The library was quiet. But not in the way Ipomoea was used to.

It was as if the building were holding its breath, as if it had not taken a proper breath in years. It made him all but agraid to breathe himself, lest he disturb some great and slumbering giant. There’s an imagined danger in the air, like he’s standing in a church that’s lost all pretense of holiness.

He feels half a ghost, slipping between rows of crumbling bookshelves as dust motes swim in his wake. All around him he can hear the papery whisper of pages turning, the scrape of a book being pulled free from a shelf, the creak of a loose floorboard as someone stepped upon it. Each sound was painfully loud, silence stretching between each disturbance.

The library is willing itself away, he can’t help but think. If he blinked it might vanish forever, a pocket of space folding upon itself and collapsing into obscurity, like a book who’s main character wants only to disappear from their own story.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - there were not many scholarly Denoctians, at least from those he had met thus far. It was part of why he was drawn to the southern court to begin with: their passion for life, their willingness to not just read about something, but to go see it for themselves, to take life by its horns and wrangle with the gods themselves.

He has a lot to learn from them, he knows, he knows. It was why he was here in the first place, to join in their crusade, their war, their life. Ipomoea had always been called to their fast-paced frenzy, their bonfire smoke filling his soul and his heart dancing in time with their music. It was such a stark contrast to his own life, back in Delumine, and a highly intoxicating one. Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure he ever wanted to leave.

Perhaps he could bring a piece of Denocte home with him; he would certainly try, after all. Their passion and community, even if only a small sliver of it, would breathe fresh life into the dusty halls of his Court.

But for now he wanders the library corridors, few that they may be in comparison to the Dawn Court library. His eyes rove over countless titles, pausing every few steps to brush a speck of dirt almost lovingly from another cover.

So it was with surprise that he turned a corner to see an antlered man - with all manner of jewels and trinkets hanging from each tine - browsing the shelves similar.

“Oh, hello,” his voice breaks the silence, and it feels wrong amidst the hush of the room.



And then, because he can’t bear to let them lapse back into silence, lest that silence go on indefinitely, “It's been so quiet in here, I thought I was alone.” But his laugh hints that he doesn't mind the company, not in the slightest.

There are so many parts of the stallion that catches his attention, from his captivating green eyes to the broad, many-tined antlers crowning his brow. A tangle of gemstones hung from their points, and when the pegasus shook his head they knocked gently against one another and produced a soft chiming sound.

Ipomoea hardly noticed his white-tipped wings or his earthy bay coloring, already so preoccupied with examining the rest of the eccentric looking stranger.

He takes another curious step forward, so that the two are sharing the same space.

”I’ve been engrossed,” the bay man admits, and Ipomoea’s eyes flicker down to the still open book laid out before him. It’s a thick volume, and he believes he can make out the name of the Tinea Swamp somewhere near the top of the page. But the rest is a sea of black-on-white words, tiny lettering that swims together in a blur across the page. He might have asked what the green-eyed stranger was reading - whether it was a history or a fable, or perhaps a collection of short stories or a compendium of plants - but he doesn’t get a chance to. The stranger continues on, opening a conversation between them.

Ipomoea lifts his gaze from the book, and their eyes are like two gemstones meeting, cherry topaz and an intense emerald.

His ears flick forward inquisitively at the other’s admission, instantly engrossed. A teleportation spell? From somewhere outside of Novus? Ipomoea had never been to any other worlds before; his entire life had been spent here between the four Courts, despite hearing from many other horses who had seemed to stumble into his home.

“That’s quite the arrival,” he mused, his tone still hushed in respect of the library. 

Of course, he couldn’t complain that he had landed here, instead. "Where were you trying to go?"

“Septimus,” he repeats, rolling the syllables across his tongue, filing the name away in his mind. It fits you, he thinks to himself, although he can’t explain why. Something about the name simply matches the stallion, in the way leaves match a tree, or flowers a field. “I’m Ipomoea.” He dips his head with another smile, and now that they’re acquainted, steps forward without shame to stand closer besides the antlered man.

“Have you been here long, then? In Novus, that is? I hope you’re enjoying your stay thus far, even if it was an unintentional visit.” A thousand questions are already forming themselves in his mind - Ipomoea wants to know everything. He wants to ask about the world he’s come from, the worlds he’s seen, the world he meant to see. Were they larger than Novus, or smaller? Did the same plants grow in them that grew here? Florentine had promised to pick flowers from another world with him once, so he assumed the flora and faunas must be different between worlds, at least to some extent.

The “outside world,” as many of Novus’ residents referred to the lands beyond their shores, was simultaneously compelling and terrifying. There was no way of knowing just how many worlds were out there, waiting to be discovered and explored.

And the teleportation spell he mentioned certainly sounded like an efficient way of exploring them - when it worked correctly, that is.