 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The gentle pressure of his muzzle against her throat has just begun to increase, an attempt to push Wrena just a step closer to the sea. The kelpie does not need much of an opening. Wrena has usualy slipped out of his grasp entirely by this point, always on the move, always ready to leave, and the sapphire creature full intend to press this to his advantage. It has been a while since he’s had a meal more satisfying than slippery fish. When the sound of hooves on shifting sand announces they are not alone, Ivar swallows a growl low in his throat and turns to face the interruption. He half expects it to be the mysterious sister that keeps the bay mare from him, but instead it is a red mare who smells of the sea and bears no resemblance to Wrena. Though he turns to face her, he allows one scaled shoulder to brush against Wrena’s, keeping her near even as he meets the yellow eyes of the stranger. His smile is slow and lazy, inexplicably alluring despite a mouthful of predator’s teeth. He has always appreciated a confident creature, and while he’s no intention of letting Wrena out of his grasp, the kelpie decides that he surely has time for a second course. There is little else to do on his island after all, and with his mate absent for weeks at a time he is free to pass the days as he pleases. She promises not to keep them long and Ivar tilts his head, wondering how she intends to keep them at all. He has never been a gifted wordsmith and his mind immediately turns to force. The ruddy mare is a tall creature but does not look especially strong. A challenge, but not an insurmountable one. She will be their host in Ischia, Adria says, and the smile on Ivar’s pale face grows wider. He is not bothered by the inviataion to stay in a home he has dwelled in longer than the pale haired mare has been alive, but then – he is bothered by very little when it is done by a pretty face. Wrena’s half-whispered question of ‘Our host?’ is answered by a press of his shoulder to hers when he shrugs and a crinkle of his brown eyes that might be amusement. He is looking back at Adria by the time she asks if he will be Wrena’s guest, and he wonders if he’s found an answer to some of his idle suspicions about what the main island has become in his absence. The brotherhood had departed, but perhaps the tropical territory emits some siren call for those who prefer the company of a single sex. Ivar far prefers the idea of an island of women to one of men. “It’s good to know Ischia has not remained empty. I’ve not left my isle in some time, and assumed the parrots remained the only residents.” This is not quite true, as he’s entertained a handful of mares the last few seasons, each of them have traveled the larger island to reach his own in the north. “I’m Ivar.” he says by way of introduction, and then gestures toward the island that rests not far from the crescent shore they stand upon. “That is my island.” That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind |
@[Adria] @[wrena]
i hate html and i'll fix it later D: