02-27-2019, 08:36 PM
The golden-eyed kelpie smiles at Isobells’ teasing, but that is because her pearlescent scales taste only of saltwater and himself. He knows her words are in jest, just as she knows that Ivar would tear any suitor of hers from throat to thigh if he so much as looked crossly at him or dared touch her on his island. Here, on this northernmost isle, which he has begun to think of as his even more than the rest of Ischia. The big island is just that – big – and the kelpie is meant for a far smaller territory. He has managed it, in the same way that he manages everything he has ever tried (that is: successfully), but he has been unhappy doing so.
He far prefers this place, where Isobell belongs solely to him. Ivar’s curious lips trace the curve of her shoulder, and he lingers over the welted scars there. His breath is hot against the marks, and the kelpie’s pupils dialte at the memory of making them. He had never dreamed that spilling the blood of his best friend’s sister might result in this. She’d been a pretty filly, strong willed but he’d thought her otherwise unremarkable prior to their encounter in the brackish river delta. Young Ivar had been foolish in choosing to hunt her, but perhaps it was fate that had drawn him to her. It was certainly fate that had brought her to the surface afterward, fate and magic and something more.
Now she is more than the young princess of Nerine. Now she is kelpie, savage and beautiful and his. Less savage now that she grows round with child, but such is the result of motherhood. She will be softer in these months, he knows, gentler as she cradles his children within her. Now is the time to let her know of things that might otherwise disturb her, Ivar knows.
“I know you do,” he says when she voices her love for him. And he does know, just as he knows what that must feel like, just as he knows he does not – cannot – feel it. This absence of emotion has never bothered the kelpie. He’d felt things as a child, but with maturity came animal instinct and the shedding of unecessary burdens. Guilt is one such burden, and he deos not feel it around the words he says next.
“That’s why I’m giving you Ischia. Not as pretty as the egg, I think, but definitely bigger. Consider it an early thank-you present.” Ivar gaze flicks to her barrel at this last, acknowledging the unborn foal within her. He is utterly certain it will be a kelpie like all their others. Isobell has never disappointed him when it comes to children, after all. Their offspring are quick and clever and kelpie, proof that she above others is the ideal wife. “I’ll keep this island, but you can have the rest of it, Khaleesi.” As Ivar speaks, his caresses continue, small circles drawn with his pale muzzle along the length of her spine. As he goes, he presses subtle hypnotic commands. Nothing he does not think she wouldn’t like, of course, just calm and relaxation and just a dash of aphrodisia. His sapphire blue ears are pricked toward her, waiting for a reaction to his gift, and perhaps an indication he might need to also subconsciously encourage her to accept it.
@[Isobell]
He far prefers this place, where Isobell belongs solely to him. Ivar’s curious lips trace the curve of her shoulder, and he lingers over the welted scars there. His breath is hot against the marks, and the kelpie’s pupils dialte at the memory of making them. He had never dreamed that spilling the blood of his best friend’s sister might result in this. She’d been a pretty filly, strong willed but he’d thought her otherwise unremarkable prior to their encounter in the brackish river delta. Young Ivar had been foolish in choosing to hunt her, but perhaps it was fate that had drawn him to her. It was certainly fate that had brought her to the surface afterward, fate and magic and something more.
Now she is more than the young princess of Nerine. Now she is kelpie, savage and beautiful and his. Less savage now that she grows round with child, but such is the result of motherhood. She will be softer in these months, he knows, gentler as she cradles his children within her. Now is the time to let her know of things that might otherwise disturb her, Ivar knows.
“I know you do,” he says when she voices her love for him. And he does know, just as he knows what that must feel like, just as he knows he does not – cannot – feel it. This absence of emotion has never bothered the kelpie. He’d felt things as a child, but with maturity came animal instinct and the shedding of unecessary burdens. Guilt is one such burden, and he deos not feel it around the words he says next.
“That’s why I’m giving you Ischia. Not as pretty as the egg, I think, but definitely bigger. Consider it an early thank-you present.” Ivar gaze flicks to her barrel at this last, acknowledging the unborn foal within her. He is utterly certain it will be a kelpie like all their others. Isobell has never disappointed him when it comes to children, after all. Their offspring are quick and clever and kelpie, proof that she above others is the ideal wife. “I’ll keep this island, but you can have the rest of it, Khaleesi.” As Ivar speaks, his caresses continue, small circles drawn with his pale muzzle along the length of her spine. As he goes, he presses subtle hypnotic commands. Nothing he does not think she wouldn’t like, of course, just calm and relaxation and just a dash of aphrodisia. His sapphire blue ears are pricked toward her, waiting for a reaction to his gift, and perhaps an indication he might need to also subconsciously encourage her to accept it.
@[Isobell]