The dark haired kelpie stands knee-deep in the surf, watching the tide come in. The sky overhead is clear and blue, which is not typical for this time of year. Ivar is accustomed to the strong winds and grey clouds of springtime, but this year has been unusually full of good weather. Perhaps it is nature attempting to balance out the Plague, he thinks.
He has not yet been stricken with illness, and so surmises that he must be either immune or uninfected. Neither seems better than the other, but at least he is not coughing up blood like some of the horses he has seen on the mainland. The kelpie is leaning toward immunity though; he has gotten rather near those hairless and pock-marked creatures beneath the waves.
Ivar yawns widely, shaking away the allure of sleep with a toss of his head. Behind him, he knows is the large mass of Ischia. It is a far larger island than he is accustomed to, and the governing is rather dull. Time to pass it off to someone else, Ivar thinks, but to whom?
A child? None of his are old enough, though the sapphire scaled king means to test Lothbrok soon. One of his consorts? Neither Jhene nor Carwyn seems capable. Karat had once been a strong contender but she'd left him (an offense that he will address in time), and Isobell is still so newly returned.
All this thinking gives him an ache in his head.
Ivar growls and plunges his head beneath the water, snapping at the little redeye goby that swim between his feet. They aren't a satisfactory distraction, so his golden eyes continue to rove the horizon until they detect some small bit of movement.
He has not yet been stricken with illness, and so surmises that he must be either immune or uninfected. Neither seems better than the other, but at least he is not coughing up blood like some of the horses he has seen on the mainland. The kelpie is leaning toward immunity though; he has gotten rather near those hairless and pock-marked creatures beneath the waves.
Ivar yawns widely, shaking away the allure of sleep with a toss of his head. Behind him, he knows is the large mass of Ischia. It is a far larger island than he is accustomed to, and the governing is rather dull. Time to pass it off to someone else, Ivar thinks, but to whom?
A child? None of his are old enough, though the sapphire scaled king means to test Lothbrok soon. One of his consorts? Neither Jhene nor Carwyn seems capable. Karat had once been a strong contender but she'd left him (an offense that he will address in time), and Isobell is still so newly returned.
All this thinking gives him an ache in his head.
Ivar growls and plunges his head beneath the water, snapping at the little redeye goby that swim between his feet. They aren't a satisfactory distraction, so his golden eyes continue to rove the horizon until they detect some small bit of movement.