03-02-2019, 02:18 PM
The interest in her eyes beckons Ivar nearer in a myriad of ways. The kelpie does not resist it any more than he does the tide that pushes him closer, and he pauses just inside a comfortably diplomatic distance from the flaxen-haired mare. As he had at their first meeting, the piebald stallion allows his curious gaze to take in the whole of the sabino mare, idling for a long moment on the impossibly pretty lines of her face. Something about her is different, though the jewel-toned creature cannot quite determine what it is.
Rather than puzzle over it – Ivar has never been given to long bouts of through – he instead responds to her greeting, to the claim that he might not remember her.
“You are the only Primarch of Hyaline I have ever met,” he tells her with a tilt of his head, one that swings the tangled locks away so he might better fix her gaze to hers. With his long forelegs stretched ahead of him in the water, Ivar digs the claws of his hindlegs into the sand. He’ll say still now, anchored despite the tug of the tide around them.
“And even if you weren't, you are not especially forgettable.” Kensa, he has just recalled, her name is Kensa. He wonders how her golden hair might look at the bottom of the reef and how quickly the cleaner fish might leave a bleached white skull for him to add to his collection. The water carries the scent of the mountains and autumn toward him, wordless information about the mare with topaz eyes.
“There is never a bad time here,” he lies, knowing they are only safe now because his Khaleesi is on the opposite side of the island. She is not fond of his dalliances, but Isobell would be even less tolerant of the disappearance of a monarch on Ivar’s beach. Rolling his shoulders, the piebald kelpie flares the blue fins along his shoulders, stretching the translucent webbing between them impossible wide for just a moment before he folds them along his sides in a manner not so different from how a pegasus might hold their wings.
“What more would you like to enjoy?” Asks the kelpie, smiling while he gauges the distance between her throat and the surface of the water. He could pull her under before she screams, he decides, but he cannot see beyond the curve of the shoreline and the chance of listening ears are too high. It is only in rare moments like these when the kelpie laments his collection, bright-eyed mares and his waterless children who ask too many questions.
@[Kensa]
Rather than puzzle over it – Ivar has never been given to long bouts of through – he instead responds to her greeting, to the claim that he might not remember her.
“You are the only Primarch of Hyaline I have ever met,” he tells her with a tilt of his head, one that swings the tangled locks away so he might better fix her gaze to hers. With his long forelegs stretched ahead of him in the water, Ivar digs the claws of his hindlegs into the sand. He’ll say still now, anchored despite the tug of the tide around them.
“And even if you weren't, you are not especially forgettable.” Kensa, he has just recalled, her name is Kensa. He wonders how her golden hair might look at the bottom of the reef and how quickly the cleaner fish might leave a bleached white skull for him to add to his collection. The water carries the scent of the mountains and autumn toward him, wordless information about the mare with topaz eyes.
“There is never a bad time here,” he lies, knowing they are only safe now because his Khaleesi is on the opposite side of the island. She is not fond of his dalliances, but Isobell would be even less tolerant of the disappearance of a monarch on Ivar’s beach. Rolling his shoulders, the piebald kelpie flares the blue fins along his shoulders, stretching the translucent webbing between them impossible wide for just a moment before he folds them along his sides in a manner not so different from how a pegasus might hold their wings.
“What more would you like to enjoy?” Asks the kelpie, smiling while he gauges the distance between her throat and the surface of the water. He could pull her under before she screams, he decides, but he cannot see beyond the curve of the shoreline and the chance of listening ears are too high. It is only in rare moments like these when the kelpie laments his collection, bright-eyed mares and his waterless children who ask too many questions.
@[Kensa]