[open] pass the potion

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The sea calls him to him, and yet Ivar stands on the bank of a shallow creek, sipping the cold water as though it is of only mild appeal. Were the creek deeper, the desire to submerge himself would be stronger, but he has made his way up from the River (and before that the Sea) with a single-minded purpose. Stealing the Ischia Dane’s children has given him courage. Or perhaps it had simply started the always inevitable countdown until he was finally caught and punished for his crimes. Ivar does not look guilty, standing in the new spring grass. In fact, he looks quite normal, at least by Beqanna standards. His coloring is eye-catching, sapphire blue and mother-of-pearl instead of tobiano, lines of gold like the Ischian sand dividing the color. He has no wings or horns or scales, and the sharp teeth that line his entire jaw are hidden by an ineffective equine mouth. With his head lowered to drink, the stallion’s still-wet mane hangs across his face. He has been drinking slowly, lazily even, but the moment that someone steps into the water upstream, he grows quite still. The kelpie lifts his head, peering with one half-covered golden eye at the distant mare. He can see little of her from this distance, but he doesn’t need to. He wades into the water without thinking, and the horsehair of his hide ripples and transforms, and by the time he reaches the palomino he is scaled, and the limiting lips of a horse have pulled back to reveal instead a wide and crocodilian-toothed mouth. And yet despite that (or perhaps because of it?) Ivar is still impossibly handsome. His kind have been luring innocents for years, and it is all too clear how they do so. His golden eyes trace the tines of her pink antlers curiously. Isobell would love those, he decides. She’d fawned over the amethyst horn he’d brought her from that feisty chestnut for days; surely a matched set of pink antlers will make up for whatever wrongs he might commit this week. Having followed the antlers from tip to base, Ivar now meets the stranger’s eyes with a slow smile that reveals even more of his many teeth. He’s taken just a little too long to greet her, perhaps just long enough to make her uncomfortable, but that is his forte. “Do you like the spiders?” He asks, his voice a low rumble that matches the humor in his bright eyes, “Or are you just not able to shoo them away?” @[Brujeria] and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind