10-12-2018, 06:10 PM
The last time his western isle had gotten an unexpected visitor was, well, never. Sabra's arrival had been sudden but not unanticipated; her sons were here after all. Three years of solitude save those Ivar brought over have given the kelpie a seemingly false sense of security. The loud call of a stranger carries down Ivar's tiny kingdom with astonishing clarity, and the tri-colored kelpie is grateful that he was near enough to intervene before he disturbed the trio of lavender residents that Ivar so zealously guards.
"Do you need something?" He asks, slipping out of the shadows of the jungle without any introduction. The shouting stallion is a stranger, Ivar is fairly certain, but he does not make a habit of memorizing the faces of men he meets. He has other - better - things to devote his attention to.
Still, there is something almost familiar about the other man. Without context, it doesn't occur to Ivar to compare Lochwood to their parents. Instead he wonders if perhaps this is a child he hadn't known about, one sired on a mare that he should have kept better track of. But no, they are not so far apart in age; the dun is surely older than Ivar's eldest children.
"Do I know you?" He asks, stepping causally - purposefully - between the tobiano and the rest of the long beach. The kelpie is more than the pretty face that his jewel-toned hue would suggest, and the plates of fine scales shift over obvious muscle. While this afternoon was an exception, Ivar is most often found in the water, where swimming against the tide is all but second nature.
"Do you need something?" He asks, slipping out of the shadows of the jungle without any introduction. The shouting stallion is a stranger, Ivar is fairly certain, but he does not make a habit of memorizing the faces of men he meets. He has other - better - things to devote his attention to.
Still, there is something almost familiar about the other man. Without context, it doesn't occur to Ivar to compare Lochwood to their parents. Instead he wonders if perhaps this is a child he hadn't known about, one sired on a mare that he should have kept better track of. But no, they are not so far apart in age; the dun is surely older than Ivar's eldest children.
"Do I know you?" He asks, stepping causally - purposefully - between the tobiano and the rest of the long beach. The kelpie is more than the pretty face that his jewel-toned hue would suggest, and the plates of fine scales shift over obvious muscle. While this afternoon was an exception, Ivar is most often found in the water, where swimming against the tide is all but second nature.