ivar;

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take Ivar yawns, his brown eyes squinting against the brightness of the sun as it edges over the eastern sea. It glitters there at the horizon, a reminder of what he does not have. His wakeful movement seems to have roused the mare beside him as well, for she stretches her neck and blinks up at him with sleepy adoration. Her expression stirs a hunger in him that Ivar satisfies immediately, finishing with a pleased grunt and sending Jhene on her way with a playful nip to the rump. There are other things to do this bright fall morning. The kelpie is heading off to do them when he falls still, his ears twisting to pinpoint the source of the sound. It had been Castile – but from where? He does not call out again and the wind seems to be against him, so Ivar climbs to the peak of the nearest hill. There – coming from the south – is a familiar winged figure. The scarlet blood is impossible to see from this distance, but the wind is finally able to reach him here in the open. Blood. Castile is still moving, albeit slowly, and as Ivar makes his way toward the other stallion, he mulls over what might be facing him when he finds Castile. Had the stallion been battling? Who? And why? The questions fall away as they draw close enough to speak; Ivar does not even notice that Castile is not smiling. His attention is on the dried blood, and the way that Castile seems to be totally unaware of it. The dragon born prince has always been stoic, but it is solidified even more as he addresses Ivar as though nothing is amiss at all. Despite his concern, Ivar follows his friend’s lead. If Castile wants to discuss something other than his injuries, so be it. Of course, the scaled creature had not expected the ‘something other’ to be Isobell. Despite everything that has happened, the piebald king has always managed to avoid having the Isobell conversation with Castile. There is much that Ivar could say, of course, but he’s not at all certain how Castile will react. Discomfort flits across the stallion’s face, but there is nothing more. Perhaps it is best to start with a direct answer to Castile’s question. “I’ve not seen her since the start of spring,” he replies honestly. It’s been nearly six months, and Ivar has not laid eyes on Isobell. “I left her in Nerine, after she made it clear she wasn’t interested.” That is a bit of an exaggeration; neither of them was willing to accept what the other offered. Ivar doesn’t ever like to cast himself in a bad light, of course. “I think I made her a kelpie,” he finally adds, and as he says it something that looks just a very little bit like guilt flickers across his pale face. “But that’s all we have in common anymore.” Ivar has managed to skirt over the best-friend’s-sister bit of the complication, but the kelpie has always gotten the impression that Nayl might have raised her son to be as respectful of the autonomy of women as she had her daughter. There wasn’t any requirement that Ivar ask Castile’s permission to pursue his sister, though the piebald stallion does know that his friend might have appreciated a warning. Still, if Isobell had told Castile everything at the River, Ivar doubts that his friend would be as calm as he is. “But speaking off oddities…what happened to you?” king of loess minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus