Birthing// Castile, Any

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The grey and white stallion follows the path of one of the river’s many feeder streams, knowing that despite the narrowness of this channel that it runs deep. Deep enough for a kelpie, he knows, and yet finds nothing more than his own reflection. As he draws closer to the main river, the scent of other horses grows more frequent. These are the common grounds, he knows, for idle conversation or residence, depending on your fancy. That looks like a residence, the scaled stallion thinks as his eye flick over a bower in the willow grove he has entered. Surely the greenery hadn’t grown in such an unnatural shape? Curious, I move closer, yet even as the wind gusts towards me, I see the occupants and know that is is not the mare I am looking for. (easy prey) but Ivar is not especially hungry. Still, it is entertaining to watch them struggle to find their feet on the earth strewn with silvery leaves. Lothbrok had been so small once, he remembers, though his son had not had to contend with leathery wings like the little palomino does. The kelpie observes from a comfortable distance away, not near enough to be a threat to a new mother. He glances from boy’s wings to the mother’s flaming hair, the faintest scrap of memory struggling in the back of his mind. Hadn’t he seen the mare before? Or caught her scent on someone familiar? Oh yes. That’s it. Ivar advances a few paces closer, though his posture is unthreatening and the hunger in his eyes is nothing more than a soft shimmer. “They’re Castiles?” He asks, glancing from the two spindly-legged colts to their colorful mother. making those promises that i could not keep in my dark times, baby this is all i could be