[mature] bottom of the deep blue sea; ivar

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take Hatred is not something that Ivar understands. Protection is the closest thing he has, the absolute surety that he would obliterate anything that threatened him and his. The way she smiles at him, the way she bumps gently against him in the water, the way she breathes his name – these inspire something far different than hatred in the kelpie. Moments ago, they had tangled together in lust, but the sweet smile she gives him inspires something less passionate – but no less powerful. He touches her cheek gently in response, feeling the smooth slide of scales against his muzzle. The lust is not gone entirely, it seems, but Ivar only nips playfully at her jaw. They have time for that, time for that and so much more. The water grows brighter still around them, morning spreading through the sky overhead. The pebbled riverbed becomes more visible below them, and the streaks of beaten sand where the ocean current has met the freshwater. Ivar’s back hooves stir the sand as he moves ahead, clouding the water, as he nods encouragement for her to follow. There is so very much for her to see, but first he will show her the very depths of the ocean, where the water is so deep that sunlight never touches floor. Then the coral reefs around Ischia, and the boiling waters around Tephra. They sweep down the coast of the common lands, around the western point of the plains. The blood there as has seeped into the water, but it inspires no hunger in the scaled stallion. He has Isobell, and the urge to hunt is no stronger than the urge to couple with her. The water around them grows colder with winter, and though he belly remains sleek and slim, Ivar grows more certain every day that this is the life he has always meant to live. The pied mare is everything he has wanted, and as he watches her resting in the sandy shallows in the pre-dawn light of a late winter morning, he knows that he will not return to Loess. They had made their way to the northern beaches of Nerine as the winter dragged on, all but completing a full circle of the waters around Beqanna. Ivar has not set foot on dry land in weeks, and he has never been more content. He runs his muzzle along Isobell’s neck, smoothing out her dark mane only to watch it drift away in the current again. “Wake up, beautiful.” He says, nudging her shoulder. “I think we made it all the way to Nerine.” Perhaps they will visit family, he thinks. Perhaps they will find her parents, receive their blessing. They do not need it, of course, but Ivar knows that his mate is fond of her parents. kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis minimal grullo tobiano king of loess