"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
She knows him, she knows his face: she knows the curves of his body, and yet- most of all… she knows his teeth and their jagged edges beneath his lips. She knows the blue and gold will glitter in the sun, shimmer and shine with reflections of the water: and most of all she knows that when he breathes… the water will rattle in his lungs.
He smells like salt, and blood.
“Ivar.” she purrs. Her smoky voice dripping and chilled, teasing and taunting.
To his eyes she is spattered and speckled, the grey and blue, and black still painting her skin; but where fur once stretched across the body there is now a porous and watery skin, dripping with moisture and rivulets of the sea. Her teal eyes are speckled with orange flecks and the barbell shaped irises contract as she peers at him.
Fuller figured and less bony there is ripple of muscle beneath her skin and the crusted barnacles on her back legs remain; but the immediate difference is on her neck, shoulders, and where her tail should have been. A writhing mass of tentacles coat her neck, the barbed edges and suckers exposing as they stretch and cling: and even her tail seems to mimic such a thing.
Yet her shoulders possess only tentacles two on each side, lengthy and elongated with a paddle like tip: the fleshy appendages stretching and wrapped around her legs.
“So good to see you again.” she chuckles, deep and water-logged. Her nose and jaws are strange, the mouth moving in an exaggerated way and finally Ivar can see why.
Yidhra has folded the facial tendrils into replicas of what her face used to look like; but as she laughs they splay and the beak nestled in the mass snaps. Folded back into place she steps from the shadows of the trees and more towards the waters, her hooves feeling the cold sea as it ebbs and flows.
“I’m not surprised to see you here. So shallow and close to shore, right where the bait fish swim before the ocean becomes dark. This new plague is… interesting, but, I believe you are safe here. Regardless, do you like it? I find this form far more appropriate.” and with that she stretches a tendril down, grasping the shell of some poor clam: lifting and pressing it within the confines of her beak.
Consumption and delicacy, the salty tang… and for a moment she recalls the pitch black depths with fondness: her gaze peering at Ivar.
First an animal that did not belong, a creature halfway between an iguana and a hippopotamus that he instinctively doesn’t trust. Then a girl appearing in the blink of an eye and the spotted stallion that reminds him of the woman he could not have.
Ivar scowls at them.
His ocean has changed, and it is infuriating. The idea of staying in a home that is not familiar grates against the kelpie’s instinct. He has no young offspring, no weaklings, no expectant mates (that he knows of). For a while Ivar does fight the urge. The stallion knows he should stay; it is the kelpie that longs for the sea.
But that was never a fight the piebald creature could ever truly win.
He enters the water with a splash - perhaps the trio might see a glint of blue and gold beneath the water, headed north.
When he finds her it is on a new island, and it is once again evening. Bright enough the can see the changes in her, dark enough that he might eye her with lust and remain unseen.
Now he knows. Now he understands why she had called to him, and why he had answered. The kelpie had suspected when he had first tasted her, when his teeth had closed over the cold crest of her neck and the blood on his tongue was salted by the sea even in the heart of the taiga. Ivar is rather proud of his good taste in women - pun intended, and this is clear as his golden eyes rove shamelessly down her seemingly endless tentacles.
“Much better.” He replies shamelessly. “The rotting look didn’t quite suit you. This is more flattering.”
Then, with a tilt of his head and a charming smile, the kelpie adds: “Wouldn’t you like a nice place to stay? Safe from sickness?” The sapphire and gold kelpie is far less eloquent than his companion, but he is also a simpler creature. His needs are few and base, for now. “Stay here with me. We can swim.”
Sand is an annoyance in its dry state, a thing of shifting instability and heat that only grows stronger as the sun spreads its light across it, and she despises the way it feels beneath her weight: the way she has to adjust and change, lean with each motion. Still, there is a solution: one presented by Ivar as she watches the glimmer of blue and gold beneath the water’s surface, as she notes the flurry of fins and scale. His form is mutable and she recalls the gnashing teeth and the sumptuous pain that came with the bite, which is why she does not think he is prey when he alters forms. Instead, she can only smile with mischief and cunning gleaming in the bizarre and alien eyes.
She does not bother to wait for permission, rather she moves forward to the wet sand and feels the rush of cold ocean on her ankles and legs. A shudder burdens the whole of her spine and almost instantly the mass of writhing arms and suckers on her neck comes to life: curling this way and that, and even the ones where he tail do as well; but the pair at her shoulder tentatively reach out to him. Almost like the soft caress of a lover, a single paddle shaped tendrils seeks to brush along his neck: stopping on his chest.
Pulsating and moving the tendrils nearest her mouth sag but do not muffle her voice, rather she speaks eloquently and with ease. “That was an unfortunate shape,” she purrs. “But it is gone now.” simplified and without elaboration she clatters the chitinous beak beneath the mass and allows a watery rattle of laughter to find its way into her words. “My… power is restored to a degree, my shape returning. Not completely; but enough. Carnage, the God-Mage and his Pangea… this contagion: it has worked to my benefit.” she shrugs, truth and simple fact.
Drawing the appendage back from him she considers his offer, thinks and muses over what he asks of her in such a straightforward way. Those teal eyes narrow, the barbell shapes irises stretching and thinning- the flecks of orange becoming more predominant. She would never admit how tempting it was, how eagerly she wished to dive into the black and cold water: how quickly she’d have sought to return to the simplicity of hunting and creeping along the waters; but her mind is scored and soured as she recalls the voice of the God-Mage and the pain she endured, the claim she sought to stake.
“I am already infected,” she states calmly. “Rhonen… I struck the second blow, and we were among the first to become ridden with it.” parting the tendrils near her face the beak is exposed and with it, bloody spittle that drips down the underside of the tendrils and along her throat. Her porous and hairless skin shudders and she drops the appendages again to cover the beak. “I’ve heard that it can be treated; taken away with magic… but that does mean there is cure. Pangea holds the secret to that cure, I’m sure of it.” she shrugs and for a moment Yidhra questions if he will care, if he will understand.
Her eyes blink, long and slow.
“I need to find that cure... “ she stops, hesitating and growing silent suddenly. Her mind, however, parses what she wants to say and in her head she can hear her own voice: ‘because this is my fault, this is our fault- all of us… and I cannot let what happened to the element happen again’
A stray palm frond catches on the wind, and Ivar watches as the slender bit of greenery blows down the beach toward them. The winter winds feel stronger here than on his island, and Ivar’s golden eyes narrow mildly in distaste. He has never been especially good at masking his emotions, or at reading the situation and knowing when he should react. His nature is far less sophisticated a combination of his dual instincts and having stalled somewhere near adolescence in terms of social development.
Magic has never been something the kelpie has liked. Too subversive, too much reliance on the intangible. He prefers to trust his teeth and scales. The tentacles with which she reaches out do not seem like magic though, not anymore than the flared fins the kelpie wears beneath the waves. When she curls the one against his shoulder he reaches out to brush his pale mouth against it curiously. Would it taste like the squid, he wonders, or more of horse?
There will be time to find out, he thinks, and so refrains.
Or perhaps there will not be time.
The words of the shadowed mare are not what Ivar wishes to hear. His concern regarding the plague is minimal. He is in a safeland, and had never considered leaving. Why should he? There is water and there is prey (he’d seen the arrival of the purple clan and the trio of pegasi); everything the kelpie needs.
‘I need to find the cure’ she says, and Ivar shakes his head sharply. The kelpie is already possessive, and it pairs well with Ivar’s jealousy. Well, for Ivar anyway – the rest of the world is perhaps not so lucky. He’s decided that this strange mare, with her cold skin and salty hair, belongs to him.
“Worry about that later.” Are the words said quietly near her ear. He has stepped forward, following the long tentacle as Yidhra as withdrew it. Though his breath is nothing more than a ghosting across her neck, his scaled cheek brushes the edge of her tentacled mane, just enough tactile contact that he can bespell his words with hypnosis. Ivar knows better than to tell her to forget it entirely; he has learned his lesson with driven women. Forgetting for a while though, that is usually alright, usually just enough pressure that they don’t even recognize the command as anything but their own subconscious desire.
The kelpie knows better than to argue with a woman who has made up her mind. His experience with Nerenian queens has taught him as much, but it is clear from his reaction that he might need reminding. The responsibility that she is so eager to take up is reminiscent of royalty, and he wonders if Yidhra might have greater goals than the curing of the plague. The idea brings a smile to his too handsome face, though it is now hidden as his curious lips inspect the base of the tentacle that sprouts from her shoulder.
“Or go if you must,” He adds, uncharacteristically driven by a reward that is not immediate. Of course, his caresses do not stop because he does not intend to leave this meeting entirely unsatisfied. If he cannot keep her, he intends to at least have her at least once more. “I intend to take over Ischia.” The piebald stallion says, voicing the words aloud for the first time. Until now, it has been a pipe dream, something he’d toyed with but never seriously. He has spent the last three years in paradise, and always there has been an itch for something more. The more is probably not ruling the larger island, but since Ivar cannot verify that without trying it he has chosen to try.
“So if you find the cure or if you grow tired of trying, you can come find me there.”
Fear is the most ancient and deep experience that all the world can know. Mutable and constant it exists in all forms and all ways, from simple hesitation to paralyzing and catatonic states: long lasting effect or short term… it matters not- in the end it consumes everything and everyone. The ocean is a similar creature, long existing before time: before life and death, stretching across the vast expanse and consuming all things as its lapping waves erode stone and earth alike.
She is both of these things, and yet? So, in a way, is Ivar.
Porous and rubbery the fleshy tendrils function in a way that allows her to not only feel the smooth flesh and fur- the cold glittering scales, and even the pulse of the heartbeats in his chest; but to taste the very salt upon his skin, the sweetness of flesh without biting, and more so they allow her to recognize the fragrant scent of blood, and of ocean, of algae that may coat his skin in time.
Tender as he is she can feel the breath upon her appendage and the sensation of the soft lips and maw pressing for a moment, as if he considers unleashing the fangs she well knows exist in his maw; but pull away she does not, rather she presses the paddle-like tendril gently onto the front of his nose… of his mouth, and the secondary from her other shoulder stretches before her own and lingers in front as she chuckles and speaks. “Sshh,” almost gentle, almost, she draws away from her own mouth and extends that the stroke the Kelpie’s cheek before pulling both tentacles back and resting them across her back.
Though she is not some monolithic beast of great size and proportion: she rises to her full height then, and lifts her head in such a manner that for seeming moment she might’ve grown some odd inches. The spattered gray and blue flesh shudders and the dark color somehow deepens as shadows cast from the tendrils across her frame. The voice is still riddled with an accent long lost to time; but more so now than ever it haunts the very words she says: slurs the r’s and rolls the consonances in a manner that deepens her smoky tenor. “Later,” she begins to say: unaware of the tickling hypnosis and trickery.
“Is a dangerous game.” she continues with murmurs and soft purring. “I am not the only one- you are not the only one, Pangea and Ischia both have others who seek to call them theirs. Letting them grow comfortable? Never.” the latter word is haunting, laced with poison and bitterness. Though she admits to herself a desire to simply stay and haunt the warm coastal water with the Kelpie: the burning cold-fire of ambition blackens her heart and mind. She feels the strings plucked, the allure and wanton Ivar presents her, and she inhales the smell of salt and sea- of the Kelpie.
Desire is a strange thing, and her maw shifts as she tentacles come to point and slither, to curl and scratch at the flesh near the beak beneath the mass. She abides her thoughts for a time, roves and explores her opinions; but in the end the hypnosis is for the moment effective and she lingers while he caresses and teases… her skin shivering at the breath and touch. Addendum of course provides her some moment of curiosity and her gaze rests on Ivar with a genuine sense of intrigue. “As much as I enjoy these, precious moments: we’ll have to see what we make of our futures.” she mulls over it as she speaks.
Her brow would’ve lifted, but, instead Yidhra chuckles and tilts her head. “After all, I can’t rightly accept an invitation to come back- to stay… if you have no place your own.” its subtle, quiet and low- the pulse of something beneath her skin- the blue blood and shivering. Feverish and yet? Comfortable, Yidhra mires and lingers, stands watching him and easing into soft caress and touch.
Abiding the close of distance for the time she extends the soft throat and maw, allows the appendages on her face to tickle and touch: to caress the muscles and curves of his throat. Her beak is cold, hard, and strange in its dagger-like shape… the edges of it teasing his flesh as she purrs. “A bite, for a bite- lover.” though she doesn’t snap immediately- in the end she still snaps the beak as it rushes forward. Seeking to catch, to bite: to take from Ivar what he had once taken from her. Perhaps it’s a promise fulfilled in finality, or simply the acknowledgment of some understand between them: still- there is a moment where she considers him- prey, or fellow predator…
When she speaks of others that might claim Ischia, he thinks of the green-haired stallion,the Tephran that he would enjoy watching slowly rust on the pale sand bottom of Ischia's waters. The thought brings a scowl; such plans require effort and Ivar is at heart a slothful creature, disinclined to commit himself to anything that does not guarantee immediate satisfaction.
Yet he has already spoken a promise aloud, and he is like his father in many ways. Some things he cannot break, and so rather than think of Kromium he instead traces the line of her fresh muscle with his roving mouth. Her words do not let him linger long in distraction; they tug him from the sea of contentment with reminders of the world that exists outside the two of them.
"You sound as if you doubt my capabilities," he says into her withers, kneading at the soft grey with the pinprick edges of his teeth. They scrape against the edges of the scabbing wound he'd given her on their last meeting, and the memory of it is enough to dull his reaction to her next words.
Not until she is snapping forward does he react, and it is not quite fast enough.
Perhaps it is the keratinous strength of her beak or the softness of his scaled throat, but a pair of scales- one sapphire and one gold - are dislodged from the plate just beneath his jaw. Ivar snarls, neck drawn back, but he doesn't move farther away. This is not the first time a woman has tried to mark him, but it is the first time one has been successful.
He imagines ripping her apart for it, wondering if the tentacles might move even when severed from her body.
Instead he touches his nose to hers, sliding his muzzle lower until his teeth hover over the pulsing beat of her heart in her throat. It is still cold, he finds, but her skin is soft and pliable beneath his mouth. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble.
"Why don't you go back and take your Pangea," he says, "and I will do the same for Ischia."
“Never.” she purrs. “Underestimation is the fastest way to die.” terse and to the point, she fixates on Ivar: a shiver in her flesh and her skin pulls tight as she recalls the visceral sharpness of his teeth- the strength of his bite. The pain is a familiar sensation, a prickling thing that causes her to consider how he might snap: how he might draw from her the delicious taste of flesh and bone and blood… and for a moment she thinks in her mind how she might enjoy it. Yet? She is quick, and she finds that her strike cracks against the sharp and glistening scales and digs beneath them: that salty and metallic blood is dripped over the radula on her tongue and perhaps flesh torn into the beak.
He snarls, and she recalls how she’d cried out before- how she growled in a shrill and inhuman way: the dismal hiss that flowed between stars. Her teal eyes linger, wide and blackening as the barbell shaped irises expand and the tendrils seem to grow far more active.
Each movement, each space- every gesture, she feels it prickling the cold skin and all its wet, and porous expanse. Yidhra, too, slides her tendrils; but they are not unpredictable nor violent: the suckers gently pressing and releasing in something akin to a kiss. She minds where his mouth is; but, little cares as he feels the thudding heartbeat- the pulse of life in her body. Immortality, she knows, is a curse: a gift, and even if he dismembered her… she would merely come back in one way or another.
“Ivar…” she rolls her r’s and tongue, she purrs and whispers into his flesh. “I trust in your ability to do what must be done, and if you trust in mine: know that I will see you soon. Maybe not to stay, but- perhaps to play and swim.” and in that moment she lifts her head- brings her maw close to his ears and whispers.
Hedonism drenches the words she speaks, those meant… only for him. “I do enjoy our time, after all- I’d like to get a little closer one day.”
And with that she begins to step back, to allow the hooves to slide across the wet sand and trail into the breaking waves. Cold and familiar she coos at the pin prickling chill and all the salt that wets the porous flesh, and there is a moment where she wades and begins to sink: to slither beneath the surface.
