dark side of the morning - brine

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take Around him, the tussocks of grass rattle loudly. The wind that sweeps in from the west is warm with the scent of the ocean, and Ivar almost imagines he can taste the salt in the air. It is a stark contrast to the snow beneath his hooves (shallow though it may be), and the general chill of the air. Spring is coming quickly, and as the scaled stallion browses halfheartedly he can taste the fresh shoots of grass beneath the winter’s dry. The piebald stallion often lingers in this space north of Sylva. The scenery is nothing spectacular (broad meadows and little bits of forest) but he does like the river itself. Deceptively deep and flavored with the sea as much as the mountain snowmelt, Ivar enjoys swimming there. He’s still damp from such a swim, and though the brisk wind has whipped away most of the water, some still beads along the matte black and pearlescent white of his scales. His corded mane is wet as well, and he tosses it from his line of vision as something moves ahead of him. It’s a mare, a blue roan. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but she’s still a face in the otherwise empty meadow. He whickers a greeting to her, a friendly invitation to come closer and socialize. kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis

@[Brine]
Sorry it took me like 6 years to post D:

[Brine]

She is nearly fully submerged, almost swimming. Her life is much like this moment at all times: nearly brave, but yet still cowardly. Her muzzle lowers, playing with the surface of the water that cools her aching muscles. Brine has been an active bird, flying like a raven that has newly flown the nest. So long had she been stripped of the only thing that made her unique; the only thing that made her special.

Her feathers split at the cling of water, her wings feel heavy and stuck. Brine doesn’t move however, even though she should. Certainly she has retained enough moisture, but the water is too calming. It is rare she feels at peace, the ground rarely a place that she feels safe or at least prepared. In the air she could handle a dragon. On Earth, she would likely spook at the threaten of a squirrel.

In water? She feels cloaked in tranquility. Nothing is fearful, or threatening. She realizes the odd logic behind that, she knows. Yet, there is something about how the water seeps into her skin. How the soft current eases over every cut and sore. Something here makes everything else not matter.

Yet, there is that drop off. The metaphor of her very existence. A line of safety, and the complete unknown. Brine is not a woman of chance, she does not gamble. She observes, analyses, and computes. So perhaps forever, that line will exist. That drop off will coax her deeper but her unwillingness to take risk will prohibit her from taking a chance.

Fully submerged, almost swimming… Brave, but yet still cowardly.

A nicker breaks her calm, like a rock dropping into a still lake. Her shoulders slightly flinch, her eyes growing from nearly sleeping to fully alert. To say the least, our little bird has never been much of a communicator. While others find strength in relationships, she finds strength in independency. To lean on someone else gives risk they will pull away. She will be the tree in her own forest. She will learn to stand straight, without risking the fall.

Turning to glance back, across the wide river, she sees a stallion of smoky black splashes and pearly white accents. His coat is shimmery, much like a fish. Part of her is curious, is he decorated with scales, as she is with feathers?

Her tail goes to swish, but the depth of the water anchors her tail down, hardly having the strength to swish away minnows. “Hello,” her eyes follow the stranger, her tone quiet and reserved.

- Brine -

That's OK, I am sure there have been times I have been slow for you!

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take Though he’d whickered a summons, she doesn’t come. Ivar watches as she startles at the sound of his voice, intrigued at the way the water seeps between her feathers and seems to weigh her down. “Mind if I join you for a swim?” He asks with a tilt of his head. Despite his request for permission though, he does not wait for it. Ivar steps forward, his white-stockinged forelegs disappearing beneath the cool water, followed by his matte black chest and the glitter of opalescent white scales across his withers. His head remains above water, treading across the blackwater drop off with ease. He feels the tug of the water, but swimming has always come easy to him. Though he crosses the river, Ivar does not presume to approach any closer without an invitation. He wades a litter farther toward the shore, until the water is lapping against his chest and belly, but doesn’t come closer to the blue mare. He does look at her though, tracing the pattern of feathers across her coat with open admiration. “Was your mother a bluebird or something?” he asks her when his brown eyes finally return to her face. The question is startling, and rather far from the typical inquiry of a stranger. Still, the way he asks is as inoffensive as he can manage, a lighthearted query that matches the bright grin growing on his pale and handsome face. kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis