10-28-2017, 09:38 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Her golden coat has been darkened by saturation and shadow, but her expression remains the same. Wide eyed – very wide eyed – but not fearful. For a long while he watches her. It is probably an uncomfortable amount of time (or it could be only a heartbeat), but he has no concept of time passing at all. The kelpie is accustomed to being driven by instinct in all areas of his life; it is simply something he has accepted. He is always hunting, but he either directs or lets it roam wild; there is no intermediate level of control. Or at least, there hadn’t been. It reminds him of Isobel for a moment, of the way he had not wanted to turn the water red with her. That had been equally as startling, but that moment had lasted barely an instant. This is longer than that, a very long time without the need to either seduce her or drown her. The latter is what he truly craves, but the former whets his appetite to a controllable level. Now, with fall shivering into winter, there are less opportunities for the more socially acceptable option. He’d half expected to find someone on his way to the river – perhaps a starry eyed girl with dreams of a fantastic adventure or an older mare in need of a distraction – and there is certainly still a hungry beast within his chest. The pied stallion moves closer, watching the fan of her amber hair in the water, and then the shimmer of her too-soft wings. His gaze is more intense than before, but as he reaches out gingerly, he is immensely gentle. For just a moment they are touching – his muzzle to the joint of her wing and shoulder – and then he is pulling away again, looking no more satisfied than before. She is real, and alive, and is not prey. He simply does not understand. There will be time later, he decides. He only needs to keep her nearby, to monitor his own reaction. Surely there will be a change or an explanation for this odd phenomenon. The riverbed is smooth, soft and sandy clay. Ivar has always sunk – perhaps the result of his thick scales, for he does not remember his father struggling so – and he walks most comfortably at the lowest depths. Ichor, on the other hand, seems lighter and he wonders how effective her wings might be underwater – or if they’d fall apart completely at the first beat against the river current. Either would be fascinating to watch, he knows. Raising his head, he gestures up stream. The river bends a few hundred meters ahead, the way unclear. Ivar has already been downstream in this river; upstream past that bend is a mystery. It is perhaps not the safest choice, but Ivar has never been the fearful type. |