09-12-2017, 10:01 PM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The continued silence between them builds, an awkward pressure at his core that he finds both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Ivar is so rarely lost for words, so rarely anything but polite and socially at-ease that he is utterly lost. How does he navigate back to safer conversational waters when each second that ticks back pulls him farther into black water? He is floundering, and when she finally speaks it is like a lifeline. He does not grab it too quickly, wary of getting caught in an unexpected riptide. When he long tongue unfurls and reaches toward him, he is grateful. If Ivar had tried to reply to her first statement, he’d have probably turned into a blathering idiot at the sight. Horses that are not quite horses. There are a few exceptions – like Castile with his draconic appearance and his sister with her canine fangs – but they are few and far between. Never has the piebald seen a horse that seemed part insect. It’s perfectly fascinating and he can already tell from the droop of her head that he’s given her the idea that she is exactly the opposite. Odd? Most certainly. “What are you, exactly?” He asks. Better that than ask: Can you see? Her eyes are large, but he’s not exactly sure how to meet her gaze directly. There are a thousand tiny shapes to look at; is there a middle? “Are your mom and dad like you?” Ivar speaks from the privilege of a childhood with both parents; he knows that not everyone knows their family but doesn’t always remember it. She might be the child of a magician and a honest-to-goodness moth after all, he reasons. Mother has told him that magicians will romance anything that moves (and even sometimes things that don’t – there’s a horse wandering about that’s half daisy, after all) |