05-21-2018, 11:45 PM
Knee-deep in the night black surf, the stallion bends to cleanse his bloody muzzle in the frothing sea. Beside him, a piebald mare stands dazed, her dark eyes unfocused despite the smile she wears.
Ivar hadn’t expected to find her, but as he reaches out to press his muzzle against the ripped scales of her neck and withers, he is infinitely satisfied that he had. Not Isobell, but just as willing, and with the unexpected perk of a color changing hide and the ability to swim with him beneath the sea. She wears a tobiano pattern that belongs to the former queen of Nerine, though as Ivar traces the curve of her spine (hungry again already, always hungry) the color fades to the patchy black she had worn at their first meeting.
‘Go rest’, he tells her without words, the command pressed into her varnish roaned hip with a touch of his jaw.
The kelpie’s gaze follows Raene as she climbs onto the beach, and though the lust and hunger have not been entirely sated by their time beneath the sea, he knows better than to call her back. She’d come willingly, like they always do, but too many bodies is dangerous. Best to use her sparingly; she is not as strong as Isobell. It’s good practice at least, he thinks. If he’s to keep his promise to Kylin and stay in Ischia, it’s probably best he learn how not to slaughter his lovers.
Overhead, the moon is full and round, and the scaled kelpie watches the black line of the jungle into which Raene disappears. It’s not the largest island - Ivar has no interest (and in fact, a vested disinterest) in that - but it has been a passable resting place for the past week. It is where Kylin knows to find him, and has a good view to the mainland of Beqanna for him to better watch for Isobell.
It is well past midnight, and the constant daylight chatter of the parrots has faded to silence. There are no sounds but the crash of the surf and the wind in the trees, and the sigh Ivar releases as he looks up at the globe of the moon. It illuminates his iridescently scaled face, and even the matte of his grey-black scales shimmer under the combination of moonlight and saltwater. Looking at him, there is no question of how his kind lure their prey. Ivar has no need of charm - though he has that as well - not with a figure and features that are without flaw (save the smear of Raene’s blood along his jaw and the puckered scar of an old burn on the left side of his chest.
ooc: i wrote this mostly for myself as backstory but anyone is welcome to respond :)
Ivar hadn’t expected to find her, but as he reaches out to press his muzzle against the ripped scales of her neck and withers, he is infinitely satisfied that he had. Not Isobell, but just as willing, and with the unexpected perk of a color changing hide and the ability to swim with him beneath the sea. She wears a tobiano pattern that belongs to the former queen of Nerine, though as Ivar traces the curve of her spine (hungry again already, always hungry) the color fades to the patchy black she had worn at their first meeting.
‘Go rest’, he tells her without words, the command pressed into her varnish roaned hip with a touch of his jaw.
The kelpie’s gaze follows Raene as she climbs onto the beach, and though the lust and hunger have not been entirely sated by their time beneath the sea, he knows better than to call her back. She’d come willingly, like they always do, but too many bodies is dangerous. Best to use her sparingly; she is not as strong as Isobell. It’s good practice at least, he thinks. If he’s to keep his promise to Kylin and stay in Ischia, it’s probably best he learn how not to slaughter his lovers.
Overhead, the moon is full and round, and the scaled kelpie watches the black line of the jungle into which Raene disappears. It’s not the largest island - Ivar has no interest (and in fact, a vested disinterest) in that - but it has been a passable resting place for the past week. It is where Kylin knows to find him, and has a good view to the mainland of Beqanna for him to better watch for Isobell.
It is well past midnight, and the constant daylight chatter of the parrots has faded to silence. There are no sounds but the crash of the surf and the wind in the trees, and the sigh Ivar releases as he looks up at the globe of the moon. It illuminates his iridescently scaled face, and even the matte of his grey-black scales shimmer under the combination of moonlight and saltwater. Looking at him, there is no question of how his kind lure their prey. Ivar has no need of charm - though he has that as well - not with a figure and features that are without flaw (save the smear of Raene’s blood along his jaw and the puckered scar of an old burn on the left side of his chest.
ooc: i wrote this mostly for myself as backstory but anyone is welcome to respond :)