Ipomoea has met many kelpies in his lifetime. Messalina, perhaps, had been the first; when he was still soft, when he was still a broken thing who did not know well enough to pull the pieces of him together. He is sure there had been others, those he did not know to be kelpies — but now the names flow through his mind like water.
Messalina. Boudika. Vercingtorix. Emersyn. Anandi. Sereia. He is sure there were others; all of them, all of them, had the same look to them as this woman. The same look Thana would get when she was on the trail of blood.
The look of a monster about to consume their prey.
It makes him reach for the magic inside of him, the magic that is growing teeth and claws begin to snarl. He is not prey to be consumed by her.
But Ipomoea does not smile. He does not react when she shows her teeth, or when she speaks, or when she lords over her kill like the god of the ocean (she was not. Ipomoea has met the ocean’s god and she was not a kelpie.) Ipomoea knows if he lets himself, he would not be able to stop; if he lets himself, he would destroy her.
“I did not call it my home.” His voice is flat, even. He does not show her his own warning that is brimming like a wave inside of his throat, he only dismisses her’s with the levelness of his tone. The sand shifts beneath his hooves, but that, too, is subtle, indistinct; like the wind stirring it.
Ipomoea is watching her teeth and thinking only that he has seen sharper teeth, more dangerous teeth in the mouths of more dangerous people than her. So it is with the same level tone that he nods curtly and tells her, “Charmed.” And in his voice there is only a hint of mockery in his voice that is as fleeting as the sun shifting behind a cloud.
And, without looking back at the kelpie woman, he turns and walks closer to the waves until the water laps at his hooves.
Messalina. Boudika. Vercingtorix. Emersyn. Anandi. Sereia. He is sure there were others; all of them, all of them, had the same look to them as this woman. The same look Thana would get when she was on the trail of blood.
The look of a monster about to consume their prey.
It makes him reach for the magic inside of him, the magic that is growing teeth and claws begin to snarl. He is not prey to be consumed by her.
But Ipomoea does not smile. He does not react when she shows her teeth, or when she speaks, or when she lords over her kill like the god of the ocean (she was not. Ipomoea has met the ocean’s god and she was not a kelpie.) Ipomoea knows if he lets himself, he would not be able to stop; if he lets himself, he would destroy her.
“I did not call it my home.” His voice is flat, even. He does not show her his own warning that is brimming like a wave inside of his throat, he only dismisses her’s with the levelness of his tone. The sand shifts beneath his hooves, but that, too, is subtle, indistinct; like the wind stirring it.
Ipomoea is watching her teeth and thinking only that he has seen sharper teeth, more dangerous teeth in the mouths of more dangerous people than her. So it is with the same level tone that he nods curtly and tells her, “Charmed.” And in his voice there is only a hint of mockery in his voice that is as fleeting as the sun shifting behind a cloud.
And, without looking back at the kelpie woman, he turns and walks closer to the waves until the water laps at his hooves.
@lucinda
”here am i!“
