 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
She is silhouetted against the sun for a moment, but the wind is in his favor. “Wrena,” Ivar breathes as she draws closer, a pleased smile drawing up the line of his pale mouth. He has seen the shadow of dragon-wings from time to time, dark shapes in the shallows, but there is little that lures the kelpie to the surface. The wings could have been Castile, or Mist, or any of the hoard of firebreathing beasts that have multiplied on the dry earth of Beqanna. Ivar lacks his sire’s distrust of the winged creatures, but nor is he especially fascinated by them. They can find him if they must – as Isobell does, and Mist – but such encounters have been minimal of late. The shifting seasons have drawn him out of the water in much the same way he draws in his prey, and there is a flicker of interest in his gold-flecked eyes as the winged mare comes close without hesitation. “Fine,” he tells her, never a brilliant conversationalist and distracted by the warmth of her breath against his scaled nose. “And yourself?” The kelpie does not especially care about her answer to this query, but as he takes a step forward to run his muzzle down the length of her jaw he asks a better one: “Will you be staying this time? Maybe if your sister came, you would.” Her sister has always s been her excuse – first when she would not come to Loess, and then when she’d slip out of his grasp just before he could draw her into staying. He has always enjoyed difficult hunts the best of all, and Wrena has been eluding him for years. that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind |
@[Wrena]
@[wrena]