12-31-2018, 12:22 PM
The sharp burst of pain when he moves too quickly has already become familiar. For the most part he is appropriately cautious, but from time to time he forgets. In time, he knows the wound on his throat will heal like the one on his shoulder, disappearing into a cluster of irregular off-black scales. For now though, it is a rough red scab over a shallow wound, one that he knows better than to constantly submerge in saltwater.
The lack of time spent in the sea is grating on him, and the golden-eyed kelpie is grateful that the island of Ischia is not without distractions. Some he had brought here himself, but others have arrived unexpectedly. Once such distraction is who he searches for today, bright eyes raking the tropical greenery for a familiar pattern of black and white.
It is still strange to see her here, surrounded by the lush forest and beyond that the sea. Ivar's memories of the mare are almost all against the backdrop of a grey Nerine or black sea; it is somehow startling for the world around her to now be so bright.
"You look delightful," says the kelpie to his wife. "Good enough to eat."
He is tempted to do just that, but Ivar has learned more caution in the last few years. Coupled with his increasingly long amount of time spent on land, the water-creature is more willing to think long term. Swallowing her heart would be delightful, but it is not quite as appealing as the idea of a third son from his wife. They'd lose the foal that Ivar is sure she carries (he is rather sure of his virility), so he satisfies himself with a soft nibble along her crest and a cheek pressed against hers.
"What do you want?" He asks her, his voice a quiet rumble against her lips. He remembers the desire to keep her satisfied, to keep her so content in Ischia that she never leaves again, and runs his muzzle along the familiar pattern of her moonbright and midnight scales. “You never did like the fish I brought you,” he reminds her with a soft chuckle at his own good humor.
@[Isobell]
The lack of time spent in the sea is grating on him, and the golden-eyed kelpie is grateful that the island of Ischia is not without distractions. Some he had brought here himself, but others have arrived unexpectedly. Once such distraction is who he searches for today, bright eyes raking the tropical greenery for a familiar pattern of black and white.
It is still strange to see her here, surrounded by the lush forest and beyond that the sea. Ivar's memories of the mare are almost all against the backdrop of a grey Nerine or black sea; it is somehow startling for the world around her to now be so bright.
"You look delightful," says the kelpie to his wife. "Good enough to eat."
He is tempted to do just that, but Ivar has learned more caution in the last few years. Coupled with his increasingly long amount of time spent on land, the water-creature is more willing to think long term. Swallowing her heart would be delightful, but it is not quite as appealing as the idea of a third son from his wife. They'd lose the foal that Ivar is sure she carries (he is rather sure of his virility), so he satisfies himself with a soft nibble along her crest and a cheek pressed against hers.
"What do you want?" He asks her, his voice a quiet rumble against her lips. He remembers the desire to keep her satisfied, to keep her so content in Ischia that she never leaves again, and runs his muzzle along the familiar pattern of her moonbright and midnight scales. “You never did like the fish I brought you,” he reminds her with a soft chuckle at his own good humor.
@[Isobell]