[open] our gospel is living flesh sprawled in dust

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take His breath is quiet, but still clouds of steam rise in the chill air, betraying his position. This place is not one for stalking, at least not the type of stalking preferred by the water creature. Instead, he mimics the rest of the crowd, moving on four quick limbs. The tall grass of the meadowland brushes against the more tender scales of his belly, and the kelpie snorts irritably. The grass here on the mainland is worse than he remembers. He nearly curses himself for coming here – and not for the first time – but his eyes instead settle on a pair of winged horses. Ivar has a soft spot for winged mare, especially pretty ones. A two for one opportunity is too good to pass up. Perhaps he’ll leave with a pair of prizes, and not just the one. The kelpie does hear the request to whisper, and complies with it even as he slips in between the two of them. He keeps far enough away that his intentions seem pure, though the way he looks both of them over is anything but. The one with the feathered wings, is too young too keep his attention, he finds after an inspection, but perhaps she can keep Isobell company for a few years, or even serve as a meal for one of his hungry children. It has grown harder to keep them fed of late, which has spurred Ivar’s visit to the common lands. It is time to bring back something fresh, something to give him kelpies or to feed himself and his family. Maybe both in the end, especially if she bore him subpar children. None of this shows on his face, which is white lipped and impossibly handsome. Though he wears the sharp teeth and scales common among his kind, kelpies rarely need those to hunt. Often it’s enough just to ask, and the prey comes willingly. Other times they require more convincing, and Ivar wonders which he might encounter today. It has been a while since one had struggled, and at the memory of it he smiles wolfishly (though it appears only as a charming prelude to his words). “Maybe her ears hurt.” He says softly to the black-winged adolescent. “And even if not, it rarely hurts to humor a stranger, especially when they don’t ask very much of you.” The words about decency do not sizzle on his liar’s tongue. “My name is Ivar,” the golden-eyed stallion says quietly to them both. @[Xi] @[Quietude] and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind