![[ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg](https://novus-rpg.net/images/logo.png "[ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg"){kind=logo}
+- [ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg (https://novus-rpg.net)
+-- Forum: Realms (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=5)
+--- Forum: Ruris (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=6)
+---- Forum: Archives (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=96)
+----- Forum: [C] Island Archives (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=117)
+----- Thread: [AW] and the leaf is singing still (/showthread.php?tid=5379)
and the leaf is singing still - Septimus - 08-13-2020
THE WET GLASS, AND THAT CLOUD
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
The reflection to Septimus’s left is bloody.
The Septimus-in-the-mirror’s mouth is dribbling blood; there is some concoction of feathers and skin caught between his canine teeth. Distasteful manners, really – he might be an omnivore, and he might be fey-blooded, but that does not mean entirely disregarding matters of personal appearance. It isn’t as though the reflection can hear him, but he gives it half a roll of his eyes and says, “I believe you have something in your teeth.”
The mechanics of these strange stones are interesting, at least – if somewhat insulting.
Some kind of illusion (malevolent or apathetic; it is hard to tell), he assumes. He’s seen the type; in the Wilds, it is rarely so obvious, but, like will-o’-wisps, they make you doubt your own eyes, and, more importantly, yourself. Septimus is not sure that there is any kind of intent behind these strange reflections, but he’d like to find out, and, if there is an answer, it might well be further in the labyrinthian expanse of spikes and spires.
He drifts between mirrors, largely disregarding the images found within; some of them are familiar, some of them are exact, and some are a twisted, ugly distortion. He wonders if there is something different to the material composition of the different shards, or if there is some difference in their - theoretical – enchantment. If so, what could it be? It could surely explain the discrepancy in image – but, of course, magic often defies explanation.
(It is part of why it is such a fascinating subject. Although Septimus has lingered in Novus for quite some time, now – and not necessarily by choice -, he hasn’t even come close to grasping the rules of magic in this place, if there are any at all.)
Septimus leans in close to one crystal, squinting at the material, lips quirked. It is difficult to make out exactly what it is composed of, particularly with his reflections obscuring his view, but, even if he could see it more clearly, he isn’t sure that he would know what it is. It doesn’t look – or move – like any material he has ever seen before, in all his (many) years of travelling, and he finds himself wondering what it would look like under a microscope. Surely, it would be fascinating.
He does not have a microscope, at the moment, but he can find one later… if he can find a way to take a sample of the stone. He could try to use his antlers, he supposes, but the stone is probably much harder than they are; he isn’t even sure if a blade would be able to chip a bit of it off. Perhaps he could find a shard that is already broken, but he hasn’t seen any, and he feels like he has been walking for quite some time – even when he finds the crystal broken, he rarely sees the pieces shattered on the ground. Even if he can find one, that doesn’t mean that he will be able to take it back to the mainland with him. In the interest of progress (and his own curiosity), however, he is obligated to try.
The Septimus across from him has antlers twined with emerald-green vines; he thinks that he recognizes them from his childhood, but it has been many, many years since then.
How nostalgic. He doesn’t allow his gaze to linger. He needs to find a shard; if he does, he might even be able to use it to break off bits of the other crystals, to see if they differ in material like they do in reflective quality.
open! || he's, uhh, literally just vibing.
"Speech!"
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
The reflection to Septimus’s left is bloody.
The Septimus-in-the-mirror’s mouth is dribbling blood; there is some concoction of feathers and skin caught between his canine teeth. Distasteful manners, really – he might be an omnivore, and he might be fey-blooded, but that does not mean entirely disregarding matters of personal appearance. It isn’t as though the reflection can hear him, but he gives it half a roll of his eyes and says, “I believe you have something in your teeth.”
The mechanics of these strange stones are interesting, at least – if somewhat insulting.
Some kind of illusion (malevolent or apathetic; it is hard to tell), he assumes. He’s seen the type; in the Wilds, it is rarely so obvious, but, like will-o’-wisps, they make you doubt your own eyes, and, more importantly, yourself. Septimus is not sure that there is any kind of intent behind these strange reflections, but he’d like to find out, and, if there is an answer, it might well be further in the labyrinthian expanse of spikes and spires.
He drifts between mirrors, largely disregarding the images found within; some of them are familiar, some of them are exact, and some are a twisted, ugly distortion. He wonders if there is something different to the material composition of the different shards, or if there is some difference in their - theoretical – enchantment. If so, what could it be? It could surely explain the discrepancy in image – but, of course, magic often defies explanation.
(It is part of why it is such a fascinating subject. Although Septimus has lingered in Novus for quite some time, now – and not necessarily by choice -, he hasn’t even come close to grasping the rules of magic in this place, if there are any at all.)
Septimus leans in close to one crystal, squinting at the material, lips quirked. It is difficult to make out exactly what it is composed of, particularly with his reflections obscuring his view, but, even if he could see it more clearly, he isn’t sure that he would know what it is. It doesn’t look – or move – like any material he has ever seen before, in all his (many) years of travelling, and he finds himself wondering what it would look like under a microscope. Surely, it would be fascinating.
He does not have a microscope, at the moment, but he can find one later… if he can find a way to take a sample of the stone. He could try to use his antlers, he supposes, but the stone is probably much harder than they are; he isn’t even sure if a blade would be able to chip a bit of it off. Perhaps he could find a shard that is already broken, but he hasn’t seen any, and he feels like he has been walking for quite some time – even when he finds the crystal broken, he rarely sees the pieces shattered on the ground. Even if he can find one, that doesn’t mean that he will be able to take it back to the mainland with him. In the interest of progress (and his own curiosity), however, he is obligated to try.
The Septimus across from him has antlers twined with emerald-green vines; he thinks that he recognizes them from his childhood, but it has been many, many years since then.
How nostalgic. He doesn’t allow his gaze to linger. He needs to find a shard; if he does, he might even be able to use it to break off bits of the other crystals, to see if they differ in material like they do in reflective quality.
open! || he's, uhh, literally just vibing.
"Speech!"
RE: and the leaf is singing still - Florentine - 08-22-2020
RE: and the leaf is singing still - Septimus - 08-22-2020
THE WET GLASS, AND THAT CLOUD
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
Everywhere he looks, he stares back. On occasion, he isn’t alone in the mirror – he recognizes some of the faces, but others are people he has never seen before, and he never forgets a face. Some scenes are familiar. A woman with a scythe-hook of a tail surrounded by dead fireflies. A pale girl, attempting to thieve his earring. The island remembers what it has seen before, he supposes, in particular – of all his many, many years, it keeps picking images of him, here.
He doesn’t see the girl until she speaks, too caught up in his own observations to notice the sound of her approach. (An amateur mistake, really.)
Stay, comes her soft, pleading voice. You remind me of someone I have lost. My love. He had vines in his antlers like you do here. He does stop, and he does stay, but that is mostly to get a better look at her.
She looks bird-boned, fragile – a pastel and delicate creature, dripping violet flowers in her wake. He wonders if they grow in her hair (it somehow does not seem implausible, from her bearing), or if she simply tied them in. There are thousands of copies of her, reflected in every which direction; he is too perplexed by her to pay too much attention to them. It is as strange as the island itself to see any other soul in this strange, wild place, and he cannot help but assume it is the island’s will – with its wild, tangled magick – to bring her here.
At any rate – he is grateful for the company, although the nature of her request…
It is, admittedly, one of the more bizarre requests that Septimus has gotten. (He does not recall having ever being compared to someone’s lost lover, but, then, he has lived for a very, very long time.) He arches his brow at the golden girl, but he does freeze in place (although he feels rather strange about honoring her request), save for the persistent push and pull of the wind in his mane. “A lost lover?” He isn’t sure if it’s something she needs to talk about – but her breathless and half-begging tone bears questioning.
There is a dagger hanging around the curve of her neck. She faces his reflection, the one with the vine-strewn antlers, and she plucks it from its holster and raises it to the stone. Septimus watches her wide-eyed, wondering if she can be coerced to get him a sample for his service.
When she tries to cut the stone, however, a horrible sound rings out – the clash between two materials, two magicks. It screams, and he nearly winces, but he cannot bring himself to tear his eyes from the sight of her cutting. She draws the dagger back, finally, and the sound dissipates. Huh, she says, the island still doesn’t like me, then. He wonders how much time she has spent on the island. (He wonders if it can really be said to like anyone at all; wild magic, like this kind, rarely bears fondness for anyone. He thinks it might like his siblings, if they were here, or his mother, or even him, if he were properly himself – it reminds him of the wilds. But he is not himself, and they are not here, and this is not the wilds.)
His gaze lingers on her thoughtfully.
“It’s a pity,” Septimus says, still unmoving. “If you could have broken it with that dagger of yours, I would have asked for a sample.” It seems that his scientific inquiries would have to wait; perhaps he could come back later, before the season is out, with something sharper to cut the stone’s glass-like surface. His eyes drift down to the dagger, which seems to him polished bone – but what kind? The sharpness it seems to exude is entirely unlike its make. “What is your dagger made of? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.” And, considering how long Septimus has been alive, that is rather rare.
@Florentine || <3 <3 <3
"Speech!"
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
Everywhere he looks, he stares back. On occasion, he isn’t alone in the mirror – he recognizes some of the faces, but others are people he has never seen before, and he never forgets a face. Some scenes are familiar. A woman with a scythe-hook of a tail surrounded by dead fireflies. A pale girl, attempting to thieve his earring. The island remembers what it has seen before, he supposes, in particular – of all his many, many years, it keeps picking images of him, here.
He doesn’t see the girl until she speaks, too caught up in his own observations to notice the sound of her approach. (An amateur mistake, really.)
Stay, comes her soft, pleading voice. You remind me of someone I have lost. My love. He had vines in his antlers like you do here. He does stop, and he does stay, but that is mostly to get a better look at her.
She looks bird-boned, fragile – a pastel and delicate creature, dripping violet flowers in her wake. He wonders if they grow in her hair (it somehow does not seem implausible, from her bearing), or if she simply tied them in. There are thousands of copies of her, reflected in every which direction; he is too perplexed by her to pay too much attention to them. It is as strange as the island itself to see any other soul in this strange, wild place, and he cannot help but assume it is the island’s will – with its wild, tangled magick – to bring her here.
At any rate – he is grateful for the company, although the nature of her request…
It is, admittedly, one of the more bizarre requests that Septimus has gotten. (He does not recall having ever being compared to someone’s lost lover, but, then, he has lived for a very, very long time.) He arches his brow at the golden girl, but he does freeze in place (although he feels rather strange about honoring her request), save for the persistent push and pull of the wind in his mane. “A lost lover?” He isn’t sure if it’s something she needs to talk about – but her breathless and half-begging tone bears questioning.
There is a dagger hanging around the curve of her neck. She faces his reflection, the one with the vine-strewn antlers, and she plucks it from its holster and raises it to the stone. Septimus watches her wide-eyed, wondering if she can be coerced to get him a sample for his service.
When she tries to cut the stone, however, a horrible sound rings out – the clash between two materials, two magicks. It screams, and he nearly winces, but he cannot bring himself to tear his eyes from the sight of her cutting. She draws the dagger back, finally, and the sound dissipates. Huh, she says, the island still doesn’t like me, then. He wonders how much time she has spent on the island. (He wonders if it can really be said to like anyone at all; wild magic, like this kind, rarely bears fondness for anyone. He thinks it might like his siblings, if they were here, or his mother, or even him, if he were properly himself – it reminds him of the wilds. But he is not himself, and they are not here, and this is not the wilds.)
His gaze lingers on her thoughtfully.
“It’s a pity,” Septimus says, still unmoving. “If you could have broken it with that dagger of yours, I would have asked for a sample.” It seems that his scientific inquiries would have to wait; perhaps he could come back later, before the season is out, with something sharper to cut the stone’s glass-like surface. His eyes drift down to the dagger, which seems to him polished bone – but what kind? The sharpness it seems to exude is entirely unlike its make. “What is your dagger made of? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.” And, considering how long Septimus has been alive, that is rather rare.
@
"Speech!"
RE: and the leaf is singing still - Florentine - 10-27-2020
RE: and the leaf is singing still - Septimus - 10-28-2020
THE WET GLASS, AND THAT CLOUD
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
The golden woman looks away from him and down towards her dagger, and Septimus thinks that there is something deeply complicated in her expression as she does. She turns the dagger over and over and over again, and he watches the light glint off the sharp edges of it, his eyes widening by a fraction when she tells him that it is made of bone, but only because he would not have expected it from the dagger’s sharpness.
When she explains where the bone came from, however – that is when a look of something like understanding settles in his stare.
“Bone…” He trails off, his expression turning thoughtful and his head tilting a few degrees to the left, bright green jewels clinking against the ebony dark of his antlers. Her story is hardly implausible to Septimus; he has been to lands that are just as strange and chaotic in nature as the one that the flower girl speaks of, and he has heard stranger tales than this. Still, in a land that possesses the relative normalcy of Novus, he is admittedly surprised to find a traveler who speaks of such things so easily. Perhaps it is because he has met her on this island. He gives a decided nod, and adds, “I’m sorry that you lost the first one…though it seems that there is quite a story behind the second.” He’d like to hear the details of it sometime, but, when she continues to speak, and with a decided urgency, he decides that such inquiries can wait for a better time.
(And, he notes, she doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.)
She asks him, then, if he has seen a pair of children; both antlered, one dark and one pale. His lips twist momentarily, and he tries to consider whether or not he has seen a pair of children matching her description during all his time on this island, but he is forced to concede, sympathetically, that he most assuredly hasn’t. “I’m afraid that I haven’t seen them – but perhaps I can help you look for them?” Septimus offers gently, a smile that he hopes is reassuring settling across his face. “Are they your children, miss?” He knows how quickly and how easily they can get away from any adult who is supposed to be keeping an eye on them; he certainly has enough siblings for that, though he concedes that the dangers that mortal children find themselves end tend to be…different from the ones that plague young wildlings.
@Florentine || <3 <3 <3
"Speech!"
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
The golden woman looks away from him and down towards her dagger, and Septimus thinks that there is something deeply complicated in her expression as she does. She turns the dagger over and over and over again, and he watches the light glint off the sharp edges of it, his eyes widening by a fraction when she tells him that it is made of bone, but only because he would not have expected it from the dagger’s sharpness.
When she explains where the bone came from, however – that is when a look of something like understanding settles in his stare.
“Bone…” He trails off, his expression turning thoughtful and his head tilting a few degrees to the left, bright green jewels clinking against the ebony dark of his antlers. Her story is hardly implausible to Septimus; he has been to lands that are just as strange and chaotic in nature as the one that the flower girl speaks of, and he has heard stranger tales than this. Still, in a land that possesses the relative normalcy of Novus, he is admittedly surprised to find a traveler who speaks of such things so easily. Perhaps it is because he has met her on this island. He gives a decided nod, and adds, “I’m sorry that you lost the first one…though it seems that there is quite a story behind the second.” He’d like to hear the details of it sometime, but, when she continues to speak, and with a decided urgency, he decides that such inquiries can wait for a better time.
(And, he notes, she doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.)
She asks him, then, if he has seen a pair of children; both antlered, one dark and one pale. His lips twist momentarily, and he tries to consider whether or not he has seen a pair of children matching her description during all his time on this island, but he is forced to concede, sympathetically, that he most assuredly hasn’t. “I’m afraid that I haven’t seen them – but perhaps I can help you look for them?” Septimus offers gently, a smile that he hopes is reassuring settling across his face. “Are they your children, miss?” He knows how quickly and how easily they can get away from any adult who is supposed to be keeping an eye on them; he certainly has enough siblings for that, though he concedes that the dangers that mortal children find themselves end tend to be…different from the ones that plague young wildlings.
@
"Speech!"
RE: and the leaf is singing still - Florentine - 11-05-2020