Standing at the water’s edge, doubt threatens to creep in, as it always does, but Beryl forces it away with a curious tilt of her head, brown eyes bare of any malicious intent as they take up the gold and pink mare’s gaze. If she had hunted deer more frequently, perhaps she would recognize the defensive antler-shake for what it is, but her study had been almost entirely in hares – prey being scarce on the Isle – until she leapt quite suddenly into hunting dragons. But that was nearly half a lifetime ago.
The scales on the stallion – on Ivar - remind her of her father at first, but they are not at all the same when she sees them better, their shape and their texture made for swift movement through water. She wonders if they are as impenetrable as dragon scales, whether her claws could cut through them if it proved necessary, and she is glad to remember that it would not be necessary to find out, especially with him so deep in the water. She shudders softly and will not follow either of them there, the idea of being so far immersed intolerable.
With no reason to assume his actions anything but wholesome, the girl only frowns softly though the flat teeth in her mouth turn sharp, hidden away where no-one can see. Yellow eyes watch her from every dark place, even from the depths of the pool, but she leaves them to lurk and swirl. As a child she kept those shadows close but she knows now they needn’t be. In a breath, they can have her safe away, in a moment they can pluck Ivar or Bru or the pink Nerinian from where they stand and leave them somewhere else entirely, and the knowledge of it settles the nervousness that makes her milk-white tail flick from side-to-side.
Instead, Beryl stays at the water’s edge and if, for a moment, the shadows of the stiffly rattling reeds seem to reach for her, the phenomenon is gone in a blink, a trick of the light. Though her ears remain fixed on Ivar’s position in the water, the youth turns to look at the spotted mare, dips her head in greeting and side-steps to make a place for this newest arrival. Her dark eyes trace something almost familiar in her shape, but she cannot place it. The intimacy of it itches and distracts from her mounting distrust.
Remembering too late that she has sharpened her teeth, she smiles at the northerner and, in trying to hide those cruel canines, unknowingly mimics Leilan’s oft-worn expression, attempting to minimize their prominence. Deflect! She turns back to the pair in the pond.
“Beryl. Of...” Her voices falters, unsure how to recommend an island full of ash, “Of Nerine.” It’s not really a lie, though she wonders if the Nerinian will call her out on it.
“Isn’t that water awfully cold?”
The scales on the stallion – on Ivar - remind her of her father at first, but they are not at all the same when she sees them better, their shape and their texture made for swift movement through water. She wonders if they are as impenetrable as dragon scales, whether her claws could cut through them if it proved necessary, and she is glad to remember that it would not be necessary to find out, especially with him so deep in the water. She shudders softly and will not follow either of them there, the idea of being so far immersed intolerable.
With no reason to assume his actions anything but wholesome, the girl only frowns softly though the flat teeth in her mouth turn sharp, hidden away where no-one can see. Yellow eyes watch her from every dark place, even from the depths of the pool, but she leaves them to lurk and swirl. As a child she kept those shadows close but she knows now they needn’t be. In a breath, they can have her safe away, in a moment they can pluck Ivar or Bru or the pink Nerinian from where they stand and leave them somewhere else entirely, and the knowledge of it settles the nervousness that makes her milk-white tail flick from side-to-side.
Instead, Beryl stays at the water’s edge and if, for a moment, the shadows of the stiffly rattling reeds seem to reach for her, the phenomenon is gone in a blink, a trick of the light. Though her ears remain fixed on Ivar’s position in the water, the youth turns to look at the spotted mare, dips her head in greeting and side-steps to make a place for this newest arrival. Her dark eyes trace something almost familiar in her shape, but she cannot place it. The intimacy of it itches and distracts from her mounting distrust.
Remembering too late that she has sharpened her teeth, she smiles at the northerner and, in trying to hide those cruel canines, unknowingly mimics Leilan’s oft-worn expression, attempting to minimize their prominence. Deflect! She turns back to the pair in the pond.
“Beryl. Of...” Her voices falters, unsure how to recommend an island full of ash, “Of Nerine.” It’s not really a lie, though she wonders if the Nerinian will call her out on it.
“Isn’t that water awfully cold?”