08-18-2018, 05:42 PM
The darkness of her sleek sides are reminiscent of the seals who slip through the cold waters of Nerine. Ivar often pursues them, but it is rarely out of hunger. They are almost as swift in the water as he is, though their dark bodies allow for far more agility than the kelpie is capable of. He wonders, as he traces the edges of her mane with curious lips, if Deiti might be as agile beneath the water. The mare is certainly smaller after all. Ivar suspects he has her already, but it has been some time since he had an enjoyable chase beneath the water.
Nearly three years have passed since Ivar has had a match beneath the waves, and he is growing ever more curious what sort of challenge Deiti might pose. His amorous intentions do not fade entirely at her mention of Imperial, but the memory of the stallion does quell any immediate action the scaled creature might have been planning. The kelpie hums a quiet note of agreement to her statement regardless; he cannot imagine the older male allowing his children to venture far from his sight, even as adults.
The casual way she shifts from mystery to naivety brings a smile to the edges of the kelpie's mouth. He is not sure which is the role she is playing: ingenue or soubrette, but he enjoys them both equally.
"Is it so hard to believe we might have crossed paths by accident?" He asks, one brow quirked as though daring her to answer otherwise. "Perhaps I just wanted to make sure you made it back to the main island safely. That is where you live, isn't it?" The kelpie cannot recall seeing her before - and surely he would not have missed her - so he assumes she must dwell somewhere out of sight of his western island. That is most of Ischia, after all.
Despite the innocuous nature of his questions, the kelpie still has not left his position at Deiti's side. His casual tracing of the edges of her mane have begun to trail lower, along the curve of muscle in her dark neck. She is softer than the seals, he finds, though the thrum of her heartbeat is far closer to the surface of her skin. He can almost feel it beneath his lips, quick and steady. He wants it faster, and the gentle pressure of his muzzle is replaced with the softest scrape of sharp teeth against skin.
"How good at you at swimming?" Ivar asks without preamble.
Nearly three years have passed since Ivar has had a match beneath the waves, and he is growing ever more curious what sort of challenge Deiti might pose. His amorous intentions do not fade entirely at her mention of Imperial, but the memory of the stallion does quell any immediate action the scaled creature might have been planning. The kelpie hums a quiet note of agreement to her statement regardless; he cannot imagine the older male allowing his children to venture far from his sight, even as adults.
The casual way she shifts from mystery to naivety brings a smile to the edges of the kelpie's mouth. He is not sure which is the role she is playing: ingenue or soubrette, but he enjoys them both equally.
"Is it so hard to believe we might have crossed paths by accident?" He asks, one brow quirked as though daring her to answer otherwise. "Perhaps I just wanted to make sure you made it back to the main island safely. That is where you live, isn't it?" The kelpie cannot recall seeing her before - and surely he would not have missed her - so he assumes she must dwell somewhere out of sight of his western island. That is most of Ischia, after all.
Despite the innocuous nature of his questions, the kelpie still has not left his position at Deiti's side. His casual tracing of the edges of her mane have begun to trail lower, along the curve of muscle in her dark neck. She is softer than the seals, he finds, though the thrum of her heartbeat is far closer to the surface of her skin. He can almost feel it beneath his lips, quick and steady. He wants it faster, and the gentle pressure of his muzzle is replaced with the softest scrape of sharp teeth against skin.
"How good at you at swimming?" Ivar asks without preamble.