09-02-2017, 09:04 PM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take When he finally surfaces, he is lost. Beneath the water, the only meaningful directions are with and against the current. North and south mean nothing in the half-lit world of the deep; there is no use in knowing on which horizon the sun sets, because there are no horizons at all. The water that drips from his matte black and glittering white scales is salty, and he licks the brine from his lips even as he scents the air for fresh water. The pied stallion is not truly thirsty, but the way that his hide cracks when brined is uncomfortable. He’d prefer to soak in fresh water if he is to walk on land again for any considerable time. Nothing he smells is too familiar, but the melding of scents tells him he is either in the Meadow or the Field. Neither is of particular interest to the dark-eyed stallion, but he has no aversion to them any more than he does to anything on land. This apathy is new. It had appeared about the time that he had decided to sink below the sea at the edge of Loess, but as far as Ivar remembers there had been no trigger. This was not like the slow growth of his scales or the gradual mastery of his hypnotism – this is something different. There are no words for it yet, but he finds that solitude is easier, and so he keeps to himself. He’d planned to anyway, but on his quest for water he inevitably crosses paths with a stranger. |