02-09-2019, 04:25 PM
The piebald kelpie is oblivious to Isobell’s contenment, and so is far from loathe to break it. This sunny afternoon is no better than any of the others that he has enjoy in his time in Ischia, and he knows they wil lcontinue on like this indefinitely. The piebald kelpie has been living in this paradise for most of his life, and lounging about in the sun had gotten boring years ago. This excitement over having something to show off is a rare occurrence, and not typical for the tricolored stallion.
It’s been brought on by the humid air that he breathes, empathy and oxygen mingling as he takes one last lungful before diving down beneath the waves. Time above the surface soothes the kelpie’s instinctive nature, and he has been having far more of that of late. Populating Ischia has been a task that the kelpie has largely enjoyed, but with young kelpies comes the burden of keeping their mothers alive.
Sometimes it is easier to sink below the water and forget that the rest of the world exists.
Ivar doesn’t stray from Isobell as he leads the way to the island tucked along the northern crescent beach. The water between the two beaches has the gentlest of waves, and the scaled stallion drifts above the waving seagrass. It reminds him of the seagrass meadows at the heart of their atoll, and that reminiscence is why he’s left his gift for Isobell here. When he spots the triangular rock standing nearly upright, he gestures toward it. With a few flicks of his finned tail, the sand at its base is swept away, revealing an oblong shape.
It blends well with the sand, mostly white and barely a foot long. Closer inspection reveals it to be covered with hundreds of scales and amid the sea of white are a handful of black, gold, and blue. Ivar had ripped it from the still body of a mare who must have been more dragon than she looked on the outside. At first he’d thought nothing of it (caught in the frenzy of bloodlust) but he had later returned when the sea was clear, realizing the value it might have.
If it were ever to hatch, Ivar knows that Isobell should be the one to have it. He is not sure of the timeline of an egg, but he knows that Isobell will not bear him a kelpie this spring. She can have this, he’d thought to himself – to hatch it and raise it or even to crush it and keep the pretty scales. He does not much mind either way (but perhaps that is simply the water streaming through his gills simplifying his thoughts.
”For you.” He tells her, watching the silver eyed mare with an expression that clearly indicates how pleased with himself he is.
@[Isobell]
It’s been brought on by the humid air that he breathes, empathy and oxygen mingling as he takes one last lungful before diving down beneath the waves. Time above the surface soothes the kelpie’s instinctive nature, and he has been having far more of that of late. Populating Ischia has been a task that the kelpie has largely enjoyed, but with young kelpies comes the burden of keeping their mothers alive.
Sometimes it is easier to sink below the water and forget that the rest of the world exists.
Ivar doesn’t stray from Isobell as he leads the way to the island tucked along the northern crescent beach. The water between the two beaches has the gentlest of waves, and the scaled stallion drifts above the waving seagrass. It reminds him of the seagrass meadows at the heart of their atoll, and that reminiscence is why he’s left his gift for Isobell here. When he spots the triangular rock standing nearly upright, he gestures toward it. With a few flicks of his finned tail, the sand at its base is swept away, revealing an oblong shape.
It blends well with the sand, mostly white and barely a foot long. Closer inspection reveals it to be covered with hundreds of scales and amid the sea of white are a handful of black, gold, and blue. Ivar had ripped it from the still body of a mare who must have been more dragon than she looked on the outside. At first he’d thought nothing of it (caught in the frenzy of bloodlust) but he had later returned when the sea was clear, realizing the value it might have.
If it were ever to hatch, Ivar knows that Isobell should be the one to have it. He is not sure of the timeline of an egg, but he knows that Isobell will not bear him a kelpie this spring. She can have this, he’d thought to himself – to hatch it and raise it or even to crush it and keep the pretty scales. He does not much mind either way (but perhaps that is simply the water streaming through his gills simplifying his thoughts.
”For you.” He tells her, watching the silver eyed mare with an expression that clearly indicates how pleased with himself he is.
@[Isobell]