05-17-2020, 11:01 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take Ivar does not come to the mainland during the winter. Even this early spring day is cool enough to remind him why, and the water that streams past his scales as he moves upriver is cold with snowmelt from the Hyalinian mountains. The kelpies does not the cold, and he is uncharacteristically quick to leave the water when he finds a shallow enough bank. The sun is not strong, but the air does not dilute it like the water does, and Ivar grows warmer as he drips dry beside the river. Having shed his fins as he left the water, Ivar is left with a wet and heavy horsehair tail instead, which he flicks irritably against his tr-colored body. Most of the scales that cover him are a deep sapphire, and the white of his tobiano markings is made of scales as pearlescent as the inside of the shells he collects for Isobell. The thin lines of gold that separate them are gild on the lily (as if Ivar has ever been compared to something so delicate), but somehow a fitting compliment to the rest of the creature. The face that peers out from beneath his tangled mane is equine, but perfectly so. Even the scowl over his golden eyes is perfect, even the glint of sharp teeth within his mouth. He is unwilling to let go of those even when disguised, knowing that in this world of pacifists sharp teeth alone do not make a creature dangerous. He means to find someone with that type of thinking, someone eager to be swept off their feet by a handsome stranger. His children are growing hungry, having lost the last of their autumn-gained weight. Hunting is easiest in the fall, but prey is not scarce in other seasons – simply more difficult to separate from the rest of the herd. The sound of feet in the distance cause him to turn his head to where something is moving in the trees nearby. They’re coming his way, Ivar realizes, and grows still. that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind |