The first day of the Wild Hunt had seen Ivarr taking many a victim and bloodying the banks of his river with the entrails he didn't like to eat. One creature had come along to clean up the remains of his first meals, but since then it had become a sloppy mess, thanks to the magical river being in a confined space, with little room for him to move along down it.
Deciding to take a break for awhile on the second day, he shifted back to the man, pulled on his robe, tied it tight around his waist, and walked through the circus barefoot, hair still wet with seaweed sticking out of it, giving him a rather wild look. Ivarr was impervious to cold, even as a man. He had spent enough time in the icy Scottish rivers not to think anything of the Russian cold.
It was on his walk that he noticed someone pulling a man into the trees. He sniffed at the air, sure that he smelled fae. Not wanting to interrupt the kill, he waited what he thought might be a respectable amount of time until he stepped into the trees himself, curious. "Hello," he called out in English, a statement and not a question since he knew she was somewhere in there.