10-19-2018, 07:21 AM
The piebald kelpie paces the western edge of his island, knee deep in the surf and eyes on the sea. Such agitation is abnormal in the sea creature, but so is solitude. The recent hurricane has scattered debris along the shoreline, and though Ivar has already pulled that most likely to decay (fish and the like) back to sea, seaweed and branches still litter the pristine white sand.
He pauses near a half-submerged branch and throws it out farther into the water with a single sinuous movement of his scaled next. If he does not have company, he can at least satisfy himself with physical exertion.
(The ever-summer climate of Ischia has made determining the seasons impossible for the kelpie, but he suspects that this frustration is indicative of the arrival of autumn.)
He had looked for his purple mare this morning, but had been unable to find her. Granted, his search had been brief due to his short temper, most of which he has worked out on his dedication to clearing the beach. Still, the hunger is rising and even the still-fresh fish he'd eaten have done nothing to slake it.
His golden gaze traces the distant shoreline, where he considers the appeal of luring in a bright-eyed girl for a romp beneath the waves. It is alluring, and he glances back at his island just to assure himself that Kylin has not appeared before stepping further into the water. She's there. No, not Kylin. @[Kyveli]. A darker shade of purple and without her mother's splashy white markings.
Ivar sees Kylin's daughter, but the kelpie sees prey.
He tilts his head, existing briefly in a rare moment of uncertainty, and then wades toward her with single-minded focus.
He pauses near a half-submerged branch and throws it out farther into the water with a single sinuous movement of his scaled next. If he does not have company, he can at least satisfy himself with physical exertion.
(The ever-summer climate of Ischia has made determining the seasons impossible for the kelpie, but he suspects that this frustration is indicative of the arrival of autumn.)
He had looked for his purple mare this morning, but had been unable to find her. Granted, his search had been brief due to his short temper, most of which he has worked out on his dedication to clearing the beach. Still, the hunger is rising and even the still-fresh fish he'd eaten have done nothing to slake it.
His golden gaze traces the distant shoreline, where he considers the appeal of luring in a bright-eyed girl for a romp beneath the waves. It is alluring, and he glances back at his island just to assure himself that Kylin has not appeared before stepping further into the water. She's there. No, not Kylin. @[Kyveli]. A darker shade of purple and without her mother's splashy white markings.
Ivar sees Kylin's daughter, but the kelpie sees prey.
He tilts his head, existing briefly in a rare moment of uncertainty, and then wades toward her with single-minded focus.