Nyxa
Ironic, almost; that Ivar would assume she was Rey.
Neither of the girls know it (or are aware that the other even exists) but they happen to actually be related. Rey is Nyxa’s aunt, for lack of a better explanation, so it’s not uncanny that the pied stallion would sense some sort of resemblance or approach her with thoughts of familiarity.
But Nyxa doesn’t know that, so she blinks purple eyes with the shock of his proximity after rousing from her relaxed state. He’s brutish - this odd character, asking her clipped questions in a manner she’s not quite ready to engage but something she’s noticed plenty of grown horses do. Uptight, she thinks. With the shift of her slender legs she unfurls, noticing only for the brevity of a second how her skin is beginning to mottle with darker spots around her cornets. “Am I trespassing?” She asks, because this is the only assumption she can form.
“I swam here, believe it or not.” She replies, rising stiffly from her rest to give her sandy coat a hard shake. The pooled water about her sides, along her spine and usually in the shape of wings, sprays fine droplets with the action before disappearing altogether. This new knowledge that she could simply make her water wings disappear had come to her in a moment of frustration, but these days she was working on honing the skill. Occasionally her wings simply did what they wished - sometimes they would form, and sometimes, (much like now) they would lose their solid shape and fall to the earth as water should.
She preferred to be without them, on land. “I suppose somewhere between Ischia and here I took a wrong turn. I thought I was in the Riverlands.” She queries, turning her own head in a slow arc so that she might gather her bearings. “Not the Riverlands, damn.” She cements when her vision fills in the spotty backdrop; there’s nothing but red-barked, towering trees for miles. “Is this Nerine?” She tries, turning her attention back to the odd elder.
He made her feel … on edge. Despite her growing affinity for the water, the blood of the wolf still runs hot through her veins and, like a tiger meeting a lion, she can sense the predatory confidence in his mannerisms. The thrill of a shiver electrifies her nerves.
Wayward daughter of Canaan and Circinae
@[Ivar]