12-30-2018, 09:05 PM
From time to time, Ivar has wondered if there is a world where he is not perpetually second fiddle to the northern kingdom of Nerine. It certainly isn’t this one – not when he is repeatedly less of a priority than the cold grey land. All his time along the coast had never revealed what was so alluring to the women there. Was it the wind? The cold? It certainly couldn’t be the bitter grey ocean, which even Ivar cannot love. His dislike of the place is irrational, but the kelpie has never been given much to logic, and ration has no place in a world full only of instinct.
That instinct gives rise to his bright grin, satisfaction brought on in the way she twines around him. He’d not guessed her intent at all, at least not until she speaks. At that he laughs, burying the sound against the wet curtain of Wishbone’s mane. “Of course it is,” he says, tasting only salt and sun as his pale mouth roves across her mahogany neck. The ocean has a habit of doing that, of wiping away anything that might have happened in the past, of rinsing away the reminder that there might be something more to life than swimming.
He can feel the pressure of her shoulder against his, sleek and smooth against his fire-scarred scales. It’s a stark reminder of how fragile she is, something that he’d almost forgotten. The realization doesn’t dim his lust (a gentle touch onher shoulders roves across her crest, where a tangle of things rests in her dark mane. A feather and a seastone of bright blue. Where had he seen someone thus decorated before?
“Will you tell me where you went?” he asks, draping his neck across to press his cheek and ear against her throat, to listen and feel for the flutter of her heartbeat. “Or how long we have?” That last is a question she’s heard before, in those times she’d had to fit him into her crowded schedule, casting him aside when duty and queendom called. (His dislike for Nerine had grown a bit larger then, though he’ll never admit it.)
The water around them is shallow, barely reaching the kelpie’s knees. It’s easier for Wishbone, he knows, this inefficient walking, but he cannot help but glance once at the sea. There is the faintest crescent of a moon just beginning to rise, its curved rim no thicker than a feather edge. He blinks and it is almost gone behind a puff of seaspray, so he glances back at the wild-eyed mare and feels his smile begin to appear once again.
@[Wishbone]
That instinct gives rise to his bright grin, satisfaction brought on in the way she twines around him. He’d not guessed her intent at all, at least not until she speaks. At that he laughs, burying the sound against the wet curtain of Wishbone’s mane. “Of course it is,” he says, tasting only salt and sun as his pale mouth roves across her mahogany neck. The ocean has a habit of doing that, of wiping away anything that might have happened in the past, of rinsing away the reminder that there might be something more to life than swimming.
He can feel the pressure of her shoulder against his, sleek and smooth against his fire-scarred scales. It’s a stark reminder of how fragile she is, something that he’d almost forgotten. The realization doesn’t dim his lust (a gentle touch onher shoulders roves across her crest, where a tangle of things rests in her dark mane. A feather and a seastone of bright blue. Where had he seen someone thus decorated before?
“Will you tell me where you went?” he asks, draping his neck across to press his cheek and ear against her throat, to listen and feel for the flutter of her heartbeat. “Or how long we have?” That last is a question she’s heard before, in those times she’d had to fit him into her crowded schedule, casting him aside when duty and queendom called. (His dislike for Nerine had grown a bit larger then, though he’ll never admit it.)
The water around them is shallow, barely reaching the kelpie’s knees. It’s easier for Wishbone, he knows, this inefficient walking, but he cannot help but glance once at the sea. There is the faintest crescent of a moon just beginning to rise, its curved rim no thicker than a feather edge. He blinks and it is almost gone behind a puff of seaspray, so he glances back at the wild-eyed mare and feels his smile begin to appear once again.
@[Wishbone]