anyone;

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The dark haired kelpie watches her with a curiosity that is hungry at the edges. The girl is frightened, which delights him, and she is brave, which intrigues him. Her mother had not been so brave, and it is a strange sensation to see that part of himself reflected so clearly in a child that is not kelpie. Perhaps she’s kelpie on the inside, Ivar thinks as she inches nearer. His own gifts had not manifested until he was an adult. Before then he had been plainer even than Izmir – a sooty colored, drab little colt. Perhaps she’s a shifter. Some of his ofpsring can change their entire body into another creature. Ivar tolerates this when they are aquatic; anything else is too near to magic for comfort. She says she wants to be near the water, and the kelpie’s ears flick forward with interest. That is promising. Perhaps she is destined to be more than a meal for her siblings after all. Her name is Izmir, which he takes as a sign. This one he will give to Isobell. Once more they have failed to conceive, and the kelpie expects his mate will be longing for a child come spring. This one is not as good as their others, but she will do. Izmir would not be the first child Ivar has gifted to his wife, and Isobell does love gifts. (He will have to find Merewen again, Ivar decides. Isobell might want a matched set if this one pleases her.) The wave-colored filly speaks again, using his name rather than the title of Father. This pleases him further – there is no need to rub her origin in Isobell’s face. She asks what he is, and the query startles a laugh out of the piebald creature. “I am kelpie, of course.” He tells her. “We are of the water, and the land that touches it. That is where our prey is found, though the nereids I have let flourish on the main island are good sport to hunt as well.” The dismissive way he speaks of the larger island is typical for the piebald creature; he has little interest in anything beyond his small island. He has never hidden his actions, but the very nature of them meant that it was easy to avoid notice. There are worse monsters in the world than a creature who takes a wiling woman for a swim. “These are from me,” Ivar confirms, having stepped closer and drawn near enough to run his pale nose along the soft scales of her hide. Are they soft with childhood, he wonders, might they someday harden to something that more closely resembles his own? They taste of the sea after her swim to get here. She still smells edible, but the hunger has been softened by the decision to take her home to Isobell. “You’ll come to my island,” he tells her as he pulls a bit of jetsam from her wispy mane with very careful teeth. “You will live with my wife and I, and you will have some time to prove yourself.” The physical contact between them is minimal, but that is all it takes. Each word he’s told her have been as much in her mind as in her ears, the tactile hypnosis difficult to fight after his decades of practice. He uses it very gently, rather sure that it would not take much convincing. @[Izmir] and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind