11-12-2017, 03:22 PM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The wind bites at his scaled hide, whipping the tangled length of his mane against his neck and wrapping his dark tail around his legs. Ivar shivers, but faces the gusts with determination. Momentary discomfort is a fair price, he reasons; he will be grateful for the sting of cold soon. The rushing chatter of the river fades behind them, replaced by the howling cry of the wind. The snow is not deep on their path, but it is not for lack of precipitation. Instead, the icy cover is blown away almost as soon as it lands, and only the wetter snow remains, freezing into a thick crust that crunches beneath their hooves as they make their way to Loess. The winged filly beside him is clearly just as cold, but Ivar does not invite her nearing, knowing that some things are better not pressed. Instead he waits until the path narrows and they are forced into closer proximity, until she brushes against him and he silently commands that she stay with me. It’s for warmth, she’ll probably believe, and Ivar does nothing to dissuade such an assumption. His brown eyes remain on the trail ahead, though he is acutely aware of her smaller figure pressed against him. The water falls behind them, and a low growl of hunger echoes through Ivar. She is close enough to taste, but he only brushes his muzzle against her shoulder (staying in contact for just barely too long) and guides her down the fork to Loess. “Almost there,” he tells her aloud. “You don’t want to leave.” he finishes wordlessly. And she won’t, because cold and lonely travels would be ahead of her. She’ll find the hot springs delightful after their bitter walk, and she’ll find him equally enticing. Not quite yet, he knows, but they have time. Time for her to grow, to become the woman that he catches sight of from time to time in her mannerisms. Time for him to keep her, to convince her, to groom her. The prospect is thrilling – how very useful, to have her as his own, knowing only life with him, to use her as he needs – and Ivar is smiling even before he lays eyes on the rising steam. “There,” he says with a gesture, “See that steam rising over that ridge?” As relieved to get out of the cold as she is, Ivar picks up his pace, slowing only as he steps into the rock-lined pool. The cold eases from his bones as a sigh passes his lips, and he looks up at Wrena with his eyes half-lidded in pleasure. “Come on in,” he tells her with a grin as inviting as the water. “It feels wonderful.” minimal grullo tobiano king of loess |
@[Wrena]
