Offer me that deathless death. Ivar.

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take When she begins to run, Ivar follows. The flat lands of the Field pass them in a blur, swallowed by their legs – his as pale as hers are dark. While Trissy’s endurance is built from a life spent wild, Ivar’s training has been more tempered. Taught by a warrior-king, a blade-master, and his own instinct, Ivar is as fit as one would expect the leader of an army to be (even if it is the smallest of Beqanna’s armies). He has no trouble keeping up with Trissy’s bold pace, and when they slow, he is not too prideful to hide his heavy breathing. That would only make it take longer to catch his breath, he knows, and Ivar is unwillingly to sacrifice readiness for vanity. They’ve reached the beach now, and Ivar glances down to Trissy beside him as she speaks. She refers to the rules of before. He knows them, of course – they haven’t changed – but he had not experienced them. This is the only Beqanna that Ivar has ever known, an isolated island away from the world. "Do you take me for a rogue?” replies the stallion with a matching flash of humor. He looks down at her as though the thought is an affront, as though his actions since their meeting have suggested that he is the penultimate gentleman. The setting sun has coincided with low tide, and ahead of them a stretch of sandbars reveals a clear path to the island. Ivar steps into the fetlock deep water without hesitation, glancing back at Trissy in invitation. She asks about him, but her interest is less intriguing than her apparent curiosity about the others. Ivar is accustomed to denial when it comes to the women in his life. Despite his own forthrightness about his intentions, they never seem to want to acknowledge that there are others (no more important than they are, but no less either). The glint of humor she had allowed through is less apparent now, and while Ivar has no qualms with sharing information, he finds that he is reluctant to upset what has become his status quo. How is he to know she is not like the others? “I rule Loess.” he tells her, “My wife gave it to me, and she now serves as the Ambassador. You’ll meet her soon.” There was more to the story of course – that was an oversimplification – but Ivar feels it is enough detail. He wants to know how she will react, how she feels about being one of many (and with some of those many being far more situated in Beqanna than this newcomer was). While Ivar would not wish any of them harm, he does find the image of his favorites meeting Trissy is rather amusing. Isobell would look down the length of her long and lovely nose and find something at fault with her. Heda would cling to his side for reassurance of his affection while doing her best to find a look that would kill. Ivar might not understand their jealously, but to say he does not enjoy it would be false. They have made it across the sandbar, and Ivar climbs on the sand. He has never come to the island at night before , but he looks behind them to where the sun is sinking beyond the mainland. It is a nice sight, and he watches it for a moment before looking back to the black mare. “Your turn.” king of loess minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus