12-30-2018, 07:41 PM
It’s been some time since she’d called him that, and Ivar’s grin widens. He’d given up his throne to follow her as she soon as she’d said the word, and there’s a good chance that he’d do it again. He shouldn’t have to though, not with the sea around them and their children as tied to the water as he is. Ivar hadn’t planned it, but the timing couldn’t have been better if he had. With any luck, a fourth little kelpie will keep her content with Ischia, and after that perhaps a couple more, just to be safe.
She flits beneath him, agile in a way that Ivar cannot replicate, and can only watch with naked fascination.
Every bit of her is designed to draw in a mortal man. It is a transformation he would not have imagined possible before he witnessed it for himself. From a filly, dragon-born and pretty, she’d become something of the sea, something that holds Ivar’s gaze in a base and instinctive way that nothing else ever has.
Ivar suddenly remembers the first year, when Isobell had chosen Nerine over him. The thought is as unbidden as it is unpleasant, and the kelpie shoves it away for the far more intoxicating kelpie woman that wraps herself around him. He’d almost settled his score with the granite kingdom for that offense. The last of the three pins has proved the most difficult to topple, but Ivar has every faith in himself.
The grudge is less important than Isobell herself, of course, and the kelpie takes in each breathtaking bit of her, from the scarred rise of her withers to the way her illuminated scales blended seamlessly with the frill of her fins. They drift past a high bank of coral. The water is deeper here, and soon it will be cooler as well. Isobells darts ahead of him, her eyes reflecting the same hunger that shines in Ivar’s golden gaze.
The earlier urge, the one to remind her to never leave him again, has not dimmed. The allure of seeing her final breath has him keeping pace with the tobiano woman, his own movements less graceful than hers but no less fluid. A cove filled with ruby water is not an uncommon sight in Ischia, but none of them had been quite perfect. Isobell might be the key to perfection, he thinks, just as the water around them turns suddenly cold – they’d reached the drop off.
She could leave, he realizes. She is not trapped here like the rest of them, bound to the land or to him. Isobell might dart out into the dark of the broad ocean and he’d never see her again. The thought is enough to silence the hunger instantaneously. It is an odd sensation, and Ivar grows still in the water. She had said she would stay, but perhaps he’d best make certain. He realizes that he is not certain how to do that, and so falls back on what he does know.
Ivar traces the scars along her withers with a gentle touch, reminders of the time he’d turned her – and the many times they’d had since. The allure of his own immediate satisfaction fades in the possibility of a larger future reward, and the bites that curve along her neck are gentle. He forgets himself, just for a moment, and presses his pale mouth to where he’d drawn blood, the copper taste bright on his tongue even surrounded with salt.
@[Isobell]
She flits beneath him, agile in a way that Ivar cannot replicate, and can only watch with naked fascination.
Every bit of her is designed to draw in a mortal man. It is a transformation he would not have imagined possible before he witnessed it for himself. From a filly, dragon-born and pretty, she’d become something of the sea, something that holds Ivar’s gaze in a base and instinctive way that nothing else ever has.
Ivar suddenly remembers the first year, when Isobell had chosen Nerine over him. The thought is as unbidden as it is unpleasant, and the kelpie shoves it away for the far more intoxicating kelpie woman that wraps herself around him. He’d almost settled his score with the granite kingdom for that offense. The last of the three pins has proved the most difficult to topple, but Ivar has every faith in himself.
The grudge is less important than Isobell herself, of course, and the kelpie takes in each breathtaking bit of her, from the scarred rise of her withers to the way her illuminated scales blended seamlessly with the frill of her fins. They drift past a high bank of coral. The water is deeper here, and soon it will be cooler as well. Isobells darts ahead of him, her eyes reflecting the same hunger that shines in Ivar’s golden gaze.
The earlier urge, the one to remind her to never leave him again, has not dimmed. The allure of seeing her final breath has him keeping pace with the tobiano woman, his own movements less graceful than hers but no less fluid. A cove filled with ruby water is not an uncommon sight in Ischia, but none of them had been quite perfect. Isobell might be the key to perfection, he thinks, just as the water around them turns suddenly cold – they’d reached the drop off.
She could leave, he realizes. She is not trapped here like the rest of them, bound to the land or to him. Isobell might dart out into the dark of the broad ocean and he’d never see her again. The thought is enough to silence the hunger instantaneously. It is an odd sensation, and Ivar grows still in the water. She had said she would stay, but perhaps he’d best make certain. He realizes that he is not certain how to do that, and so falls back on what he does know.
Ivar traces the scars along her withers with a gentle touch, reminders of the time he’d turned her – and the many times they’d had since. The allure of his own immediate satisfaction fades in the possibility of a larger future reward, and the bites that curve along her neck are gentle. He forgets himself, just for a moment, and presses his pale mouth to where he’d drawn blood, the copper taste bright on his tongue even surrounded with salt.
@[Isobell]