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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    anyone;
    #1
    Water.

    For some odd reason, it lures her like moth to a flame. Ocean tides and sandy shorelines, seagulls and horseshoe crabs. It all weaves together like a tapestry, or a blanket, that lulls her each night. For the past few days, she has kept low and undetected along the edges of Tephra, lustfully staring out at the island just beyond her reach. Meticulously calculating, she has considered where the sun sits in the sky when the tide recedes and how much time she is to have should she make a dash.

    Young, delicate, and ignorant, Izmir knows what she wants but not yet of how to achieve it. There have been a couple times in which she observed what seemed like a horse – yet it swam so gracefully beneath the waves – streamline through the water toward the horizon. Glancing back at herself, she sees no such thing; there’s no fin, no ability to shift, nothing fish-like except for the patches of scales that glitter in the winter sunlight. A sigh slips from her, but Izmir continues waiting until the low tide finally arrives.

    It's a process, but one that she is patient for until she finally steps out into the ebbing water. With some hesitation, she navigates from one sandbar to another, careful to walk where she can reach (will the ocean swallow her? What will happen then?). Her hooves sink into the sand and she squeals before jumping away, fearful of the unknown. It takes a while, but her efforts are not in vain. Step by step, minute after minute, Izmir finally reaches the island. Dry sand hisses as it wraps around her hooves and coronets, but there is no fear this time, only a smile. A glance back shows her what she has overcome, the endeavor that her young legs mastered and overcame.

    Excited, but subdued, Izmir looks up at the towering palm trees – everything is so large in the eyes of a child – and takes a deep breath, already finding solace in having reached her destination. 
    Reply
    #2

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge
    of how much to give and how much to take
    Ivar has no desire to track down children that he has sired. That would require effort, and leaving Ischia, neither of which are at all appealing. But he does like to know if they are kelpie (if only to be certain to find their mother again in an effort to repeat his previous success). So when he leaves them, it is always with the final command to bring the child back.

    He’s no idea of the success rate of this, at least with the women he does not keep confined to his isle. A few have found him – Carwyn’s children, travelling north from the island where she thinks she is hiding, and those of the nereid Evia – but Ivar is quite sure that this is the youngest one he’s seen. Or at least, the youngest that has ever come without her mother.

    The kelpie has been watching her from the water. He is the shape beneath the waves, circling her to get a better look. She looks like her mother with those budding antlers, but the color and scales are surely Ivar. He only recalls her mother faintly, and that only because he’d been interrupted when wooing her. Isobell had returned earlier than expected from her moonlit swim, and Ivar had been forced to send white Merwen off into the Ischian jungle lest his wife find him with another in their cave. He had promised it was theirs alone, after all. The promise makes bringing other women there all the more thrilling.

    Someday Isobell will discover he’s broken that promise, and she will be furious.
    He looks forward to that day.

    This small filly reminds him of that, so rather than pull her down as breakfast for himself and the younger pair of kelpies that trail him, Ivar instead waits until she reaches the shoreline and approaches her alone.

    “Where is your mother, little one?” Ivar asks. “Did she send you to find me, or have you come of your own accord?”

    She seems smaller here, when he sees her from above the water, or perhaps it is being on land that makes Ivar feel too tall. His golden gaze is curious, but no less sharp than the teeth that line his long jaw.

    @[Izmir]


    and i'll use you as a warning sign
    that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
    Reply
    #3
    Now that she is here – Ischia, right? – Izmir finds herself lost as to where her trail should turn next. There are others deep in the palms; she can hear them clearly enough. Her mind urges her forward, to find someone, but childish fear and reluctance keeps her rooted on the damp sand. Mother is elsewhere. So who, in truth, is safe to be with? She knows no one – not friends, not a father, not siblings – and so she remains immobile with the sun dancing across her scales.

    A smile laces itself across her lips as she savors the silver lining of her solitude. At least, she is here. The mainland is behind her. Looking back over her shoulder, she sees it as a lump of rock, dried like a prune, in comparison to the tropical paradise she has beached herself on. A few more labored breaths rattle her lungs from the exertion and thrill of having navigated the sand bars and shallows. I’m strong, she tells herself proudly, before she startles forward a few steps at the sound of a man’s voice.

    Mother didn’t quite tell her about father, or maybe she had before Izmir bothered to listen. It would be easy to identify him now if she was informed, but alas, he arrives as a stranger emerging from the salty waves.

    The man’s question confuses her, but Izmir keeps her chin lifted so as to not betray her inner confusion. Connecting the pieces, she considers him before glancing back at herself – her soft blue coat and opalescent scales – but even then, she doesn’t hurl herself into his arms. Instead, she levels her doe eyes on him as she turns to face. ”She is on the mainland,” there’s no solidified truth behind the statement, but the words are stiff enough for believability. Where else could she be though, in truth? Her scent is feeble here, a fading whisper on the breeze. ”I came on my own accord because I liked the look of the island,” that much is true, and her dainty head tosses up as though to move her forelock, even though she still only has a mohawk. ”Why would I come for you?” This is her father – it must be – as she traces the lines of his face and the rich sapphire of his coat, but she doesn’t anticipate a great love story between her parents. For all she knows – and how right she is to think this – she is just another face lost in a crowd of his children, replaceable and unremarkable.



    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #4

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge
    of how much to give and how much to take
    He startles her, and his grin grows in wolfish delight as she takes a few steps away. The filly doesn’t let herself look scared, though, and there is a proud lift to her shin as she stares down her blue nose at him. Ivar does not recall that imperiousness in her mother, and suspects it must come from him. Her mother is on the mainland, she says, and Ivar’s golden eyes turn that way. The Tephran shore is distant, and there is no telling where on the mainland that Merewen might be. What matters is that she isn’t here.

    Her daughter is, though, and Ivar looks back at the child.

    She is scaled, the color of sunlight in tropical water, and proud. Beyond that she is unremarkable, fragile looking in the way that young children are. Tender, too, and he can hear the quiet sounds of her breath and the steady beat of her heart. Ivar is wondering how far she might run before he catches her; surely not far on this soft sand? But Ivar does not feel like chasing this afternoon and nor is he terribly hungry. So when she tells him that she is here because she likes the look of the island and demands an answer from him, the kelpie gives her a good natured (if mildly terrifying) grin in response.

    Not a kelpie, but not entirely boring either.

    Perhaps he’ll keep her, he thinks; like Svana had kept the little seal he’d fetched her from the Island Resort. If he grows bored eventually, at least she’ll be a little larger and have more meat on her bones. The idea occurs to him that he might do more than eat her – perhaps he can send her to the Dame of Ischia, as a peace-offering. Maybe after that he’ll eat her?

    Either way, the time for eating is not now, and Ivar suspects she’ll want an answer soon.

    “I asked you mother to bring you here when you were born,” Ivar tells her smoothly. “At least, I told her to bring you if you showed promise.” That’s not entirely true, but Ivar suspects she is at least a little like her better siblings. They respond well to flattery, so long as it is not empty. “What is your name?” He asks, taking a step forward so that he might get a better look at her. “I am Ivar, master of the northern Ischian isle of Kelpie. I am your father.”

    @[Izmir]


    and i'll use you as a warning sign
    that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
    Reply
    #5
    If only Izmir could see into her father’s thoughts and see how she is the equivalent of a boar on a silver platter. Raise her until she is primed for butchering. Maybe then she would have run away, but her ignorance keeps her planted in front of him. Fleeing doesn’t cross her mind; she is too stubborn to cower away from his crocodilian smile. There are shadows in his mildly terrifying smile, lines that prickle her skin in awareness.

    Do not turn your back on him, she tells herself. He doesn’t seem like a father to hold her close and trail kisses down her neck, to raise her in a traditional sense. They keep a distance between them, but the space is far from empty. There are steadied breaths and scrutinizing eyes, unspoken words and twisting thoughts.

    To act on bravery, Izmir inches closer. Still, her chin is lifted as though that signifies great strength (what could she really do to him?). A snort quivers her small nostrils. ”I just wanted to be near the water,” she wasn’t sent here on a mission, ”so I guess you will have to determine whether or not I show promise.” Her airy voice trails away in thoughtfulness, her eyes darting toward the sea. She watches the white crests come and go with the lull of the waves, some dying far out while others lap at the sand. He emerged from the water – indicated by his soaked locks and rivulets down his skin – and, again, she pieces everything together. Blinking, Izmir regards him again in time to answer. ”Izmir,” she offers confidently enough, her voice flattened while her thoughts swirl. ”Ivar,” she echoes, memorizing him and the name he provides, ”Father.” She didn’t expect to know both her parents, but fate has a funny way of playing out. All she wanted was to explore a distant island; she never expected to meet her sire.

    Narrowing her cerulean eyes, Izmir finally asks the question that has been simmering. ”Ivar,” why is it easier to say his name instead of father? ”What are you, exactly?” Was he one of the dark shapes in the water? Or maybe he was just dousing himself in the shallows – a normal thing, right? – before walking to her. Drawing in a deep breath, she curiously traces his scales and how they catch the light. ”You’re why I have scales,” she thinks aloud to him, reflecting on mother and remembering only her antlers. There is no other explanation except his truth, that she is a child of his.



    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #6

    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
    Reply




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