10-19-2017, 09:58 PM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
This clear autumn night is excellent for star-gazing. The moon is a bright sphere above the southern woods, and it illuminates the stallion’s path along the edge of the kingdom. Ivar has left Heda, sleeping and satisfied, but he is not yet weary. His mind turns back to her, aided by the gentle tickle of a navy feather that had become entangled in his mane sometime during the course of their activities. The love she’d given him (the emotional sort, though they’d certainly shared the physical as well) still thrums through his veins. It is not natural for a kelpie; he is physiologically unable to activate neurons in such a way to create the emotion himself. The only source he has is Heda, and the constant refreshing she gives him keeps the sensation blazing. There are times when it dims, of course, whether by time or distance or purposeful forgetting. He’d not felt it as he covered Karaugh, or the glowing angel mare, or the little pink unicorn Flit. They’d moaned beneath him and consumed his entire focus, leaving him with only his physical satisfaction in the aftermath. That was always when he’d gone to find Heda, sure to sink a while in the bubbling springs beforehand. She’d fill him again, and it would be enough…until the next time. The soft smile on his face still remains, even when he catches a familiar scent during his patrol. At first he thinks nothing of it; Isobell had been visiting for a while. Perhaps she’s out for a nighttime stroll. It is faint though, very faint, and as he turns his head toward the south, realizes that it is no coming from Loess. No, thinks the scaled stallion with a growing dread in the pit of his stomach, she’s in Sylva. Sylva is having their festival, a disaster he’d intended to avoid entirely. Yet Isobell is there, probably alone, because he cannot fathom Castile allowing his sibling to go at all. Very briefly, Ivar considers moving on. There will be less-than-savory acts beneath the Sylvan canopy tonight, and he wonders if she’ll partake in them. It is not the first time he’s imagined such a thing, but that had always been in theory. There’d been no danger to her in his fantasy, and there is certainly danger now. With a sigh, he heads into Sylva. It is not difficult to find his way through the woods; there are only a few places in the kingdom suited to such revelry, and following the sound is easy once he is close enough. The coupling, the raging, he passes it all by. This is far from anything he might desire, and his pale mouth curls up in distaste as he makes his way through the crowd. The crowd parts, and suddenly there she is. She is not alone, but her company is the very danger that Ivar had anticipated. “No,” Ivar says, stepping up beside the svelte mare with a scowl. “She is not alone.” He considers driving her away, or even simply commanding her to leave, but they are in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by unfamiliar figures. Ivar has no doubt of his own safety, but Isobell is far from protected. |