face her with a wicked grin


kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis

Isobell is still holding back from him. He can hear the rapid flutter of her heart, smell her autumn readiness, and yet she still rebuffs him. It should not be possible, and yet it happens still. His attempt to stir jealously is tossed away with a quiet laugh, careless and regal.

It’s to be a long game then, Ivar decides.

He will win in the end, he is certain, but it is best to make the path to success as clear as possible. So as he brushes by her to get to the water, he presses a silent command of “want me” into her flesh, one that will fade as soon as they no longer are in contact. This is her first autumn as a woman – let her think that this is simply the way her body responds to a stallion’s touch. She will be disappointed by others, Ivar thinks, whatever soft-eyed boy the iron maiden chooses will never heat her blood in quite the same way.

The idea of Isobell thinking of him while with another is the opposite emotion he’d tried to stir in her with his previous words, but the anticipation of it is enough to have him leaping farther into the small spring. The water splashes up against his scales, ridding them of the grime of travel that falling rain hadn’t quite been able to sweep away. His attempt to drench Isobell goes rather well, and her high-pitched voice brings a delighted grin to his pale face.

He shakes away the water that she splashes at him, telling her that: “Haven’t you heard? The hot springs of Loess are renowned for their luxury. Surely your delicate princess hooves are feeling rather pampered now?” His dark gaze stays fixed on her own for a moment, but he does not stop them from roving. He’s already rather familiar with her pied figure, but the way the water laps at her sides requires a different sort of inspection.

This is why the kelpie has always kept Heda away from the water.

The water isn’t safe.

Water is for hunting and for hurting, but he does not want to hunt Isobell (not in this way, at least). Ivar knows the legends of his kind – that a mate is safe in the water – but Isobell is just a pretty girl. She won’t be safe, and he can’t risk it.

Unconsciously he has taken a few steps closer, unbridled hunger in his gaze (when coupled with the suggested lust and his looks is likely to be a recipe for disaster). He stops rather suddenly, a sharp sigh and a frown on his handsome face.

“Castile is coming to Loess.” He tells her abruptly, the emotion tie to his closest friend acting as a semi-successful lifeline. He will lose Castile if this happens, if he hunts her in the water. “Maybe we should go find him.”


kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis

The scaled stallion had found safety in this landlocked place. There is no sea here, and so the call is not so strong. He can command it, guide it, direct in more useful ways. The monster is controlled, and Ivar is content.

He had been, at least, and then Isobell had come along.

She reminds him of childhood, of the sea, of safety. More importantly, she does not remind him of Azar.

He is waiting for the surge of need, white-knuckled despite his calm movement. There is a loose curl across her face, and he nudges it away. He waits to control an urge that never comes, and when he pulls away he is looking at Isobell with something that is almost akin to wonder. There are no words for it, and he is left speechless even when she speaks again. Only when she is climbing on to the bank does he come back to himself. The scaled stallion follows her lead, keeping his distance from the dripping mare.

“I’ll uh…go find him.” Ivar says, and without a words slips off into the brush.



kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis