where wolf's ears are, Ivar wolf's teeth are near.
The inky blackness of midnight camouflages Ivar in a cloak of obscurity. A moonless sky hangs overhead, only disrupted by the twinkling of a few stars. Ivar slides noiselessly through the murky waters, his muscular legs propel him with each strike of his hooves. As the water grows increasingly colder, he revels in the frigid waters. Ivar is a warrior of ice and cold, it breathes life into his bones. It wraps itself around him, pushing icy tendrils deep into his bones.
"We will bathe these Isles in blood," Fenrir hisses, his voice haunting within the dark recesses of Ivar's mind. Fenrir has been his companion, his brother since the beginning. Ivar could not pinpoint the exact day he had made his precense known, but the beastly wolf always lurks within the caverns of his mind. Never has he steered him in the wrong direction. A smirk touches his lips, Fenrir has been the voice that drives his primal instincts to taste blood upon his tongue, to plunder and pillage.
The crash of the sea against stones, promises to him that soon his hooves would touch solid ground. His rock chipped hooves glance off of the rocky shores, a frigid blast of wind cuts him to the bone. He can feel the frigid fingers of the wind whirling around him. The fresh smell of lodgepole pines and the brisk mountain air greet the warrior. He does not slow at the rocky beach, no, quietly he sneaks from the seas frothing waves.
His dark inky body slinks through woods, his hooves soundless on the thick floor of pine needles. The cold wraps itself around him, this was his kind of place. Dark eyes smolder, a mischievous smirk plays at his dark lips.
Translation:
Ivar Speech
the voice of Fenrir
Icelandic - Smoky Black - EE aa nCr - Stallion - 14.2 hh - Dögun x Unknown
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