09-30-2017, 03:00 PM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take Sometimes he does not stop at the border. It has happened more frequently of late, that the scaled stallion enters the no man’s land to the east of Loess and followed the river to its mouth. Beyond, the sea stretches endlessly. The luscious greenery of Ischia is a distant blur on the horizon; from here the whole island looks barely larger than the conch at his hooves. Though he stands in the sand, he is not near the surf. It laps at the shore, heedless of his presence; Ivar is insignificant to the sea. There have been a great many changes in the last few months, and Ivar is weary. He is the sole patrol of Loess, the single set of eyes to scour each inch of the hills. It is a wonder he has not slipped up yet, that he has not failed. He does not intend to, either, but that does not make the soft green water any less appealing. Sometime over the spring he has changed, though he cannot yet put words to the internal shift. Physically, he is different as well. Ivar is no longer the lanky youth that had come to Loess in the fall. He is no taller, but the muscles beneath his scaled hide are no longer lean. A grown stallion now, he is broader, thick-crested and strong-backed from months spent running hills and valleys, from jumping, darting, working himself into the epitome of strength. Here by the water that seems all the more useful, but he has no conscious reason as to why that might be. The tobiano horse has suppressed (through extreme dehydration, it seems) his stronger instincts. When Kylin had asked if the sea called to him less he had not answered, but that was not because he did not have an answer. He just had not wanted to give it, and the reason why seems all the more clear as he looks out at the water. |