"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
When the Loessian winter turns her joints stiff and chills the marrow in her bones, Oceane takes to the sky again for another jaunt to the tropics. Almost involuntarily, her amber eyes drift to the earth as she climbs into the sky above her home, seeking out the familiar shape of her King. She sees no black-and-white paint, no telltale golden band. If he is nearby, he is likely busy with politics or the like. Oceane has found him to be a busybody, never giving himself a moment to settle lest he be taken off guard.
It's an admirable trait, though she can't help but feel a little disappointed to fly away from Loessian skies without seeing him before she leaves, if only for a brief moment.
Once away from Beqanna's most central territory, Oceane's head clears and she is able to concentrate on the boundless wilderness on display beneath her outstretched violet wings. Much of the continent is blanketed in snow, though as she continues west it reduces itself to a gentle dusting and then, eventually, makes way for sandy island shores. She has ventured further south than Island Resort today, though not by much; whisperings of Ischia have intrigued her, namely the kelpies who seem to have been seaborne from the waters there.
She thinks of Isobell, her friend, fondly.
With the warm sun on her opalescent back and striped neck, the pegasi woman drifts closer to the isle below. Crystal waters lap mildly at its shores and catch her gilded gaze, leaving her to wonder how forgiving they are when the sea turns tumultuous beneath the weight of an ocean storm.
It's on the smaller northern island that Oceane finally settles her purple hooves. The momentum of her descent is quelled by widespread flight feathers that shimmer in the sun, throwing flecks of light against the warm sand beneath her. It kicks up beneath the sudden churn of her hooves, made airborne by the last few undulations of her feathered limbs, and finally settles like golden dust across her muscled frame.
Curiously, she lifts her banded neck and inspects the landscape lain out before her. Verdant foliage breaks up the expanse of beige and it's in this direction that Oceane journeys with sand-muffled steps, drawn to whatever could be hiding behind the veil of large, leafy palms. It tugs her closer, this quiet whisper of 'careful'. Oceane stops quite abruptly at the one-word mumble, her countenance pulled into something resembling confusion as she tries to peer beyond palm fronds.
Unbeknownst to her, Beqanna has changed her already; it has given her a gift, quietly stowed it in the depths of her brain, and the voice she has heard comes from a nearby blue and gold parrot who wishes only to warn her of the consequences of her trespassing.
"Who's there?" she asks unwavering, as if she is not the one to step hooves into sands that were not her own.
@[Ivar] | speech
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Ivar rarely notices the passing of time. Each day in this tropical paradise is little different from the one before.
The sun shines, a cooling breeze blows, the tides crash.
What he does notice, what metric he does use to mark anything more than the rising and the setting of the sun, are the women.
So that is how he knows that Isobell has been gone for quite a long time. She had disappeared before the fall, and now he has felt the quickening of his colts within their mothers and she has still not re-turned. Her absence is grating in a way that only kelpie women truly are, and Ivar’s serrated teeth grind against each other as he prowls through the jungle. Walking on land is like sand in his teeth; frequent and ever unpleasant. The odd need to balance his weight evenly on four legs, the sensation of being pressed down by restricted directions of movement, the way open air feels against his jewel-toned scales.
The minute mother of pearl scales that cover his face are currently drawn down in a scowl, and yet due to his very nature, it is still an unnaturally attractive face. Even with the crocodile-like teeth that protrude from his overlong jaw, even with the cold way his golden eyes blink at shifting greenery around on the path that leads back to the sea. They are alert for motion, as are his twitching ears and flaring nose.
It is a scent that he notices first. The very one he has been trying to find for months. But the winged mare that he stalks (for that is the only way to describe the way he moves, motion that hints that despite his gen-erally equine shape, he is very much not a horse) toward is not Isobell. Nor is it one of his other women, instead it is a stranger, one who has shared space with Isobell recently. The scaled creature has not slowed his approach, and now his questing white muzzle explores the opalescent mare’s neck and crest. The touch is brief, and laced with a wordless command to [stand still | be quiet] until he pulls back with a scowl even deeper than the first.
Isobell hasn’t marked her, so the pegasus isn’t a threat, and yet Ivar’s golden eyes are sharp as they at-tempt to determine who she might be. Isobell can’t be out wandering Beqanna. She knows better than that. She knows where she belongs. And yet…
Another close inhale, and a curious brush of his teeth against her throat to see if she might flinch despite his hypnotic command. Ivar was never taught not to play with his food, and he likes testing their boundaries.
She smells of Loess, even more than of Isobell, and Castile as well. A memory of another opalescent mare surfaces. Castile had been finished with that one by the time Ivar had found her, and he does not think the dragon will begrudge him a little fun. She had been delightful, and a reminder that women belong to other men are often the best sport. But no – this is no time to be distracted. Despite his primal nature, the kelpie is not simple-minded, and it becomes suddenly obvious exactly where his wife is. This is not the first time Isobell has tried to run from him but finding dry land. She knows his dislike of it, knows that he will avoid it at most any cost.
Isobell also knows that he is, at heart, deeply lazy. The effort to bring her back will be a day-long event, and Ivar just isn’t feeling it. Later, he surely will, but just now he has a pretty mare with feathered wings in front of him, and he very much enjoys the way that feathers look beneath the water. “It’s been a long time since someone just wandered onto Kelpie,” he tells the brightly colored mare, taking a half step away to leave them near enough for a conversation and yet not so far distant that he might not reach out and touch her in a moment. He likes the name for the island that has spring up in the years of his occupation.
“Did Isobell send you here?” The kelpie asks with an suddenly intent curiosity. That would not make up for her leaving, of course, but she does know the ways to soften his temper more intimately than any other creature. Sending this pretty mare would be a good start, but she’ll need a whole strong of them to save her neck the wringing it deserves.
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
@[Oceane]
I will change anything you want just ask <3
Oceane remains rooted in the sand, her inquisitive amber eyes continuing to search out the source of the quiet voice, more curious of where the warning had come from than motivated to heed it. She catches a brief glimpse of the blue-and-gold parrot as it rustles a branch overhead in an attempt to pull itself from a veil of flourishing tropical fronds, but just as the woman thinks to investigate the avian further, she falls victim to the hypnotic touch of a man she'd failed to hear creep up behind her.
The brush against her striped neck is gentle and seemingly non-invasive, one that she may have found slightly odd in normal circumstances but not one that would have caused her to react negatively; she is not so lucky today, however, and she swiftly realizes this gentle touch had come with a snare that holds fast to her mind.
Stand still. Be quiet.
There are nothing tangible that binds her. Nothing poisonous that incapacitates her. There is only the residual sound of his voice and the refusal from her muscles to acknowledge her attempts to move from this place she is now planted.
Only her gold-flecked eyes acquiesce. They tentatively slide to the side and follow the scaled frame of the unfamiliar blue-and-gold stallion. In the moment he takes to slide predatory teeth against the warm flesh of her neck, Oceane can't help but to compare his colors to the parrot who had conveniently vacated the area moments prior to his arrival.
She would quiver at his touch if she could, would pull herself away from the hungry look in his eyes. But despite this involuntary fear that causes her heartbeat to quicken, the opaline pegasi feels that familiar tug of curiosity. The stranger's commentary tells her that she has found the place she had been searching for, though it's only now she realizes that perhaps all kelpies aren't as kind as Isobell.
She thinks to her friend, Castile's sister, from a new light now as this predatory creature slithered up next to her mentions the kelpie woman's name. Is this how Isobell would act if she chose to live in Beqanna's shoals as opposed to the continent's most central territory where the only bodies of water are hot springs and freshwater basins.
"No," she tells him succinctly, testing the movement of her wings when he puts a little distance between them. She's able to flex her outer flight feathers, but otherwise her feathered limbs stay secure and snug against her sleek sides, "But she does expect me back soon. Do you have a message I could give her?" Oceane smiles almost-warmly at the stallion, though the mixture of suspicion and intrigue is evident in her bright amber eyes. She continues to test at the flex in her wings and the flex in her joints, hoping to break through whatever invisible vice this nameless predator has placed upon her.
@[Ivar] | speech
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
She does’nt flinch, and Ivar’s toothsome grin widens even farther. His hypnosis is not always so successful, and he has always enjoyed seeing how far he might push those who were more susceptible. He’d made Jhene drown herself once, he remembers fondly, and when her immortality had coughed the water from her lungs, he’d made her thank him for the opportunity. “Why did you come then?” he asks, forcing the command to [answer me] with the flick of his white tail against her.
“You’ll take a message to her?,” Ivar asks. His golden eyes are bright, and they match the amused smirk that he wears. It’s not only her offer that entertains him, but the way her am-ber eyes meet his. She is suspicious, but that’s to be expected. He is suspicious looking, both un-deniably predatory as well as beauty manifested. He could hide the warning signs of his nature, he knows, some of his progeny do. They hunt in their equine forms, hiding their true nature until the trap is well and truly sprung.
Yet to do so is to miss watching the internal battle between desire and self-preservation, and that is one of his favorite parts of the hunt. He sees it spark in the opalescent mare, in the way she watches him, in the succinct answer to his questions. He wants to see it grow, and he steps closer.
The stripes along her neck remind him of the little tiger barbs, and he explores them with a gentle curiosity. They’re just a different color of hair, the kelpie finds, not feathers or scales or armor like so many equine wear. He presses his white lips against them with another long inhale, reassured by the still-fresh scent of his wife that Oceane wears. Taking back his earlier command is simple; he hadn’t meant to keep her quite so still. Paralyzing prey is a trick of the weak; he likes to feel them thrash.
“She knows exactly what I have to say to her,” The kelpie breathes against Oceane’s neck, the his whispered voice amused. He hopes that Isobell like this one. The image of her jealously elicits a chuckle. Which will she hate more: that Ivar continues to ignore her requests to be discreet, or that he’d found a friend of hers with whom to flaunt his indiscretion?
Perhaps he’ll follow Oceane back to Loess. The idea of watching his wife implode would surely be worth letting this unexpected gift get away. But he’d have to let her go, Ivar realizes, and she is already so close. Weighing the decision, he asks: “She is living in Loess, then?” Maybe he could bring back a few of Oceane’s feathers. Or if his wife is close enough to the opal mare he might be able to lure her back to Ischia with the promise to free her. Ivar wouldn’t, of course, but Isobell’s kind heart is easy to manipulate.
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
The predatory curve of his lips and the way it widens at her helplessness. His hot breath against her muscled neck. The island heat that radiates from the sun and the sand. The commands that ring in the depths of her mind.
Answer me.
Together, entwined, each of these things strikes a memory in Oceane. One that she hadn't cared to linger on for quite a few years that causes her heart to palpitate and her mouth to grow dry. Just like that, she is standing in the desert sands of Nau-Aib and she is trapped once again. Her wings itch to extend and carry her into the sky, but the sapphire and moonstone stallion still binds her with his invisible ropes.
Heart pounding faster still, Oceane's cingulate cortex reminds her aggressively that she has not heeded the kelpie's command; it drags her from her unwelcome reverie and forces her to spit words from her mouth that will fulfill her company's scrutiny: "To explore," she says through grated teeth. A half truth, but one that sates her mind's compulsion to give the stallion the information he wants.
To tell him, while bound by his spell and at the mercy of his predation, that she'd come here to seek out the kelpies of lore would make her seem laughably naive.
Oceane feels the slackening of her shackles and revels in it by shifting her weight and unfurling her opal wings just enough to stretch the joints and feel the freedom, paying no mind to the way she bumps the painted kelpie in the process until his warm muzzle presses again to her striped crest.
She freezes again, but this time in fear. "Perhaps... you have something new you'd like to tell her. She strikes me as one who grows bored in perpetuity." The words are forced and gruff with scared uncertainty; they're followed closely by a cold chill as the stallion chuckles in her ear. "She is living inland. I could bring you to her." A simple offer that neither confirms or denies his question, one rooted in self-preservation and a desire to keep Isobell safe.
She clears her throat, turning her opalescent head for a better look at the grinning kelpie before finding her voice again, almost desperate to keep him speaking. "What is your name?"
@[Ivar] | speech
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
When her heart reaches his favorite speed, Ivar smiles. It widens when she spits out an answer, fighting his command. To explore, she tells him, and Ivar knows of a great many new things he might show her.
“Have you ever seen a coral reef?” He asks, and were it not for the sinister nearness he keeps between them and the way he ignores her discomfort the query would sounds genuine. “I could teach you how to swim with the whales,” he adds, and the truth of his words slips out with one last press of his lips to her neck. The flex of her wings that follows his release of her does not keep him away – if anything the brush of her feathers against him send a thrill through him. It has been some time since he’d had a woman with feathered wings, and hers are especially lovely, shining in a way that reminds him of the blue-black butterflies that are sometimes blown over from the big island.
The scent of her fear is heady, and Ivar swallows it greedily as he traces each of her stripes. She would be easy prey, he knows as he tastes the long strands of her violet mane. Too easy, maybe, but he is distracted from his contemplation by an answer he’d commanded she give him,. The kelpie pulls away from his mealtime contemplation with an aggravated huff, and what she has to tell him only deepens the scowl. A new message? She clearly hasn’t’ even listened well enough to the old one. Yet is the gruffly spoken - and incredibly accurate – assessment of his wife’s preferences amuse him, and the mercurial shift in his temperament changes the scowl to a lascivious grin in an instant.
“Oh little explorer,” he laughs against her cheek, “The lengths I have gone to keep my wife from boredom would make your hair curl.”
The memory of those lengths – most of them bloody – soften her refusal to give a direct answer, and she will find that he is still smiling even when she pulls away from him to look him in the eye. The offer to bring him to Isobell is unexpected, and the idea of the two of them together is appetizing. Ivar imagines the look in Isobell’s eyes as he drags Oceane into one of the deep Loessian springs, as she watches her newest friend writhe beneath him, as he presents her with two gloriously iridescent wings. He nearly salivates at it, and the sharp note of fear in her voice brings him back with a jolt.
That will never work if she is afraid, he knows. He can’t have Isobell knowing that he has frightened her, lest she suspect that he’s bewitched her too. He frowns, for just a moment, and moves away. The damp undergrowth brushes uncomfortably against his dry scales as he positions himself directly in front of her. Then he reaches out and taps his muzzle against hers as though in a casual greeting, as though he has not been just pressed against her most intimately.
“My name is Ivar,” he says aloud, and just before he pulls back, tells her wordlessly [forget it all | these are the first words he has spoken to you]. And then he steps back, smiling an impossibly handsome smile. The distance between them is appropriate for strangers, but the way his eyes flick admiringly across her iridescent skin suggests that he would not mind becoming more than that. “I’d just been planning on visiting Loess, and here you are to show me the way.”
@[Oceane]
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
"No," she says succinctly, both to his question concerning the reef and his offer to teach her to swim with the whales. It's a loaded promise and a gentle (unneeded) reminder that he could just as easily tell her to drown herself in the beautifully crystalline waters off the coast of his small isle as he had to stand still, be quiet. Oceane flicks her ears backwards, hiding them in a nest of violet wind-strewn mane as the painted stallion's warm muzzle continues its breathy path down the stripes at her neck.
Despite the outward display of irritation, and the seemingly-contented stretching of her feathered wings, fear still exudes from Oceane's pores as if she has decided to wear it as her perfume for the day. It turns her blood cold, pumping it full of adrenaline as the kelpie suddenly sports a scowl; it's handsome despite everything, and she can't help but think this as her heart threatens to remove itself from her chest should the stallion turn that scowl on her.
Just as swiftly, though, it becomes a grin again. She has amused him, if only for the time being, and Oceane's primal instincts of self-preservation thank her for that. She lets loose a long, slow sigh from the cavern of her chest and uses it in an attempt to ground herself in the moments that the painted sapphire predator lingers with his muzzle at her cheek, whispering amusements in her ear the way one would a lover.
Little explorer, he calls her, and had it come from a true lover she may have found an attachment to it. But, as it were, the condescension with which it is said draws a frown against the woman's purple lips. In no position to use her fear-slash-irritation to rebut his statement, Oceane turns her molten amber eyes to meet his head-on instead and uses the opportunity to stare him down as - finally - he retracts his touch from her.
And then, just a moment later - tap.
Her mind empties of all the unpleasantries, her ears remove themselves from their hiding spot within her tousled mane. And, despite the confusion that now muddles her mind, Oceane settles more comfortably in front of Ivar, who has just introduced himself with what is, perhaps, the most handsome smile Oceane has ever had the pleasure of having directed at her.
Her previously taut muscles relax, albeit hesitantly, and her frown slowly shifts into a coquettish-type smile as she folds beneath whatever charm Ivar has lain on her. "A pleasure, Ivar," the opalescent pegasi says slowly, breathily, "My name is Oceane." Her ears flutter as he mentions Loess and she nods warmly in affirmation. "We should leave now, before it gets too late." Noting that he is not equipped with wings, Oceane ensures that hers are pressed tight to her sides as she pivots to face the water again, ready to journey on foot to Loess whenever he is.
She does take a second, however, to ponder over when she'd mentioned Loess to her new companion, or why she would suddenly feel an odd mixture of fear and irritation whenever she caught his scent in the breeze.
@[Ivar] | speech
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Ivar waits, sliding his tongue slowly across his teeth as he does. It takes a moment, and the haze of confusion still clouds her eyes, but the sweet sharpness of fear grows softer.
And then she is smiling, a coy expression that illuminates her face. This is what Isobell had seen, he suspects, a teasing nature behind a pretty face. One of his favorites, really, and the name that she gives him warms the cold edges of his handsome smile.
“Oceane,” the kelpie repeats, “My very favorite thing.” (Part of it, anyway, but no Mother would name her child the full thing: the abstract unfurling of fresh blood as it seeps into clear ocean water). Ivar nearly reaches forward, but holds back, letting her see the hunger in his golden eyes as well as the way he reigns it in. Ravenous, he traces the lines and curves of her figure as for the first time, those slit-pupiled eyes eager and avid. He wants her, those actions say, but he will not take her without consent. The very opposite of the way he’d pressed himself against her moments ago, really, but he is ever full of contradictions.
He is wiling to wait for the perfect hunt, and as sweet as her fear had been, he knows that it will taste far better in Isobell’s presence.
They’ll leave now, Oceane tells him, and tucks her wings tightly to her sides as though she means to swim. Ivar laughs, his amusement making him less cautious, and he comes to stand along side her, his hip brushing her own. “We’ll be faster if you fly,” Ivar tells her, “And it’ll be safer, too.” The command of desire that he presses into her is faint, one that she might not even feel right away. “I’ll meet you on the southern shore of Loess,” he promises with another charming smile.
And then he is striding toward the water, and the scales overtaking his hide a single rippling motion. Knee deep in the water, he leaps forward as if over an invisible hedge, and when he disappears beneath the water it is with a slap of a finned tail that replaces his hind legs.
@[Oceane]
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
