anyone;

[Ivar]

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