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+---- Thread: [P] you come beating like moth's wings | festival (/showthread.php?tid=4396)
you come beating like moth's wings | festival - Septimus - 12-13-2019
S E P T I M U S
The lilac’s dead after only two weeks in bloom, and I’d kill you to keep them withered, passed, rust.
The night has grown longer and darker, and Septimus is finally beginning to settle into it.
Perhaps it is some hour of the morning, by now – he hardly knows anymore. He lost track of time hours ago, whenever it was that the sun set, and he can’t be bothered to care enough to figure out what time it is now. There is only a kaleidoscope of passing faces, some of which he can almost swear that he recognizes from earlier in the evening, the smell of wine and cinnamon and cedar and smoke, the flicker of pale candles and orange-gold torchlight, and the persistent winter chill that comes seeping in whenever he brushes too close to a window or a wall which, in its old age, has crumbled open just enough to let the night air in. It is a tantalizing mixture between lingering cold and flickering warmth, between the sharp, salty scent of night wind and the sweetness of burning incense and tables full of food. It is nothing dazzling. Still, he finds something charming in it, because it is so very mortal, and it is late enough at night for him to feel somewhat more attached to his mortality than usual. Their vigils and cut trees, their candles for the lost and reckless mirth. Parties were so very different at home; they meant something else entirely, and there was never any mourning, because there was never any death, not of seasons, or people, or time. There was only endless life, one without the other, an evergreen world full of evergreen figures. (His gaze lands on the well-decorated tree, the irony of the dead evergreen far from lost on him.) They loved it so differently than these mortals did. It was so much less-
Precious?
He doesn’t know the right word, and that one, though the one he chose, still doesn’t feel right, even as he turns it over silently on his tongue. It has its own charm to it, he supposes. It isn’t as though his family would ever want to hear it explained – or understand the explanation – anyways. Possessed by a sudden, absentminded curiosity, he paces forwards towards the tree, examining the assorted baubles placed ever so neatly at the base of the tree. (They were probably arranged more neatly, he decides, before the party began.) He lifts up one of the glistening, round baubles with the telekinetic magic that this land was kind enough to provide, turning it over in front of him. It caught in the light, and he realized that its golden surface was flaked with pale, glittering spots of off-white, only recognizable when the light hit them. He wondered how they were painted. It seemed like they would flake so easily, and the glass was so fragile – he’d have loved to have seen it blown. He felt like he could break it with the telekinesis alone. If he wanted to hook it up, he’d have to be careful, but there weren’t nearly as many baubles near the top of the tree, and he did have wings-
When he drew back, eyes cast up towards the top of the tree, it did not occur to him until he had already brushed up against someone else – gently, fortunately – that he should probably watch where he is going. He turns, immediately, nearly losing his grip on the glistening bauble in the process (it falls, for a fraction of a second, but he catches it before it hits the ground), and he finds himself staring sheepishly at a pale woman with what might be sharpest, brightest pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen.
“My apologies,” Septimus offers quickly, with a dip of his head, “I should have been paying more attention, Miss…?”
tags | @Castalla
notes | <3
"speech"
The lilac’s dead after only two weeks in bloom, and I’d kill you to keep them withered, passed, rust.
The night has grown longer and darker, and Septimus is finally beginning to settle into it.
Perhaps it is some hour of the morning, by now – he hardly knows anymore. He lost track of time hours ago, whenever it was that the sun set, and he can’t be bothered to care enough to figure out what time it is now. There is only a kaleidoscope of passing faces, some of which he can almost swear that he recognizes from earlier in the evening, the smell of wine and cinnamon and cedar and smoke, the flicker of pale candles and orange-gold torchlight, and the persistent winter chill that comes seeping in whenever he brushes too close to a window or a wall which, in its old age, has crumbled open just enough to let the night air in. It is a tantalizing mixture between lingering cold and flickering warmth, between the sharp, salty scent of night wind and the sweetness of burning incense and tables full of food. It is nothing dazzling. Still, he finds something charming in it, because it is so very mortal, and it is late enough at night for him to feel somewhat more attached to his mortality than usual. Their vigils and cut trees, their candles for the lost and reckless mirth. Parties were so very different at home; they meant something else entirely, and there was never any mourning, because there was never any death, not of seasons, or people, or time. There was only endless life, one without the other, an evergreen world full of evergreen figures. (His gaze lands on the well-decorated tree, the irony of the dead evergreen far from lost on him.) They loved it so differently than these mortals did. It was so much less-
Precious?
He doesn’t know the right word, and that one, though the one he chose, still doesn’t feel right, even as he turns it over silently on his tongue. It has its own charm to it, he supposes. It isn’t as though his family would ever want to hear it explained – or understand the explanation – anyways. Possessed by a sudden, absentminded curiosity, he paces forwards towards the tree, examining the assorted baubles placed ever so neatly at the base of the tree. (They were probably arranged more neatly, he decides, before the party began.) He lifts up one of the glistening, round baubles with the telekinetic magic that this land was kind enough to provide, turning it over in front of him. It caught in the light, and he realized that its golden surface was flaked with pale, glittering spots of off-white, only recognizable when the light hit them. He wondered how they were painted. It seemed like they would flake so easily, and the glass was so fragile – he’d have loved to have seen it blown. He felt like he could break it with the telekinesis alone. If he wanted to hook it up, he’d have to be careful, but there weren’t nearly as many baubles near the top of the tree, and he did have wings-
When he drew back, eyes cast up towards the top of the tree, it did not occur to him until he had already brushed up against someone else – gently, fortunately – that he should probably watch where he is going. He turns, immediately, nearly losing his grip on the glistening bauble in the process (it falls, for a fraction of a second, but he catches it before it hits the ground), and he finds himself staring sheepishly at a pale woman with what might be sharpest, brightest pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen.
“My apologies,” Septimus offers quickly, with a dip of his head, “I should have been paying more attention, Miss…?”
tags | @
notes | <3
"speech"
RE: you come beating like moth's wings | festival - Castalla - 12-18-2019
@
RE: you come beating like moth's wings | festival - Septimus - 12-19-2019
S E P T I M U S
Do they not hear their chorus ring a bit softer than the night
before? I do not understand. What good is joy if you cannot mourn what is lost in the name of light?
The first thing that Septimus notices, when he turns, wide-eyed, to look at the woman that he so carelessly bumps into is the color of her eyes. They are perhaps the sharpest hue of cerulean blue that he has ever seen, bright enough to cut and all but glowing in the lurid haze of the numerous – thousands of them, perhaps – candles situated around the room and in the boughs of the massive cedar tree. He blinks into those brilliant blue eyes for a moment, deer in the headlights, before he takes in the rest of her.
She is pale, but he would not quite call her white. Her coat is closer to a cream, with hair that he would almost call blonde. She is lithe, with a slender physique, but she seems to him to be all muscle, and riddled with scars. In spite of her long hair and her admittedly noble bearing, she seems to be every bit a hardened warrior, and, though he doesn’t have much time to linger on the thought, he decides that she is an impressive figure.
But she was smiling. It struck him as a warm gesture, and, before he could even latch onto her words or piece together his own, he found himself returning her smile. His lips curled up, and, though he would have been more careful were he not so flustered by his mistake, his smile is just broad enough to reveal the wolfish curvature of his teeth, his carnivorous jaws. Were he thinking, he would be thinking enough to hide them – in a land full of mortals with blunt teeth, transient figures that grazed in fields of literal and metaphorical flowers, it was helpful to remain wary. The last thing he wanted to do was to arouse suspicion, or to be mistaken for something like a kelpie.
(And perhaps this is why, almost instinctually, his smile quickly creeps back down, his lips pressing tight together – teeth only a memory.)
Castalla, she finishes, and he rolls her name around on his tongue without speaking it aloud. But please, don’t be sorry, it was my mistake. He is rather positive that it isn’t, but he lets it go for the moment. And you are? she asks, then, and it occurs to him that he didn’t introduce himself, amidst all his apologizing. He straightens, dipping his head in some mixture of acknowledgement and polite greeting – the motion sends the jewels adorning his antlers shaking, scattering fragments of candlelight across the room -, and, in the wake of his embarrassment, manages to piece together a response to her question.
“Castalla. I really should have been paying more attention –“ he can’t quite bring himself to let it go, because he had run into her first, “-but my name is Septimus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There is a genuine warmth to his tone, to match the pleasant smile still spread across his lips, and, unsure of what to say, he decides to ask about the festival; he can’t place her scent in the crowded room, with candlesmoke and cinnamon everywhere, so he stops trying. “Are you from Terrastella? What brings you out tonight?” He’s curious, if she is a member of the Dusk Court – although he came all the way from Delumine to attend their festival, he knows nothing of it, or the traditions that might be behind it. As part of his initiative to better understand mortals and mortal living, he supposes that he should start investigating their traditions, much in the way that he would investigate any other creature. Even if she isn’t, he can’t help but wonder what brought her out tonight. Perhaps it was even more fascinating that strangers from other courts came from near and far to gather for the festival; it seemed to him a delightful display of unity, particularly after what had happened in Solterra a few months prior.
The bauble still hovers at his side - half-forgotten, but stable.
tags | @Castalla
notes | <3
"speech"
Do they not hear their chorus ring a bit softer than the night
before? I do not understand. What good is joy if you cannot mourn what is lost in the name of light?
The first thing that Septimus notices, when he turns, wide-eyed, to look at the woman that he so carelessly bumps into is the color of her eyes. They are perhaps the sharpest hue of cerulean blue that he has ever seen, bright enough to cut and all but glowing in the lurid haze of the numerous – thousands of them, perhaps – candles situated around the room and in the boughs of the massive cedar tree. He blinks into those brilliant blue eyes for a moment, deer in the headlights, before he takes in the rest of her.
She is pale, but he would not quite call her white. Her coat is closer to a cream, with hair that he would almost call blonde. She is lithe, with a slender physique, but she seems to him to be all muscle, and riddled with scars. In spite of her long hair and her admittedly noble bearing, she seems to be every bit a hardened warrior, and, though he doesn’t have much time to linger on the thought, he decides that she is an impressive figure.
But she was smiling. It struck him as a warm gesture, and, before he could even latch onto her words or piece together his own, he found himself returning her smile. His lips curled up, and, though he would have been more careful were he not so flustered by his mistake, his smile is just broad enough to reveal the wolfish curvature of his teeth, his carnivorous jaws. Were he thinking, he would be thinking enough to hide them – in a land full of mortals with blunt teeth, transient figures that grazed in fields of literal and metaphorical flowers, it was helpful to remain wary. The last thing he wanted to do was to arouse suspicion, or to be mistaken for something like a kelpie.
(And perhaps this is why, almost instinctually, his smile quickly creeps back down, his lips pressing tight together – teeth only a memory.)
Castalla, she finishes, and he rolls her name around on his tongue without speaking it aloud. But please, don’t be sorry, it was my mistake. He is rather positive that it isn’t, but he lets it go for the moment. And you are? she asks, then, and it occurs to him that he didn’t introduce himself, amidst all his apologizing. He straightens, dipping his head in some mixture of acknowledgement and polite greeting – the motion sends the jewels adorning his antlers shaking, scattering fragments of candlelight across the room -, and, in the wake of his embarrassment, manages to piece together a response to her question.
“Castalla. I really should have been paying more attention –“ he can’t quite bring himself to let it go, because he had run into her first, “-but my name is Septimus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There is a genuine warmth to his tone, to match the pleasant smile still spread across his lips, and, unsure of what to say, he decides to ask about the festival; he can’t place her scent in the crowded room, with candlesmoke and cinnamon everywhere, so he stops trying. “Are you from Terrastella? What brings you out tonight?” He’s curious, if she is a member of the Dusk Court – although he came all the way from Delumine to attend their festival, he knows nothing of it, or the traditions that might be behind it. As part of his initiative to better understand mortals and mortal living, he supposes that he should start investigating their traditions, much in the way that he would investigate any other creature. Even if she isn’t, he can’t help but wonder what brought her out tonight. Perhaps it was even more fascinating that strangers from other courts came from near and far to gather for the festival; it seemed to him a delightful display of unity, particularly after what had happened in Solterra a few months prior.
The bauble still hovers at his side - half-forgotten, but stable.
tags | @
notes | <3
"speech"
RE: you come beating like moth's wings | festival - Castalla - 01-02-2020
@