11-16-2018, 08:15 AM
He remains still, the soft give of the sodden trunk beneath his kneading foot the only movement, even when the starlit mare comes closer. Wariness has kept him alive for nearly a decade, and the kelpie is disinclined to rash action. He is certainly wary of the way the light comes closer than she does, and at last he turns to watch it with a narrowed golden eye. His distrust of the arcane is no secret; there is too much power in the unseen. Ivar’s kind are more open with their weapons: a too-pretty face with a too-wide mouth and more sharp teeth than any herbivore would ever need.
(As with most irrational opinions, Ivar does not consider his own hypnotic magic to be the same at all. His own gift is fine, it is the gifts of others that are unnatural)
The murmur of his hunger is never entirely silenced, but at the prospect of a meal – even a potentially well-guarded one – it grows louder. Nearly loud enough to overcome his wariness, though when he drifts forward with a few flicks of his tail, it is done slowly, as though the tendril of light might sting as well as illuminate. When it doesn’t and the water level has reached his elbows, Ivar finally answers her hello with one of his own.
“Hello.” He needs to be closer, and at the thought he feels his clawed hindlimbs shift to less suspicious hooves, and the sleek scaled tail become tangled and stringy. Equine is not his preferred form, but it is easier to hunt in camouflage. “What is that?” he asks of the light, both the little bits of it that line a prettier face than most and the inquisitive bit that she has sent toward him.
@[Lirren]
(As with most irrational opinions, Ivar does not consider his own hypnotic magic to be the same at all. His own gift is fine, it is the gifts of others that are unnatural)
The murmur of his hunger is never entirely silenced, but at the prospect of a meal – even a potentially well-guarded one – it grows louder. Nearly loud enough to overcome his wariness, though when he drifts forward with a few flicks of his tail, it is done slowly, as though the tendril of light might sting as well as illuminate. When it doesn’t and the water level has reached his elbows, Ivar finally answers her hello with one of his own.
“Hello.” He needs to be closer, and at the thought he feels his clawed hindlimbs shift to less suspicious hooves, and the sleek scaled tail become tangled and stringy. Equine is not his preferred form, but it is easier to hunt in camouflage. “What is that?” he asks of the light, both the little bits of it that line a prettier face than most and the inquisitive bit that she has sent toward him.
@[Lirren]