11-14-2018, 08:33 PM
The kelpie yawns, lulled by the crash of the sea and the warmth of the roan mare. He is rarely so active during the height of the day, but recent events have forced him from his preferred habits. Shaking his head, he rearranges the tangled mess of his forelock and presses his mouth again to the mark on her shoulder. Her blood still marks his sharp teeth, and for a moment he toys with the idea of simply drowning her.
It would be an open declaration to Brennen at the very least; Ivar is free to do what he wants in Ischia. The idea is tempting. Carwyn would look lovely on the seafloor, all blue and white and winged.
But no.
He is not yet ready to be hunted. Later then, he thinks, as the mare beside him asks for clarification.
“Invite her back,” he tells her. “Remind her what Ischia has to offer.”
And then, rather than drown Carwyn and his dreams of open hunting, the kelpie returns to the sea with a final press of his pale muzzle to her cheek.
It would be an open declaration to Brennen at the very least; Ivar is free to do what he wants in Ischia. The idea is tempting. Carwyn would look lovely on the seafloor, all blue and white and winged.
But no.
He is not yet ready to be hunted. Later then, he thinks, as the mare beside him asks for clarification.
“Invite her back,” he tells her. “Remind her what Ischia has to offer.”
And then, rather than drown Carwyn and his dreams of open hunting, the kelpie returns to the sea with a final press of his pale muzzle to her cheek.