Ichor
it came from somewhere in the stars
Ichor knows little of sex.
She is aware that she is female though how she knows this, she could not say. It wasn’t like she had looked upside down between her two back legs to confirm this. More than likely it was just an inherent awareness of being female that just made sense to her. Ichor thought of herself as ‘her, she’ and a lot of times, ‘it’ because she was just plain strange. Being strange made the most sense to her ever since the Mountain gave back all the things it had taken from them.
Back to sex though, Ichor does not even know the ins or outs of it. The basics, yes. Mares and stallions make babies. It takes two and all that. But the actual sensation? The feelings of lust and longing? Nada. She’s as pure as the newly driven snow that falls down on the land around the river unbeknownst to her, and possibly him though he might have a better grip on the seasons than she does. Ichor doesn’t pay attention to much unless it is Ivar, fellow moths, her family, or the moonlight that she lives by (or should live by since she is mostly moth, more so than horse but is somehow some odd defiance of both).
However, the idea of want is not that foreign of a concept to her dumb brain. Ichor wants, more than is imaginable to belong to somewhere or someone. To establish herself as something more than part of that moth-eel brood of Elysium and Karris’. Perhaps that is why she has given in so blindly to trusting this stallion - he makes her think that her want is not that stupid and unattainable, not that he has shown all that much interest in her besides a touch here and there. His interest seemed almost more scientific than desirable, but Ichor took what she could get. Interest was interest, after all. Ichor is that dumb, no - not dumb, gullible.
His renewed effort to explore the bits of her that fascinate him does not go unnoticed as she swims and swims and floats and bobs like a bit of unmoored driftwood in the water. He is rather particular about her wings, that she keeps pressed and folded tight against her. It’s not like she can fly all that much with them. Hopping with the aid of flapping is more like it, enough to lever her off the ground a few feet but then she comes crashing back down to earth on all six feet. Mere decoration, that is all they are but what is she without her wings? More peculiar! Thus, the constant thought to keep them tucked close and safe from the current that would otherwise rip them to tatters.
There is an unfamiliar ripple in her thoughts, an interruption in her brain that is just as strange as she is but Ichor thinks these are her thoughts - not his. I like him. I want to stay with him. Follow him. Ivar seems to be the singular most thought in her head at that moment. She is not possessive, does not consider him to be hers or that she is his to keep like a moth pinned to a corkboard. That realization does not strike her. Just that she is content and safe, and those are the two primary thoughts that interrupt his transmission. Safe, with him.
He goes by her and steps on the back of a submerged log. Down here, dreaded mane floating around him and scales taking on a different shine underwater, he looks more regal than he does on land. That she does notice and that it leaves her with a curious new feeling that she has no name for but she cannot take her eyes off of him. She can feel the temperature of the water starting to warm here, but she thinks she feels an altogether different heat that might be coming from inside of her, like a stain of embarrassment that cannot color her cheeks or skin, but spreads through her blood and makes her heart beat just that tiny bit faster.
Safe, with him.
Up he goes, ascending and she can do little but watch until he beckons for her to follow. It is no surprise that she does until her head breaks the surface and she sucks in a big draught of air through her nostrils instead of her gills, shutting them against the lap of the river at her neck. For the moment, she has nothing to say because the adventure was that incredible and she is still reeling from the grandeur of it. Her compound eyes are out of focus and she shuts them against the light that sometimes has a tiring effect on her unless it is the moon that pulls them open. It is not the moon but Ivar himself that causes her eyes to open and regain their focus on him. Thousands of pearls and obsidian come together to form the shape of his head and Ichor beams at him, happily and at last says, “That was wonderful!”
@[Ivar] no worries! it works somehow? i'm cool with just going with it haha