"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
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
The piebald kelpie rarely does anything with haste. There is no need to, not when he has everything he wants within reach. The weather is always perfect, the food is plentiful, the women are willing, and any danger is leagues away. Danger for his kind, that is – it’s not his concern if a few of the land-dwelling foals are lost to bull sharks. The sharks are good sport, he thinks, licking away an abrasive bit of skin trapped by his canines. One of his blue roans had looked startled by the rise of their fins as they’d lounged on the beach that that afternoon, and Ivar had been irritated enough by his unsuccessful search to take it out on the aquatic predators.
It is that search which makes him move with remarkable briskness, slipping through the water with ease. Far sleeker than his land-dwelling shape, Ivar’s bejeweled, aquatic figure makes short work of the swim to the southern shore of Loess. These are waters that he once knew well, and the kelpie rounds familiar underwater features. He startles a blue tang from a shallow crevice, swallows it whole. Ivar had not eaten much of the sharks – their tough meat is not his favorite. The kelpie prefers his food herbivorous, like the tang and the docile mares on his island.
Glancing overhead at the pearlescent pegasus that keeps pace in the air above him, the kelpie’s hunger rises.
Patience is not a virtue he has had to cultivate these last few years, and it is a difficult one to relearn. He had nearly leapt from the water to grab her a time or two, to pull her down into the warm waves. But he did not, even though the need is great, and his aborted ascension from the waves became instead become playful cavorting. It would have been more impressive with full length fins, truly. But rather than sweeping and glorious as they might be on another, Ivar’s fins are worn and bitten short, most of it the work of the bull sharks the other day. They’d been large, and more numerous than he’d expected. The impenetrable scales of his sides and topline are without mark, but there are some scrapes along his tender belly, not to mention the destruction of his fins.
There is nothing that dangerous in the waters here; here the danger remains on the land, and often in the sky.
Ivar surfaces in the reddish shallows, climbing from the water with a shake of his dark head. The fins have disappeared, replaced by hard hooves and matted blue and white hair. The scales have gone this time too, replaced by fine and silky hair which he half-dries with another shake of his body. The kelpie keeps his teeth, pointed and glittering from the lips of a mouth that open far too wide. Other than that though, the tricolored stallion looks more equine than he has in a half-decade. He waits for Oceane to land (or finds her on the beach; she’d been a rather skillful flyer), and gives her one of his more charming smile.
“Thank you again for offering to show me to Loess,” he tells her politely, wondering with a slightly narrowed golden eye how long it would take to gnaw the wings from her sides. They’ll make a nice addition to what the kelpie already collected. He’ll put them beside Jhene’s, Ivar thinks idly, the palomino spotted pair will accent them well. “Have you lived here long?”
The question seems innocent enough, spoken just before he bends down to wipe a bit of sand from his foreleg. He is in no hurry to carry on, it seems, though he most waits to see how much she might remember of their earlier conversation. There is no predicting it. He knows sometimes they shake off the spell fairly quickly, but weaker minds are more willing to accept Ivar’s intrusive thoughts as their own. Both have their perks, and Ivar’s hunger rumbles again as he raises his head, ears pricked forward curiously to learn whether Oceane is an appetizer to what is coming, or if she is worth saving to enjoy afterward. Ivar doesn’t have a preference, not really; a meal is a meal.
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
She agrees to escort Ivar to Loess with a small acquiescing smile twisting up the corners of her lips, as if she is Beqanna's tour guide and it is her duty to gracefully provide historic information and fun facts about the lands through which they pass. She feels a twinge in her stomach as she takes to the sky, and though the opaline woman lingers on this feeling, she's ultimately unable to place why, exactly, she may be feeling just a tad bit off.
She pushes it into the back of her mind with a dismissive toss of her head. She settles into flight, joyously circling through thermals and dipping low to the churning ocean water each time Ivar breaches the surface. The scent of the seawater is welcome in her lungs; she knows, too, she will smell of it for days to come as the wake from her kelpie companion splashes up and into her wind-blown forelock and feathers.
Oceane is hit with another pang of discomfort as they near the halfway mark of their journey. She rises higher into the sky, coaxing fresh air into her lungs.
Did Isobell send you here?
The predatory curve of Ivar's lips flashes into the pegasi's mind. She nearly gasps at the returned memory, at the reminder of the way she'd frozen beneath the kelpie's touch. Thankful to have ascended as far as she had, perhaps under the guise of observing how far they have until they reached Loess's southern shore, Oceane flicks her gilded eyes downward to observe the tatter-finned kelpie darting beneath the waves. Dread fills her stomach like hot acid.
But she continues to smile, as if her life depends on it. Because it probably does. The opalescent woman even swoops low to the sea again, her flight feathers spread wide, continuing the charade of cavorting with the painted beast as they journey to her home.
I could teach you how to swim with the whales.
She shivers as the next memory resurfaces, at the confidence behind the way he'd threatened her life. She would have had no say in it if he'd told her to harm herself - to drown herself in the ocean deep - she knows that now. His ability to tell her to stand still, be quiet was the tip of the toxic iceberg.
And, as is customary for a scholarly mind, Oceane grows intrigued by his abilities despite the bile that churns in the pit of her stomach. It's met with worry. For herself, for Isobell, for Loess. Nevertheless, she forces something akin to joyous laughter from her ajar maw as she meets the kelpie on the southern shore of her home. Her hooves meet the red dirt with practiced skill, churning it minimally as she circles back to face the now-four-legged Ivar as he rises from the sea.
"It's my pleasure," she responds to his thanks, bordering on sweet in response to his charming smile, "I'm quite fond of the foothills. I believe everyone should have a chance to see them." Oceane returns her own smile to him, her ears flicking in the kelpie's direction and then behind her, hopeful for any noise that may indicate a fellow resident nearby. Cocking her head to the side pensively at his inquiry, Oceane takes a moment to respond - more to settle her breath and her pounding heart than anything else. Thankfully, she can blame the exertion from her flight for both of these things, and not the fear that threatens to claw out of her mouth.
"Mmmm... perhaps nearly half a year now, or a little more."
She turns, having suddenly decided what she will do with the kelpie stallion, and sets off into the territory at a brisk trot. She throws a coy smile over her shoulder at Ivar and beckons him to follow. "Come! You must see the hot springs. I'm not usually inclined to swim, but it was quite enjoyable during the winter." Oceane takes special care to keep a comfortable distance between them - one that would not alert him to her discomfort, but also one that would not allow him to simply reach out and touch her again.
She leads him further into Loess and towards the hot springs where she had last seen her King, hoping beyond hope that Castile will catch her scent on the breeze.
@[Castile], @[Ivar], @[Isobell] | speech
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
And catch her scent, he does.
It isn’t only hers, however, which incites a lick of uncertainty in his thoughts while his eyes dart among the rocky foothills. The reach of his sight extends far and wide while he soars overhead among the low-hanging clouds. Being possessive of her provides an inkling to investigate, but it’s her company that supplies the immediate drive. An added boost of momentum propels him forward with a powerful thrust once his senses have pinpointed their location. Their wanderings lace across the rocky territory, weaving among the cacti toward a welcoming spring.
With precise agility, Castile shifts and descends as a hot summer gale sweeps across his face. With a heavy landing, he finds himself immediately at Oceane’s side with his intense gaze steadied on a drowned memory.
”Ivar,” despite their history, Castile’s voice is a flat drawl accompanied by an expression of mild curiosity. ”Fancy seeing you here with hooves,” his attention briefly flickers down, vividly remembering the fins that most often compliment the tobiano. With a deep breath, he rolls his eyes toward Oceane. Unable to contain the smile spreading across his lips, he inches toward her. ”Hello,” he murmurs quietly while reaching to brush his mouth along the arch of her neck. A smug grin flashes for only Ivar to see before inching a step back. ”Surely, you have good intentions visiting Loess, right, my friend?” A gleam of amusement traces along his features, attempting to deviate the kelpie’s hunger with reiterations of their relationship.
It didn’t protect Isobell but maybe, just maybe, it can protect Oceane.
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Nearly a decade has passed since the tobiano stallion had last seen Loess from this shore. The place is little changed; perhaps the red dunes have shifted and a bit more of the stone crumbled away. It would be easy to forget that he would not find Heda resting in the foothills or Trissy frolicking in the springs. The short days of autumn when he would find Isobell on these shores, driven from Nerine by the instinct he’d awakened in her, are long gone. Would they have brought her back to Ischia, he wonders, if he had the patience to wait for the fall?
Probably, he thinks, there is nothing stronger than instinct. His mate knows where she belongs, knows to whom she belongs. His coming here will only hasten her return, Ivar decides, and provide a bit of fun in his otherwise blissfully monotonous life. The longer-longer-scaled creature turns his golden eyes back to that bit of fun, who is telling him that she has lived here half a year. Ivar nods, only partially listening. Most of his attention is on Oceane herself, on her quick heartbeat and uneven breathing. They draw him closer, even though they might be just the result of exertion, but before he has a chance to taste the difference, the opalescent mare is turning away.
She’s leading him to the springs, she says. The distance she keeps between them feels almost purposeful, but as they are heading toward water, Ivar doesn’t truly mind.
What he does mind is the addition to their company, and the sound of beating wings overhead. He draws to a halt, and the scowl across his handsome face lightens when he recognizes the tobiano that lands beside them. There are worse additions he can think of, and while Ivar does follow the possessive way Castile draws near to Oceane, he returns the dragon’s smug grin with an amused curve of his own mouth. That part of Oceane is rather delicious; its no surprise that Castile thinks the same.
“Oceane is showing me Loess,” he tells Castile with a roll of his shoulders. It feels odd without the fins there, and Castile’s mention of his hooves draws another crooked smile. “I didn’t want to awe too many of your women with my other shape,” Ivar answers, well aware of the cocksure tone of his voice. The two pied stallions are alike in that, exuding bravado without being truly aware of it. Fortunately for both of them, Ivar is not inclined to find out which of them might come out on top in a scuffle. He is not threatened by Castile, at least on an instinctive level, and the season is wrong to be battling over women. Castile has always been willing to share his leftovers anyway, and Ivar is not especially picky about where his meals come from.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where my wife is, would you?” He asks the dragon. “I’m afraid she’s wandered off and gotten lost away from the sea.”
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
Castile has proven to Oceane (not that he had been required to prove anything to her) during her short residence in Loess that he is an attentive, observant, and territorial ruler. She breathes a sigh of relief that today is no outlier as the beat of the Loessian King's wings repeats loud overhead. The speed at which he descends is telling; he is wary of Ivar's presence within the foothills, and despite her relief at knowing she is safe in Castile's presence, there is a certain amount of guilt that springs up within her.
She is the one who'd led the kelpie here. She is the one who, it would seem, has brought someone potentially dangerous into their sanctum. Oceane can only hope that Castile will believe her when she finds the chance to explain the hypnosis the shifter-stallion had utilized with her, that he does not see Ivar's presence as a betrayal of the trust she had promised to him.
The way he murmurs a quiet greeting to her and presses his warm muzzle to her crest calms this fear. It coaxes a tentative smile in response before the memory of Ivar caressing gently down her neck in much the same way, though far more predatorily, causes her to shiver. She hopes that neither will notice as the two stallions take the conversation into their own hands; Oceane is content remaining here, beside Castile, far from the hot springs she'd promised to show the kelpie.
Oceane is showing me Loess, Ivar tells Castile without any indication of the earlier malice he'd presented to her. A master at his craft, he had most likely worked on perfecting his habits for years, and this leaves the opalescent woman to wonder just how much Castile knows about him. Or, she ponders, how much Ivar knows about the Loessian King and the dangerous secret he still hides from Oceane like an ace held close to his muscled chest. She wonders this, of course, without knowledge of their intricate and intriguing history.
"Ivar happened upon me as I was exploring Ischia," she suddenly interjects, her tone pleasant and her words chosen carefully for Castile's benefit, "He convinced me to bring him to Isobell." Her amber eyes, the worry seeping into them now, shift from the stallions and to the foothills that surround them. Isobell is nowhere to be seen, and she hopes that it will stay that way until the kelpie stallion decides to return to his own island home.
Feigning comfort, the winged woman sidesteps so that her glimmering feathers brush against Castile's, finding the feeling of safety in his close proximity.
@[Castile], @[Ivar], @[Isobell] | speech
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
A siren's song beckoned her away while Ivar had swam the depths of his salted bath waters, saturated and bound by long legs and glitter eyes, the whores he had enslaved kept his hunger sated by sex and flesh. The moonstone and glassy obsidian mare had foolishly forgotten her value, the queen mare she had once been, so she had slipped away with their child Svana to take up residence between the slender bodied trees and cool air.
Ivar was not a bad husband. He provided, protected and respected he. They spat on the occasion when Isobell had complained of the stink of other women, spitting poison tainted words from the white sands of her cave. What more could she ask for? A loyal, loving man that was like her father? There were few out there that shared the relationship that Nayl and Lior held...but still she had chosen to slip away with their youngest child.
When the autumn wind rose, voices traveled across...something feminine and familiar. The opalescent mare? Her friend Oceane? A flitting smile draws upon the eternally beautiful face as Iso turns her face towards the sun and the direction of her friend. Each hoof raises and falls like the churning tides just on the edges of Beqanna, her motions fluid as she splits the breeze till something draws her to a frozen halt-
Ivar
-his heavily maculine scent mingles with the voice of Oceane and Isobell feels a sense of fear, excitement...and even the small sting of jealousy. The pearled mare had brought her own husband to Loess? Soon enough her legs are moving faster and faster as she flies between the trunks of living and dead trees alike with a sick desperation.
Their voices grow strong as well as their scents...even the low growl of Castile is suddenly creating a trio and Isobell feels the well in her breast ease slightly. Should she show herself? Of course, for she belonged to Ivar and he to her (whether he admitted it or not).
Silver eyes have already outlined each form before she is seen. Oceane stands near the large figure of Castile and that of her husband is opposite. His glimmering skin calls to her senses and plays upon her urges as she feels feverish for but a moment...but she must calm herself...she knows it is all part of Ivar’s abilities. ”Dear husband-”, the velvet vibration of her honeyed words are sticking like sweet toffee in the space between their bodies as Isobell emerges from the shrubbery and tree lines. The kelpie queen’s gaze slips to that of her sweet brother and her friend. Iso moves to embrace the dragon king and her friend before she returns her gaze and the warmth of her skin to Ivar’s own jeweled body. ”Miss me?” The toying smile blooms upon her lips as knowing eyes are fully aware of her actions.
A light kiss is placed upon his cheek as she stands in the space that separated Ivar and Oceane with Castile. ”I’m surprised to see you in Loess.” This was genuine and honest as she had though the kelpie king was far too satisfied with his many women to care that Isobell was gone. ”Did you know I was visiting or-” her eyes slide to that of the beautiful oceanic mare...Iso was not stupid to think Ivar may have followed her in pursuit of food or flesh even if it was her friend...many ‘friends’ that Iso had kept often either took the side of Ivar or disappeared forever.
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Oceane acquiesces to his touch, thrilling him beneath a steady gaze and smug grin. His mismatched eyes meet hers, holding her tenderly for a long moment until he slowly steers his attention back to Ivar. Amusement rises in them both, a silent battle of dominance and possession although it will never escalate to anything further. Their lives are so closely intertwined. They’ve known each other since childhood and realizes the capabilities. Castile wisely avoids the turbulent ocean, especially when in Ivar’s company in case the kelpie ever wants to explore the dark depths with the draconic king.
Master of their elements, they boast only to deflate in equal understanding with boyish grins softening the edges of their faces.
”I hope you enjoyed your visit,” he replies to Oceane warmly before adding, ”Be careful of straying too far in the surf. It can be rather dangerous.” A glimmer in his eye mutely hints at Ivar, but he doesn’t confess it, still trying to grasp this strange situation. Something made the venture alluring enough to tempt Ivar from his salty cove.
Alas, their group of three increases by one. Castile’s attention flashes like lightning toward Isobell as she joins them with a sly grin to first address Ivar. When she slips toward him, they embrace tenderly as they always have before forcing a withdrawal as she offers Oceane her focus next. A broader grin establishes itself. ”Always,” he remarks with a chuckle, never ashamed to admit the closeness of their relationship. Life always seems better when Isobell is around. But with Iso, there is always Ivar.
A coyness paints across Castile’s handsome face now when he turns to look at the kelpie. ”I’m sure you memorized Loess years ago during your reign. It’s always nice to see you out of the water and visiting though.” Still, he doesn’t outwardly ask of the kelpie’s intentions, but the curiosity is there, simmering.
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Ivar is not a good husband, but he is a predictable one. Ivar hadn’t given Isobell a say in the matter, but the kelpie knows that she could have chosen far worse when it came to a spouse. The piebald mare is precious and treasured and valuable to him. Her wants and needs are always taken care of (so long as they do not contradict whatever Ivar might want at the moment). Isobell’s children are his favorite children, her rocky cave the one to which he always returned to at dawn no matter how far he had strayed the night before. Ivar has given her everything that she could have ever wanted, and she still had the audacity to think she could leave him without a word.
The nights that Isobell refused Ivar a place in their cave were always the most dangerous nights – at least for the other women of their little island. The kelpie was always less cautious in his frustration, and eager to take out his irritation on anything he could find. He’d killed Jhene on such a night, shredding her golden body into pieces too small even for her immortality to save her. Breckin had died on another, and Mallek, and a few others whose names he had never learned. Since Isobell’s depature from Ischia, there have been far fewer children born from his mares. It is not that he’s forsaken them – the very opposite. When he is satiated, it is enough to watch his offspring grow in their mothers. When he is hungry, they are just something extra to drown.
Ivar does not handle denial well. He’s too impatient, too impulsive.
He would have killed Oceane this morning if she’d not smelled of Isobell. A chance encounter (Ivar’s sapphire brow quirks upward at Oceane’s use of the word ‘convince’, and he glances at Castile with a somewhat knowing twist curling his mouth) had saved her, and now Castile’s presence further impedes his plans. Even Isobell’s arrival cannot permanently delay the inevitable, but all thoughts of the opalescent mare disappear the moment he lays eyes on his wife. Ivar cannot look away, though he scowl does deepen as Isobell makes no effort to greet him first, instead gliding up to embrace both her brother and Oceane before making her way to him. He smiles at her, but it does not meet his eyes.
You’re going to regret this, his metallic gaze says, even as he presses a kiss to her cheek. It is barely more than polite, but he’d seen the way her nostrils flared when she’d seen him, the way she’d fought against their bond. She’s his still, and he will remind her of that bond the moment they are alone. Ivar considers simply commanding her to feel regret with his magic, but that wouldn’t really teach her the lesson he wants her to relearn. “Not as much as you missed me,” he tells her instead, his voice pitched low for her ears, though likely still audible to the others.
[You did miss me] he adds through the places where Isobell’s scaled side brushes against his haired one. It’s only ever been the opposite before, some small part of him realizes – his scales against her silky hair. There are a few more things said without words, secrets between a man and his wife, reminders of their nights together and their many nights apart. When he pulls away, his vision is blurred for a moment, and the kelpie shakes his dreadlocked mane while he waits for it to clear. Almost all the seawater has dried out of it, though a few cool drops splash down along his sun-warmed sides.
“There’s not many things that could make me leave the ocean, let alone come back to these ugly mountains,” Ivar replies to Castile’s assessment of his visiting as nice.
“Your sister forgot to tell me she was visiting you,” the kelpie continues, “and I was starting to get worried that she’d forgotten the way back home.” So I’m here to remind her, is left unsaid, though only because Ivar knows that Castile will understand. Isobell belongs to him in every way that matters, and she is Ivar’s to do with as he will regardless of her familial connection to Castile.
“Has anything happened since I left you here with…” There’s the very briefest pause, a struggle to come up with the name of a child he’s not thought of in ages, “Lepis? She’s what: 3 or 4 now?” Ivar’s awareness of passing time is clearly much altered; more than a dozen years have passed since he settled on Ischia where there were no years, only days with more or less rain. “The place pretty much looks the same.” Ivar’s bright eyes flick out across the hills that rise into red mountains around them, breathing in the almost-forgotten tang of fresh and salt water all at once.
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
