There is no quickness in it, no great speed or agility: no unparalleled dexterity or preternatural ability: the movement is simply that, a movement. A shuffling of dark hooves sliding through the leafy detritus and scratching the packed soil well beneath it, they are dark in color and tangles of hair fall over the ankles in matted and muddy curls. Those bony legs seem impossibly skinny and bone is more visible with the sunken in and tightly pulled skin, even her body seeks that way. Malnourished, sickly, and grotesque: the shell of what could’ve been a horse but for the moment was not. The dark colored fur is spattered by gray and its face is covered in a chimeral way: sheer white on one side and split down the middle. Its man and tail are long and stringy, dark and matted and it shambles in a way that is neither graceful nor beautiful.
Its movements are simply precise, mechanical, and purposeful. There are no words from it, not yet, just labored breathing and the suggestion of choking: of water in the lungs. From the the nose there is blood, coagulated and blackened, and when fresh it drips down and stains the leaves; but more disturbing is the nature of this nature: this monster. Barnacles have well encased and become growths upon the skin: along the hip and a single back leg. Sea water is coughed up, and there is algae and kelp bound into the hair: it smells of the sea, of the depths, and of the darkness.
With no fear of him, the beast stops: its head tilted and exposing the pale, eerily blue-green eyes and watching him with little more than an absence of emotions. Yet when it speaks, its voice is feminine and strained: an ancient accent touched its words and made only more notable by the husky and smoky tenor of its very words. “Ah, greetings- iron and sea.” she murmurs, nostrils flaring and her form shuddering as she coughs. “Was there blood on your lips?” more of a purr than intended she stays where she is, stands with a lazy posture and her attentions fixated.
“It smells like it, the faint cling in the air: in the cold.” and simply as that she notes the fog low on the ground, and the shadows moving about the wild spread trees and dense brush. Musing to herself there is a precious second where she looks away from Ivar and towards the very ocean… towards the moon-touched waves and glimmering water. Her dry lips curve into a smile and the crone chuckles, cacophonous and riddled with disharmony. “Ah, I never too far am I. It's like a song that sings in my head, but, you’re a strange- so what do you care for the ramblings of wandering souls. Do call my Yidhra, if you please.”
Introductory and cold, the purr and chuckle become sober and she looks to Ivar with a cold regard and a peaked interest in the pattern and color of his skin. “So many lovely features, even in the dark.”
Yidhra
@[Ivar] >:] YOU WANTED A POST FROM ME, HERE WE GO.