11-04-2017, 08:57 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
While Loess has been uncharacteristically full of children visitors of late, most of them had been of the especially small variety. Fluffy still, with little bottlebrush tails and an eye-to-head ratio that appealed to Ivar’s very base instincts. There are only two ages of horses he is familiar with after all: those very small children and full grown adults. Of course he knows there are ages between the two ends of the spectrum (he’d been an adolescent himself not terribly long ago), but he’s not been around them, and certainly not seen one since he’d gone back to the sea. He steps a bit closer, curious about the fire and the rusty filly that is protecting it. Wrena does not run, but the readiness (and then reluctance) to flee is appealing to him in a way that children are usually not. It reminds him of Isobell, of the way she was a child in all his happy memories, until one day she was suddenly a woman almost too good to eat. The bay filly is almost there, walking the vulnerable precipice of adulthood. The opportunity is too good to not take advantage of. Ivar reaches out (slowly, as if to show his good intentions), and removes a leaf that is plastered to the leathery skin of Wrena’s wing. Physical proximity established. “Doesn’t look like you picked a good alternative,” Ivar says, his attention turning back to the fire at her feet. “Or do you like standing about in the rain?” |