09-21-2017, 10:17 AM
Though he knows she is not following immediately, Ivar does not look back to see what has delayed her. He's fairly certain he knows, after all, and looking back might provide confirmation of something he's not quite ready to handle.
The black and white stallion has always built fast friendships; it seems only natural. Growing up, affection had been a given in his family - he finds comfort in contact with others out of both habit and instinct. His dual set of instincts most often meld: he likes groups, proximity, someone(s) to rest beside at night.
Flirtation is natural too, both as a stallion and a hunter. He had not missed the shapely curve of Zhenga's roan body, the way she moves with the grace and ease of a warrior, the pretty light in her soft eyes.
Ivar does not look back because he does not know what Heda wants from him. They haven't spoken of such things yet, and so while Ivar knows what he wants, he's also well aware of the dangers of uncontrolled hedonism. He does not want to risk his still-new place in Loess, or to ruin Zhenga's trip to this new land.
So instead of looking back he waits, and guides her to the banyan tree without words. As she settles in for the night, he turns away, taking a few steps to an unobstructed view of the rolling hills below.
The night passes without event, with Ivar dozing off now and again. He doesn't rest deeply - he is always alert - but the lack of true sleep is not a hardship. The scaled stallion is young and healthy; he doesn't need a full night's rest every night.
When the birds nesting in the banyan begin to stir, he knows that dawn will not be long in coming. He waits a little longer, and then moves to rouse Zhenga.
He could just call her name, he knows; Ivar suspects she would wake easily. He tells himself that he's coming closer because he does not want to startle her, because waking in a strange place to hear your own name might be disorienting. They've touched companionably often before, jesting in the way that childhood friends do. This is no different, he tells himself as he places his muzzle gently on her shoulder. A featherlight touch at first, he presses more firmly until he feels her stirring. Ivar should step back, but he is intrigued by the gentle give of her copper coat and the unyeilding muscle beneath; so many mares are soft and delicate things. He lingers a moment longer before pulling away, her when he meets her gaze it is with an open smile and a platonic:
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead! Are you ready to see the sunrise?"
The black and white stallion has always built fast friendships; it seems only natural. Growing up, affection had been a given in his family - he finds comfort in contact with others out of both habit and instinct. His dual set of instincts most often meld: he likes groups, proximity, someone(s) to rest beside at night.
Flirtation is natural too, both as a stallion and a hunter. He had not missed the shapely curve of Zhenga's roan body, the way she moves with the grace and ease of a warrior, the pretty light in her soft eyes.
Ivar does not look back because he does not know what Heda wants from him. They haven't spoken of such things yet, and so while Ivar knows what he wants, he's also well aware of the dangers of uncontrolled hedonism. He does not want to risk his still-new place in Loess, or to ruin Zhenga's trip to this new land.
So instead of looking back he waits, and guides her to the banyan tree without words. As she settles in for the night, he turns away, taking a few steps to an unobstructed view of the rolling hills below.
The night passes without event, with Ivar dozing off now and again. He doesn't rest deeply - he is always alert - but the lack of true sleep is not a hardship. The scaled stallion is young and healthy; he doesn't need a full night's rest every night.
When the birds nesting in the banyan begin to stir, he knows that dawn will not be long in coming. He waits a little longer, and then moves to rouse Zhenga.
He could just call her name, he knows; Ivar suspects she would wake easily. He tells himself that he's coming closer because he does not want to startle her, because waking in a strange place to hear your own name might be disorienting. They've touched companionably often before, jesting in the way that childhood friends do. This is no different, he tells himself as he places his muzzle gently on her shoulder. A featherlight touch at first, he presses more firmly until he feels her stirring. Ivar should step back, but he is intrigued by the gentle give of her copper coat and the unyeilding muscle beneath; so many mares are soft and delicate things. He lingers a moment longer before pulling away, her when he meets her gaze it is with an open smile and a platonic:
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead! Are you ready to see the sunrise?"