10-08-2017, 11:09 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
At the mention of his brutality, Ivar offers the younger girl a wink, followed by a grand and elegant bow, with far too much of a flourish. Such had once been the custom of the day, he has been taught, but there is no real place for elegant mannerisms and formal speech in this post-Reckoning Beqanna. He much prefers the more casual way that they can interact, the he does not have to bow to Isobell as a princess or for her to lower her head in admission of respect for an older male. Ivar’s experience with children has been minimal, but summer seems to be the season for them to sprout up like wildflowers. It is easy to categorize the Isobell he’d known with those floppy haired foals, their large eyes and overlong legs as amusing as they are mildly disconcerting. A little sister is supposed to be little, after all, and little means childish. If his memory of her does not quite meld with the actual young mare in front of him, that is surely some failing on his part. Her laughing silver eyes are shielded by a long forelock, too long for a child, and he curiously follows the line of her face down her neck for a little too long as well. Fortunately she is still talking, a sarcastic description of the granite land of Nerine falling from her lips as he returns his brown gaze to hers with a small shake of his head. “You’re more than welcome to come,” he tells her, righting himself as Isobell asks if she can visit. She has been looking off over his shoulder, and for a moment wonders if he had disturbed her with his wandering gaze. He reaches out to bump her shoulder to disrupt the (most likely imaginary) tension, but that is a mistake too, so he asks: “Haven’t you been to any of the other lands? Other than here, I mean?” |