06-22-2018, 08:23 PM
 I V A R promising everything i do not mean |
The river that seperates the common lands (and Tephra) from the rest of Beqanna, is icy even this time of year. Ivar drifts aimlessly with the current, past the Forest and border of Sylva, past the Mountain so tall its peak is always lost in the cloud. The kelpie knows where this current leads; he is not a stranger to the beach. From time to time he finds a mare pacing these bone-white shores, unable to make the choice to leap from the cliffs or not. Ivar, forever helpful, is more than willing to assist with such decisions. They always choose the sea, of course. On this particular autumn morning the shore is clear of all but the fluttering gulls. Their raucous cries grate in his cobalt ears, and he snaps at a few that come within reach. Ahead, one perches near a beached figure. The kelpie nearly passes by, but a glint of sunlight on a translucent fin catches his eye. Kylin? It is, and her piebald sides rise and fall. She should be at the bottom of the sea, he knows; if not where he left her at least not far from it. It’s been less than a day, after all, and even the tides are not so strong as to take her here. Magic, he decides. There is a brief moment of indecision and then he is stepping closer. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Ivar says, tugging gently at the salt-crisp strands of her lavender mane. He offers a silent prayer to whatever fairy had seen fit to set up this perfect coincidence, and the gentle nibble he’d meant to place along the rise of her withers is accidentally sharp with excitement. She’d told him she was his, he thinks, but he’d never dreamed she meant like this. His forever. His to take and drown time and time again, a fantasy come to immortal life. |
I know my lies could not make you believe in my dark times, baby this is all I could be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |