bottom of the deep blue sea; ivar

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The race she gives him is exhilarating, but it is not a challenge. Isobell is a young mare in her prime, but Ivar is as young, taller, and has been building his speed and stamina through daily training. He does enjoy it though, the way they swallow the ground beneath them with long strides, the way the land rushes by in a blue of green and growing gold. Her laughter echoes along side him, and he has reached across now and again to bump her shoudler with his muzzle, the motion never detracting from his speed or attempting to slow her own. They arrive, and it seems he has read the weather incorrectly. The storm clouds have rolled over Loess already, and the hills sparkle and glisten with fresh rainfall. It reminds him of the tale of a dragon guarding a hord of jewels, and he looks down at Isobell to see how she is reacting. Ivar finds her already looking up at him, then her lips on his neck. He’d think it as friendly as his contact during their race, but there is a coyness in her smile. The desire to press, to find out exactly how much she’ll stand behind her coquettish look is still present, he finds. He’d thought perhaps being in Loess would dull it, and so he is grateful that her heaving sides and his own shortness of breath are enough to dull a need for yet more physical exertion. “Careful, kitten.” He replies as she presses her damp nose to the pale scales of his shoulder, “You don’t want the Queen to think you’ve got your eye on her lover.” Ivar greatly enjoys when Heda is possessive (it makes reassuring her all the more worthwhile), and the too-daring part of him wonders if Isobell will be the same. He wants it to be so, he realizes as he watches her head toward the water; he wants see those silver eyes alight with green envy. Perhaps it will make her reconsider her rebuff of his previous temptation. Perhaps it will send her running into someone else’s embrace. That image has him smiling as he trails after her toward the water. Not the embracing, exactly, but rather the idea of watching the light fade from some poor fellow’s eyes for the crime of touching what did not belong to him. The piebald horse steps up beside the mare, lowering his head to the water to drink. When his thirst is sated, he wades in a few more feet. Ivar bucks out in Isobell’s direction, drenching her already damp coat in a spray of water as he spins around to face her with a wicked grin kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis