02-27-2019, 10:04 PM
It's been some time since Ivar had seen the opalescent Sabra, but it has been less time than that since her name had been spoken on Ischia. He'd been told she was dead and then risen again, an ability that Ivar is rather fond of. Isobell and Kylin have it, and Jhene had as well, though with the palomino mare the kelpie had finally found that even immortality has its limits.
He is thinking of that as Sabra lands, and wonders how many drownings it might take for the light to permanently leave those pretty blue eyes. It isn't a thought he dismisses uncomfortably, but he does dismiss it. She belongs to someone else, and while Ivar ignores most impediments, there are some boundaries that he is unwilling to cross.
Such boundaries grow much smaller as the winged mare lands in the sand ahead of him, and smaller still as she greets him smelling very much of the Silver Cove and not at all of dragon.
The piebald stallion's gaze flicks across Sabra's blue figure, caught by the suggestive flick of her tail. Ivar had categorized her nearly immediately as something he could not hunt upon their first encounter beside the River, and nothing has happened in the time between to change that.
He might wonder about drowning her from time to time, but he wonders that about most creatures he comes across.
Yet she greets him as though he has already begun the hunt, and the crash of the sea adds a thunder to the spark of her words as she thanks him. Ivar swallows, tasting autumn and the promise of rain, and takes a step closer to Sabra. His eyes do not yet flick across the horizon in a search for batlike wings, but rather trace the opalescent curves of her blue figure and then the pale pink feathers of her wings.
Ivar has always had a soft spot for feathered wings.
"It is," he agrees, but doesn't break the spell by being crass enough to ask what sort of thanks she might have in mind. Prey has been known to find of of its own accord in the past, and while this behavior is not what he has come to expect from Sabra, he has also never been too full to turn down a free meal.
"Will you be thanking me now?" He asks with a tilt of his long-jawed head, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. "Or later?" He leans forward, unable to avoid tasting the glittering curve of her shoulder. Each touch is laced with lust that mirrors what he reads in her eyes, a quiet hypnotic command that she is unlikely to recognize as foreign. "Perhaps both?"
@[Sabra]
He is thinking of that as Sabra lands, and wonders how many drownings it might take for the light to permanently leave those pretty blue eyes. It isn't a thought he dismisses uncomfortably, but he does dismiss it. She belongs to someone else, and while Ivar ignores most impediments, there are some boundaries that he is unwilling to cross.
Such boundaries grow much smaller as the winged mare lands in the sand ahead of him, and smaller still as she greets him smelling very much of the Silver Cove and not at all of dragon.
The piebald stallion's gaze flicks across Sabra's blue figure, caught by the suggestive flick of her tail. Ivar had categorized her nearly immediately as something he could not hunt upon their first encounter beside the River, and nothing has happened in the time between to change that.
He might wonder about drowning her from time to time, but he wonders that about most creatures he comes across.
Yet she greets him as though he has already begun the hunt, and the crash of the sea adds a thunder to the spark of her words as she thanks him. Ivar swallows, tasting autumn and the promise of rain, and takes a step closer to Sabra. His eyes do not yet flick across the horizon in a search for batlike wings, but rather trace the opalescent curves of her blue figure and then the pale pink feathers of her wings.
Ivar has always had a soft spot for feathered wings.
"It is," he agrees, but doesn't break the spell by being crass enough to ask what sort of thanks she might have in mind. Prey has been known to find of of its own accord in the past, and while this behavior is not what he has come to expect from Sabra, he has also never been too full to turn down a free meal.
"Will you be thanking me now?" He asks with a tilt of his long-jawed head, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. "Or later?" He leans forward, unable to avoid tasting the glittering curve of her shoulder. Each touch is laced with lust that mirrors what he reads in her eyes, a quiet hypnotic command that she is unlikely to recognize as foreign. "Perhaps both?"
@[Sabra]