09-02-2017, 08:38 PM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take He would swear that the smell of ash has been burnt into his skin. Even after hours spent scrubbing himself clean, it is still so strong that he’d swear he could taste it. It is gone, of course. The ash and fire and seawater are only a memory. The Taiga is gone and Azar with it. There are only so many times that the universe has to knock the stallion back before he gets the message. He’d been more stubborn than most (it had taken both a failure of his own AND literal destruction of a safe haven), but he’s finally accepted it. For days the scaled horse had circled the flooded land, calling himself hoarse. He’d refused to step into the water. How was he to know if magical lava wolves could survive being drowned? Ivar, though a bold and carefree child, has not matured into a man without a healthy dose of caution. He had searched until he was falling asleep on his feet, until the morning when he’d finally woken up without any hope left at all. Since then he has avoided the shadows, especially those cast by a thick canopy. If he does not think of it, it does not hurt so much. Fleeing the woods, he had ended up in the Field. Here, the water was entirely without salt, and he’d submerged his pied body in a deep pool until all remnants of that night had been soaked away. Ivar had reappeared above the water earlier in the morning. He has spent a few hours doing nothing more but keeping company with his own reflection. Unfocused but not drowsy, Ivar meets the brown gaze of the horse in the water. Pale and strikingly handsome, the tobiano stallion seems immobile. And then, all of a sudden – he is not. Ivar has made a decision. He needs a place without saltwater, and a place without trees. There is only one land in Beqanna that has that – Loess. He will go there, live there. Perhaps someday it might even feel like home. Gathering his thoughts to himself, the tall horse shakes the tension from his neck. The iridescent white scales on his body shimmer in the watery winter light, their brightness comparable with the snow that has yet to fall. The iron grey clouds overhead promise that it will come soon, and Ivar would rather not be still on the move when it does. Yet even with a destination and a deadline, the dark-eyed stallion still draws up short at the sight of a mare thrashing about on the ground. For a moment he is worried, but there is no taste of blood in the air. Not injured then, he surmises, and then it clicks. “Need some help with that itch?” Asks the young horse, amusement clear in his voice. He’s not laughing at her; there is no malice in his tone or expression. Something about her look familiar, but the angle at which they stand prevents Ivar from getting a good look at the roan mare. It has been a while since they had met in Sylva, after all. Ivar has not been gone from the woods for as long as Zhenga, and he’d still remember the slightly older girl from his afternoon with Eiria. Last he heard she had gone to Ischia, but he hadn’t even thought to look for her there when he has visited Kylin. Of course, none of this is yet on his mind; he’s yet to recognize the rolling mare. |