for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable
in every lost soul, the bones of a miracle
@[Ivar]
Beqanna
Assailant -- Year 226
"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
[private] wont be coming to church on sunday; ivar
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02-24-2019, 08:42 AM
For days there has been only sand beneath his hooves, only the strength of his limbs to hold him upright. The kelpie imagines he can feel himself drying out, much like the saltwater that dripped away from his tangled mane and lifted from his jewel-toned scales by the sun. There is more room in a mind that is not waterlogged, and that is the kelpie's least favorite part.
Emotion is the worst of it, but plans for the future had begun to lift their heads above the water as well. He means to drown them as he has before, and as the water closes around his scaled body he feels them slip away at last. The kelpie sighs, feeling the ripple of the exhaled water against the more sensitive scales of his neck. His eyes are closed, and he opens them in the dim world beneath the sea. The ocean floor stretches ahead of him, far more beautiful than the tropical island above. He flips back to look at the shore in a spiral of movement that would have been impossible without the muscular tail that replaces his horsehair one, suspended nearly upside down and held there comfortably by the tepid water. The shoreline is no longer empty. It had been, a moment ago when he had dove into the water from an empty beach. Yet there, between the emerald jungle and his turquoise ocean now stands a mare with golden locks and a belly as pale as the sand. He knows her name but it slips away from him in the water, as does the knowledge that she is not the best choice of prey. Ivar knows not to hunt those who might be missed, but the kelpie is less cautious.. "You came back." He says over the crash of the waves, drifting nearer to the shore. She'd wanted friendship, he remembers as air fills his lungs again. Ivar had wanted more - he always wants more - and wonders if perhaps he might soon be in a position to take it. @[Kensa]
02-28-2019, 06:15 PM
for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable kensa for every dreamer, a dream. we're unstoppable with something to believe in. @[Ivar] Yeah so she didn't see him all kelpie'd out last time, I guess?
03-02-2019, 02:18 PM
The interest in her eyes beckons Ivar nearer in a myriad of ways. The kelpie does not resist it any more than he does the tide that pushes him closer, and he pauses just inside a comfortably diplomatic distance from the flaxen-haired mare. As he had at their first meeting, the piebald stallion allows his curious gaze to take in the whole of the sabino mare, idling for a long moment on the impossibly pretty lines of her face. Something about her is different, though the jewel-toned creature cannot quite determine what it is.
Rather than puzzle over it – Ivar has never been given to long bouts of through – he instead responds to her greeting, to the claim that he might not remember her. “You are the only Primarch of Hyaline I have ever met,” he tells her with a tilt of his head, one that swings the tangled locks away so he might better fix her gaze to hers. With his long forelegs stretched ahead of him in the water, Ivar digs the claws of his hindlegs into the sand. He’ll say still now, anchored despite the tug of the tide around them. “And even if you weren't, you are not especially forgettable.” Kensa, he has just recalled, her name is Kensa. He wonders how her golden hair might look at the bottom of the reef and how quickly the cleaner fish might leave a bleached white skull for him to add to his collection. The water carries the scent of the mountains and autumn toward him, wordless information about the mare with topaz eyes. “There is never a bad time here,” he lies, knowing they are only safe now because his Khaleesi is on the opposite side of the island. She is not fond of his dalliances, but Isobell would be even less tolerant of the disappearance of a monarch on Ivar’s beach. Rolling his shoulders, the piebald kelpie flares the blue fins along his shoulders, stretching the translucent webbing between them impossible wide for just a moment before he folds them along his sides in a manner not so different from how a pegasus might hold their wings. “What more would you like to enjoy?” Asks the kelpie, smiling while he gauges the distance between her throat and the surface of the water. He could pull her under before she screams, he decides, but he cannot see beyond the curve of the shoreline and the chance of listening ears are too high. It is only in rare moments like these when the kelpie laments his collection, bright-eyed mares and his waterless children who ask too many questions. @[Kensa]
03-02-2019, 06:01 PM
for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable kensa for every dreamer, a dream. we're unstoppable with something to believe in. @[Ivar]
03-09-2019, 09:03 AM
"There's not much to get to know," He tells her with a smile, filling the air between them with words rather than drawing nearer himself. He is a patient beast, but no man is immune to the charms of a pretty woman that keeps inching closer.
"I'm a simple creature," Ivar adds as he rises to four feet. The sinuous tail that propels him through the water is no longer anything more than waterlogged hair, and the clawed feet that gripped the seafloor become flat hooves. "I like swimming," he offers, as though that is not a given, and he takes another step nearer so that he can extend a dripping muzzle toward the golden mare. "And pretty women." Just a little nearer, he says without words, come a little closer. Loathe to abandon the water, the piebald kelpie will not close the distance between them. The seawater at his knees is still deep enough to drown her - he knows this without conscious thought. He won't (that thought he is more aware of), but he always prefers to know that he could. The taste of autumn on the wind is a brisk reminder that there are - rarely - pursuits more thrilling than a simple hunt. The kelpie is uninterested in the politics that she'd come for the first time, but he has been on dry land enough lately to recall that there are advantages to children beyond increasing the number of kelpies in the sea. Perhaps Kensa might make a kelpie mother - he has found that women in power tend to be rather good at that. Or perhaps she won't, and would please him more as a piece of his collection. One way to find out, Ivar knows, and smiles beguilingly at the mare in question. "Do you like to swim, Kensa?" @[Kensa] |
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