10-28-2017, 09:56 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
“That’s an interesting trick,” he says from beyond the warmth of Wrena’s tiny fire. Standing motionless in the shadow of a large oak, he’d watched the younger horse as she played above the sea. Her wings were almost familiar, and he’d known even before she’d headed inland that he wanted to speak to her. She’d seemed careless, without caution – something Ivar barely remembers. As she’d built a fire, he’d caught the smell of salt-and-stone that he knows to be Nerine. Once again, he eyes the leathery length of her wing, and wonders if perhaps the dragon has strayed from his iron queen. No, Ivar decides, there is not a strong enough resemblance between the stranger and Isobell or Castille that might support such conjecture. The brown creature is no relation to his pseudo-family, but she is from the same kingdom. Perhaps she knows them. It is enough to staunch his hunger (that, and the knowledge that she’s barely more than a child). He’s an animal, after all; she is too small to be recognized as prey and so he has no interest. No instinctual interest at least; his fascination with the little fire is certainly not from any sense of self-preservation. “You’re a long way from Nerine,” he adds, never turning his brown eyes away from the source of light at her hooves. The firelight shines off his still-dripping scales with a fierce sort of intensity. Opalescent rather than reflective, he glimmers in the cloudy afternoon and the fire: the very image of perfection. “Come to get away from all that boring grey?” There’s a grin pulling at his scaled mouth, and he finally looks up to meet Wrena’s gaze, clearly amused by his own observation. |