11-09-2017, 08:42 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take He has always enjoyed the fog. It was often thick in Sylva when he had been growing up, and it always tasted of the sea. It drifted through Taiga and into the autumn forest, and Ivar had spent his childhood finding out exactly how high off the ground he needed to be to rise above it. The rocky outcroppings of Sylva had afforded him plenty of opportunity, and when he finds himself lost in the low-hanging clouds, he always remembers the experience fondly. Today is no different. Ivar dozes, one scaled hip pressed to the thick trunk of an ash. He had not slept the night before (he never does) and the weariness has begun to catch up to him. He’d considered making it back to Loess, back to his spring, but the trip had seemed daunting in the pre-dawn light. Instead he has settled by the river, and it lulls him to sleep. Something rouses him, but whatever it was does not appear to be worth any sort of alarm. Brown eyes, flecked with gold, blink open and shut again, focusing on the glinting silver river ahead. There is no one nearby, he finds, and the piebald stallion yawns and shakes away his sleepiness, feeling rather rested despite the brevity of his nap. The yawn reveals too-sharp teeth, but they are soon hidden behind a pale mouth and a handsome face. Nothing to worry about, his supernaturally good looks say, don’t be afraid. As he steps forward to take a drink, movement upriver catches his eye. The fog is thick, and it takes a moment for the weak wind to shift it enough that he can make out a distant figure. They are standing in the water, and Ivar does the same, wading through the knee deep and icy water until he rounds the bank where Augusta watches the fish. He assumes that is what she is doing, at least, and he keeps his distance lest he startle them back into the depths. “Catch anything yet?” He asks with a small smile, his head titled curiously. minimal grullo tobiano king of loess |