11-04-2018, 09:07 AM
A stray palm frond catches on the wind, and Ivar watches as the slender bit of greenery blows down the beach toward them. The winter winds feel stronger here than on his island, and Ivar’s golden eyes narrow mildly in distaste. He has never been especially good at masking his emotions, or at reading the situation and knowing when he should react. His nature is far less sophisticated a combination of his dual instincts and having stalled somewhere near adolescence in terms of social development.
Magic has never been something the kelpie has liked. Too subversive, too much reliance on the intangible. He prefers to trust his teeth and scales. The tentacles with which she reaches out do not seem like magic though, not anymore than the flared fins the kelpie wears beneath the waves. When she curls the one against his shoulder he reaches out to brush his pale mouth against it curiously. Would it taste like the squid, he wonders, or more of horse?
There will be time to find out, he thinks, and so refrains.
Or perhaps there will not be time.
The words of the shadowed mare are not what Ivar wishes to hear. His concern regarding the plague is minimal. He is in a safeland, and had never considered leaving. Why should he? There is water and there is prey (he’d seen the arrival of the purple clan and the trio of pegasi); everything the kelpie needs.
‘I need to find the cure’ she says, and Ivar shakes his head sharply. The kelpie is already possessive, and it pairs well with Ivar’s jealousy. Well, for Ivar anyway – the rest of the world is perhaps not so lucky. He’s decided that this strange mare, with her cold skin and salty hair, belongs to him.
“Worry about that later.” Are the words said quietly near her ear. He has stepped forward, following the long tentacle as Yidhra as withdrew it. Though his breath is nothing more than a ghosting across her neck, his scaled cheek brushes the edge of her tentacled mane, just enough tactile contact that he can bespell his words with hypnosis. Ivar knows better than to tell her to forget it entirely; he has learned his lesson with driven women. Forgetting for a while though, that is usually alright, usually just enough pressure that they don’t even recognize the command as anything but their own subconscious desire.
The kelpie knows better than to argue with a woman who has made up her mind. His experience with Nerenian queens has taught him as much, but it is clear from his reaction that he might need reminding. The responsibility that she is so eager to take up is reminiscent of royalty, and he wonders if Yidhra might have greater goals than the curing of the plague. The idea brings a smile to his too handsome face, though it is now hidden as his curious lips inspect the base of the tentacle that sprouts from her shoulder.
“Or go if you must,” He adds, uncharacteristically driven by a reward that is not immediate. Of course, his caresses do not stop because he does not intend to leave this meeting entirely unsatisfied. If he cannot keep her, he intends to at least have her at least once more. “I intend to take over Ischia.” The piebald stallion says, voicing the words aloud for the first time. Until now, it has been a pipe dream, something he’d toyed with but never seriously. He has spent the last three years in paradise, and always there has been an itch for something more. The more is probably not ruling the larger island, but since Ivar cannot verify that without trying it he has chosen to try.
“So if you find the cure or if you grow tired of trying, you can come find me there.”
@[Yidhra]
Magic has never been something the kelpie has liked. Too subversive, too much reliance on the intangible. He prefers to trust his teeth and scales. The tentacles with which she reaches out do not seem like magic though, not anymore than the flared fins the kelpie wears beneath the waves. When she curls the one against his shoulder he reaches out to brush his pale mouth against it curiously. Would it taste like the squid, he wonders, or more of horse?
There will be time to find out, he thinks, and so refrains.
Or perhaps there will not be time.
The words of the shadowed mare are not what Ivar wishes to hear. His concern regarding the plague is minimal. He is in a safeland, and had never considered leaving. Why should he? There is water and there is prey (he’d seen the arrival of the purple clan and the trio of pegasi); everything the kelpie needs.
‘I need to find the cure’ she says, and Ivar shakes his head sharply. The kelpie is already possessive, and it pairs well with Ivar’s jealousy. Well, for Ivar anyway – the rest of the world is perhaps not so lucky. He’s decided that this strange mare, with her cold skin and salty hair, belongs to him.
“Worry about that later.” Are the words said quietly near her ear. He has stepped forward, following the long tentacle as Yidhra as withdrew it. Though his breath is nothing more than a ghosting across her neck, his scaled cheek brushes the edge of her tentacled mane, just enough tactile contact that he can bespell his words with hypnosis. Ivar knows better than to tell her to forget it entirely; he has learned his lesson with driven women. Forgetting for a while though, that is usually alright, usually just enough pressure that they don’t even recognize the command as anything but their own subconscious desire.
The kelpie knows better than to argue with a woman who has made up her mind. His experience with Nerenian queens has taught him as much, but it is clear from his reaction that he might need reminding. The responsibility that she is so eager to take up is reminiscent of royalty, and he wonders if Yidhra might have greater goals than the curing of the plague. The idea brings a smile to his too handsome face, though it is now hidden as his curious lips inspect the base of the tentacle that sprouts from her shoulder.
“Or go if you must,” He adds, uncharacteristically driven by a reward that is not immediate. Of course, his caresses do not stop because he does not intend to leave this meeting entirely unsatisfied. If he cannot keep her, he intends to at least have her at least once more. “I intend to take over Ischia.” The piebald stallion says, voicing the words aloud for the first time. Until now, it has been a pipe dream, something he’d toyed with but never seriously. He has spent the last three years in paradise, and always there has been an itch for something more. The more is probably not ruling the larger island, but since Ivar cannot verify that without trying it he has chosen to try.
“So if you find the cure or if you grow tired of trying, you can come find me there.”
@[Yidhra]