"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
The piebald kelpie paces the western edge of his island, knee deep in the surf and eyes on the sea. Such agitation is abnormal in the sea creature, but so is solitude. The recent hurricane has scattered debris along the shoreline, and though Ivar has already pulled that most likely to decay (fish and the like) back to sea, seaweed and branches still litter the pristine white sand.
He pauses near a half-submerged branch and throws it out farther into the water with a single sinuous movement of his scaled next. If he does not have company, he can at least satisfy himself with physical exertion.
(The ever-summer climate of Ischia has made determining the seasons impossible for the kelpie, but he suspects that this frustration is indicative of the arrival of autumn.)
He had looked for his purple mare this morning, but had been unable to find her. Granted, his search had been brief due to his short temper, most of which he has worked out on his dedication to clearing the beach. Still, the hunger is rising and even the still-fresh fish he'd eaten have done nothing to slake it.
His golden gaze traces the distant shoreline, where he considers the appeal of luring in a bright-eyed girl for a romp beneath the waves. It is alluring, and he glances back at his island just to assure himself that Kylin has not appeared before stepping further into the water. She's there. No, not Kylin. @[Kyveli]. A darker shade of purple and without her mother's splashy white markings.
Ivar sees Kylin's daughter, but the kelpie sees prey.
He tilts his head, existing briefly in a rare moment of uncertainty, and then wades toward her with single-minded focus.
She's just about three years old, by now. If time is correct and flowing straight and all that - in Ischia, it's always kind of summer, and she's lost track of the seasons. But her sister had been born quite some time ago - surely that must mean that Kyveli is an adult.
An adult with a traumatizing fear of lightning storms - but now that the sea is calm, she still longs for it. The waves are calm enough, and she looks at them from a distance, musing. Her mother doesn't actually need her, not with Ivar here to keep her company. Her sister is their daughter, and even she's a two-year-old by now (or something). Surely the tobiano family should be without her. The dark purple outcast. The girl that always wanted to run around the main island.
The one to scare her direct family and pick a fight with them.
She sighs, looking at the waves, wondering if she shouldn't just leave. But then there's a shimmer in the waves, a dark blue form rimmed with gold, and her eyes follow the kelpie's movements lazily.
It takes some time for him to notice her, and when he does, he seems to stare at her a moment, then turns to walk towards her.
Her heart flutters, she's feeling a little... caught? For staring? And a subconscious warning accompanies that, too. He can be scary. But she tells herself he always chases the scary things away, and with a shake of her head, she denies the subconscious fears.
She takes a few steps forward into the sunlight, her skin and lavender wing-like fins shiny in the light. She cocks her head at him, the way he moves purposefully, wondering what he's at. "Hello, mister Better." She'll always greet him with one of the two nicknames, to be honest.
Sunlight dances along the translucent scales of @[Kyveli]'s fins and Ivar is momentarily distracted. Much like her mother's, the violet girl's aquatic fins are a warning to the kelpie: not prey.
Still, there are ways to satisfy the animal hunger without sinking below the waves.
Kyveli doesn't make the movement he had anticipated, but Ivar adapts. The jewel-toned kelpie reaches out to adjust a stray lock of her amethyst hair with his teeth. It is platonic, a friendly gesture, but the way he brushes his mouth against her neck for a moment afterwards is decidedly not.
Rather than address this aloud - his strengths are in less verbal methods anyhow - he instead simply says: "Kyveli." His gaze flits back to her fins even as he speaks, though when he has finished the kelpie's golden eyes meander long the glittering shape of her shoulder, neck, and only then find her impossibly violet eyes.
Ivar is starving, but he has never been anything less than appreciative of every meal.
There's appreciation in his expression now: the kind that a monster gives an easy meal. Kyveli will likely read it as lust (and truly, that is abundant as well), and the kelpie has pressed that same command into her as well, an unconscious response to being so near a meal.
"I think Best is probably more appropriate," he tells her, recalling their first meeting as he always does. It had been one of their few conversations; Ivar having done his best to avoid the girl as much as possible. He hadn't wanted her getting attached.
"But did you need something?" Asks the kelpie suddenly, as though he has other matters to attend to. They both know she hadn't interrupted anything, but Ivar is curious how far Kyveli would willingly wade into danger. There is no doubt, even in ever-summer Ischia, that Kyveli is a finally a woman grown.
He steps to the side, moving past her without waiting for an answer. The edges of his scaled left shoulder likely brush against her as he moves, and he leans down to grab a piece of purple kelp, which he tosses out into the water. Turning back to look at her over his left shoulder, the kelpie is afforded a view of soft curves.
Rather than bite down on the easily available flesh, the kelpie tightens his slavering jaws.
There is too much at risk here for him to make the first move, and so he waits, a incredibly rare display of the kelpie's capacity for long-term goals.
She’s a child in many ways still. Sure, her form has matured; sure, her shape is of a woman grown. But she isn’t accustomed to that fact, as of yet; she isn’t aware that the rounding of her hips is something that might be called attractive. Ivar, though - now that is another story, a man with decidedly beautiful colouring, with eyes that...
Good fairies, his eyes. They’re staring at her, seeing things in her she did not know were there at all. Appreciates her, now that her mind is telling her that her mother might appreciate her less; snd she gets a little shy, like she’s never been before, with his blunt and open staring. She lowers her violet eyes though she doesn’t take them away from him, lingers somewhere on his broad and muscled chest. ”Best sounds good, too.” she admits shyly to him, and peeks up to see what he’s doing.
His gaze is distant now, so she gets a good look at his jawline, remembering her own skin is still burning there, or maybe that’s just because there is a subconscious command of feeling hot, that she doesn’t know about so well. She sees now why her mother likes him so much... but then he asks a question, and she flushes, but he already moves past her, to clean up the beach of sorts.
Does she need something?
Him. Maybe? For a moment she just stands there, and then she remembers to turn around and follow, blinking, and tripping alongside him playfully again. ”Nope. Do you?”
@[Ivar]
For clarification, for so long as he doesn’t touch her, she seems a little defiant and wanting to get out of the hypnotic haze, and then is her innocent self again so he can touch her again
She is still for a long moment, but Ivar doesn’t bring attention to it. In the way she moves after him – with a pause and vacant blink – his suspicions are confirmed. His hypnosis has dazed her, but not so much that she has entirely lost herself. A single dark ear flicks toward the forest and down the beach, confirming the two of them are alone.
Does he need something? she asks.
Ivar grins, displaying a set of far too many teeth. A reminder, perhaps, of what he is, a final warning. Most times he softens this revelation with more hypnosis, flooding them with euphoria so fantastic they never even realize they are dying. With Kyveli, he cannot have such an ending. Her mother would miss her, and Ivar does his best to ensure that the purple mare is never unhappy.
This is at odds with the way his sapphire chin moves to rest across the curve of Kyveli’s back, sweeping in small circles as he attempts to brush a smattering of sand from her coat. The hypnosis shivers along his skin, but the kelpie holds it in. He is reluctant to lose his single advantage in this encounter, and so keeps her mind clear. (From magic, at least.) He stops his grooming to rest his head, his pale nose nearly hidden in the lavender mane nearest her withers. Ivar has turned away from his kelp picking in favor of grooming Kyveli rather than the sand. His right shoulder is now pressed against her barrel, and his neck rests across her back.
She smells of the sea, and Ivar breathes in deeply. The beat of her heartbeat is unfamiliar, and he is curious how it might sound at a faster pace. His embrace tightens then, from affectionate to something far hungrier.
“You.” He breathes into her skin, the word stretched tight with tension. Let her think it is need. It is not far from it, anyway, this primeval hunger. Would her pelt still glitter if he tore it from her body? Would she heal as whole as her mother had if he ripped her to shreds beneath the sea?
Too dangerous to find answers to these questions, but still the hunger remains.
Her naivety is not to Ivar’s advantage, but he is rarely unprepared.
Rather than rend the flesh from her skin and pull her beneath the sea, he presses a warm touch to her neck. One soft kiss and then another, gentle and tender. A counterpoint then, to the sharper press of his scaled shoulder against her side. The rough edges are surely uncomfortable against her unprotected flesh, but the kelpie is curious how long she will tolerate it, how long his kisses will distract her.
His mother had never taught him not to play with his food, after all, and his father had all but encouraged it.
I know my lies could not make you believe in my dark times, baby this is all I could be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
