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+---- Thread: [P] each one a gift (/showthread.php?tid=5592)
each one a gift - Septimus - 09-27-2020
YOU WHISPER / THEN HOLDING YOUR BREATH,
place this cup on yesterday's saucer / without the slightest clink.❃
It is nearly spring.
Even if there were no calendars in Delumine (and there are), Septimus could tell by the character of the forest. Already there is a faint green unfolding of buds on the very edge of the skeleton-branches of trees, the return of what they shed the previous fall; already the heads of small flowers and bits of grass were beginning to poke through a carpet of warm brown ground that was only recently covered by the last snowstorm of the season, which had kept Septimus indoors for longer than he would like to admit. He had already resigned himself to the fact that he would not finish his mapmaking or his species collection before the season was out. (But, then, when did he ever finish it entirely anyways?) He would work on it again next year, he supposed- unless something finally pulled him away from this land, which had already held his attention for a nearly unimaginable two years, in spite of his present mortality.
(He still feels like he has accomplished little, and he wonders if this constant pressure – bisected, as it is, by time - is how mortals always feel.)
He thinks of his home more often than usual, lately. He knows that it is more often than usual because this is the first time in a long time - ever - that he has ever thought about time. Normally, it passes by him thoughtlessly, or he lets it pass unthinkingly. The change of seasons is a breath, or a blink; years are the same, and centuries, even millennia, are barely anything more. He never thought about home, for the first unspeakable, remarkable amount of time that he was gone. Eventually, those thoughts began to creep in, but, even then, they were like birds flying south for the winter. He knew that they were there, and that they would come, but they were so expected and fleeting that he barely noticed them.
He steps out, with a crunch of dry branches that sends a cardinal flittering out of a nearby evergreen, and into a clearing. There are not many in the Viride, even this time of year; the branches are so dense that, even when he flies above the great forest, he can barely make out the ground below. By now, Septimus has walked most of it. When he arrived in Delumine, it was a labyrinthian expanse, though no more labyrinthian than anything he had seen before – and now, having mapped it, it seems almost familiar, almost magicless. He wonders if this is how mortals feel all the time, when they talk about the dangers of the mundane. He used to think them nonexistent, for creatures like him.
A cardinal skips down a branch ahead of him, red feathers fluffed out – and Septimus has seen a hundred thousand cardinals or more, by now, but he still stops to appreciate the way that the mid-morning light sifts through its feathers, curls around it like the gleam of a halo. He’d draw it, if he had a moment, but the sound of his hooves and the shifting of leather is enough to send the bird flying off, a rapidly-disappearing spot of color against the darkness of the woods, and-
And sometimes he has this strange feeling, lately, that makes him innately aware that each passing moment can’t be recaptured or experienced again. He sighs, sealing his satchel again, and adjusts his glasses on his muzzle; it’s probably not worth considering. He isn’t mortal. He’s merely entertaining mortality, and besides-
His mother always used to say that it was like a scar. Once you were touched by it, you could never go back to the way that you were before, and Septimus would still like to return to himself properly, once all of this is over.
@Torielle || excited to thread w/ you <3 || billy collins, "days"
Speech
place this cup on yesterday's saucer / without the slightest clink.❃
It is nearly spring.
Even if there were no calendars in Delumine (and there are), Septimus could tell by the character of the forest. Already there is a faint green unfolding of buds on the very edge of the skeleton-branches of trees, the return of what they shed the previous fall; already the heads of small flowers and bits of grass were beginning to poke through a carpet of warm brown ground that was only recently covered by the last snowstorm of the season, which had kept Septimus indoors for longer than he would like to admit. He had already resigned himself to the fact that he would not finish his mapmaking or his species collection before the season was out. (But, then, when did he ever finish it entirely anyways?) He would work on it again next year, he supposed- unless something finally pulled him away from this land, which had already held his attention for a nearly unimaginable two years, in spite of his present mortality.
(He still feels like he has accomplished little, and he wonders if this constant pressure – bisected, as it is, by time - is how mortals always feel.)
He thinks of his home more often than usual, lately. He knows that it is more often than usual because this is the first time in a long time - ever - that he has ever thought about time. Normally, it passes by him thoughtlessly, or he lets it pass unthinkingly. The change of seasons is a breath, or a blink; years are the same, and centuries, even millennia, are barely anything more. He never thought about home, for the first unspeakable, remarkable amount of time that he was gone. Eventually, those thoughts began to creep in, but, even then, they were like birds flying south for the winter. He knew that they were there, and that they would come, but they were so expected and fleeting that he barely noticed them.
He steps out, with a crunch of dry branches that sends a cardinal flittering out of a nearby evergreen, and into a clearing. There are not many in the Viride, even this time of year; the branches are so dense that, even when he flies above the great forest, he can barely make out the ground below. By now, Septimus has walked most of it. When he arrived in Delumine, it was a labyrinthian expanse, though no more labyrinthian than anything he had seen before – and now, having mapped it, it seems almost familiar, almost magicless. He wonders if this is how mortals feel all the time, when they talk about the dangers of the mundane. He used to think them nonexistent, for creatures like him.
A cardinal skips down a branch ahead of him, red feathers fluffed out – and Septimus has seen a hundred thousand cardinals or more, by now, but he still stops to appreciate the way that the mid-morning light sifts through its feathers, curls around it like the gleam of a halo. He’d draw it, if he had a moment, but the sound of his hooves and the shifting of leather is enough to send the bird flying off, a rapidly-disappearing spot of color against the darkness of the woods, and-
And sometimes he has this strange feeling, lately, that makes him innately aware that each passing moment can’t be recaptured or experienced again. He sighs, sealing his satchel again, and adjusts his glasses on his muzzle; it’s probably not worth considering. He isn’t mortal. He’s merely entertaining mortality, and besides-
His mother always used to say that it was like a scar. Once you were touched by it, you could never go back to the way that you were before, and Septimus would still like to return to himself properly, once all of this is over.
@Torielle || excited to thread w/ you <3 || billy collins, "days"
Speech
RE: each one a gift - Torielle - 09-29-2020
I have been here nearly a season now. Or perhaps only a fraction of it. When I had left my home there had not even been the thought of winter chill in the air and yet when I had finally set foot from the in between to where I am now (Novus, I had heard the land called in passing by it’s denizens, though putting a name to it made little difference to my feelings on it) the blanket of snow had been thick, plush almost. Now, as the seasons were on the verge of turning, the snow seemed to wither away leaving only sparse patches where it clung to existence, like a thick comforter that has slowly been worn thin by worry. Worry was something I did often these days, my thoughts less like roads worn in from daily use and more like ruts pressed gently into wood panels from endless pacing. If the mind could not be still and the heart could not be quieted on it’s own, perhaps the movement of the body would channel the restlessness and the uncertainty into the earth. Maybe she would take it as an offering and swallow the anxiety whole.
I had spent a small bit of time wandering the land that I had come in to, and while I did not yet consider it a “home” it was as close to one as I could call at present. At least, as far as anyone else was concerned in the vast expanse of this world, I was from this “court” as they called it, Delumine if anyone bothered to ask. It was easiest to keep it simple. I had found that explaining that I had simply sprouted forth from the nothing was draining in a way that I did not expect. It’s not that it was an uncommon thing to the people here; it seems that travelers are nearly as common or more so than natives, though I believe all melt together after a period of time anyways. I found the thought at the same time comforting and disturbing in a way that I was not yet ready to explore within myself. It made my heart lurch with a deep homesickness I had not felt when I had been Plane’s Walking, and saying that I was of the Dawn stilled the nausea within me better than anything I had found to placate myself afterwards, though it did not quiet my mind entirely.
So it has come to pass that I still find myself wandering back to the forest from where I emerged. Perhaps more than I ought to do, and more than is good for me. But it is the one place where I feel that I can be close to home again. I still continued to meditate each day, finding a level of solace in continuing my ritual practice here more than I ever did within the Sage’s temple. I spoke to Gaia about nearly anything and everything, though the conversations felt more one-sided than ever. At least in my homeland I had felt a vague thread of connection, that if she was not responding in a way she was at least listening. Every time I tried to evoke her name and her presence within me felt more like a desperate plea, and while I would like to think that my years of study and devotion would bring me a strong faith that could be unshakeable, I found myself to be nothing but shaken. With each unanswered call I felt more abandoned and I was unsure of myself.
Perhaps in asking for the knowledge and the guidance to walk within her love and to share that knowledge freely with others, I had proven the Sages’ their teachings correct, though I was loathe to think that it could be true and it made me ill to consider. So I find myself time and again coming back to this forest and wandering the thickly woven trees to find a sense of home within them.
To be among the rawness of it steadied me in the way that I had hoped to find among the rolling of the sea. The quiet strength of the trees around me and the perseverance of the foliage as it has begun to paint itself onto the land filled me with their essence. The world was renewing itself and perhaps if I spent enough time within these hallowed halls of the earth I would find myself reborn along with it. It was the closest I could be to my Gaia and I relished it like a child did the scent of their mother. Breathing deep the cool morning air, I tilt my tiara back to the sky. The light chimes of my bells and coin sound like a trickle of water down my back and the frigid metal against my skin fills me with a sense of aliveness that I have come to crave as a reminder that I am still here. I’m not sure what it is I am looking for in the atmosphere; if not a sign from my goddess, then I must be looking for something. It seems these days I am always looking for something, even if I’m not sure what it is just yet. Overhead I watch a cardinal flutter through the branches, a beautiful and bright spot of colour in the world that keeps me from drowning in the thick waves of my homesickness; for a little while, at least.
Searching mountains, fields and meadows green
what is it my heart can hope to find
what is it my heart can hope to find
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lyrics
I'm excited too! <3
RE: each one a gift - Septimus - 10-18-2020
YOU WHISPER / THEN HOLDING YOUR BREATH,
place this cup on yesterday's saucer / without the slightest clink.❃
As the cardinal disappears from his sight, Septimus tells himself to soak in the sight of the light cast around each tip of its bright, blood-red feathers.
Sometimes, his present mortality feels more like his most ambitious experiment yet than it does a trap; sometimes it feels more like a study in something he’d previously found inexplicable, rather than a violation of his very nature. After all, for all his half-mortal blood, Septimus has never really thought of himself as a mortal. He has never been touched by the most mortal quality of them all – that is, death -, and he has never had any particular desire for it, either. At best, he has possessed a morbid fascination at the science of it, the methods of decay and the creatures that feed on rotting things; a swarm of vultures, or fast-growing white-capped mushrooms, the kind you find growing on moss-coated logs that have fallen to the forest floor. He has never longed for time in much the same way, because time, too, is a kind of death.
(In fact – it is the only kind of death he can even claim familiarity with. Even for a creature that exists untouched by the strain of it, the passage of each slipping moment can never be regained, once lost. He simply tries not to long – never to long – for what is already gone; to keep his eyes trained always on what is to come, rather than what has already passed. It would be more properly mortal, he thinks, to be preoccupied with history. He isn’t, though. He barely thinks of the people he has loved before (but for his family; none of the others have mattered for more than a blink), or the places he has been, or all the wonderful and terrible things that he has seen.
It is a trait, he thinks, that he must have inherited from his mother.)
The cardinal slips, like a gash against the sky, through the bony branches of the forest before him. There is barely a moment before it is gone entirely; and he is left, not with a cardinal, but the memory of one, the lingering impression.
If he were the sort to feel much in the way of melancholy (and he most decidedly isn’t), he thinks that he might have felt it then; staring after the ghost of red feathers, unsure of where to go next, aimless, caught with one hoof in winter and one in spring.
But he is not aimless for long. There is the sound of metal-on-metal. A clink, or maybe – the faint ringing of small bells. It is hard to be sure from a distance, but the sound itself is enough to pique Septimus’s curiosity. (It is not much of a feat to do so; his hunger for any kind of knowledge, however small and however specific, is nearly insatiable.) He can hear it rather clearly, so he suspects that the source must be close, and he finds himself striding in the direction of the sound, almost thoughtlessly.
He presses through branches and thicket, lets his hooves crunch across half-patches of snow and fallen twigs, tugs the tangles of his mane and jewel-adorned antlers from the brush-
and he steps out across from a red mare. He immediately pegs the jewelry that adorns her neck, and tail, and crown as the source of the sound – the character of her accessories is distinctly foreign, he thinks, but suits her. She looks decidedly young, too; and, when he manages to trace her blue-eyed stare up, into the leafless canopy, he catches sight of the cardinal again, not quite so gone as he expected. It is nearly enough to make him smile.
(He reserves that, however, for his greeting.)
“Why,” he says, a quiet smile settling across the dark, faintly wolfish (but ever-so friendly) curve of his lips, not pulled back far enough to show his canine teeth, “hello, there. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else out in the Viride this morning.” He takes care to keep distance between them, settling his hooves where he stands between an arch of bare-branched Oaks, but he lets his eyes drift over her carefully, taking account of her colorful, elegant jewelry, the shape of her antlers, the red of her coat – the markings around her bright blue eyes that might be paint or might be the natural character of her fur.
At any rate – he is pleased by the company. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around-“ Septimus hasn’t, but that doesn’t mean much, since he never remains in one place for very long at all. “I’m Septimus. Who are you?”
He has, on more than one occasion, been accused of being overfriendly with perfect strangers.
(Better overfriendly, he would say, than underfriendly – especially when one was running on limited, perfectly mortal, time.)
@Torielle || <3 || billy collins, "days"
Speech
place this cup on yesterday's saucer / without the slightest clink.❃
As the cardinal disappears from his sight, Septimus tells himself to soak in the sight of the light cast around each tip of its bright, blood-red feathers.
Sometimes, his present mortality feels more like his most ambitious experiment yet than it does a trap; sometimes it feels more like a study in something he’d previously found inexplicable, rather than a violation of his very nature. After all, for all his half-mortal blood, Septimus has never really thought of himself as a mortal. He has never been touched by the most mortal quality of them all – that is, death -, and he has never had any particular desire for it, either. At best, he has possessed a morbid fascination at the science of it, the methods of decay and the creatures that feed on rotting things; a swarm of vultures, or fast-growing white-capped mushrooms, the kind you find growing on moss-coated logs that have fallen to the forest floor. He has never longed for time in much the same way, because time, too, is a kind of death.
(In fact – it is the only kind of death he can even claim familiarity with. Even for a creature that exists untouched by the strain of it, the passage of each slipping moment can never be regained, once lost. He simply tries not to long – never to long – for what is already gone; to keep his eyes trained always on what is to come, rather than what has already passed. It would be more properly mortal, he thinks, to be preoccupied with history. He isn’t, though. He barely thinks of the people he has loved before (but for his family; none of the others have mattered for more than a blink), or the places he has been, or all the wonderful and terrible things that he has seen.
It is a trait, he thinks, that he must have inherited from his mother.)
The cardinal slips, like a gash against the sky, through the bony branches of the forest before him. There is barely a moment before it is gone entirely; and he is left, not with a cardinal, but the memory of one, the lingering impression.
If he were the sort to feel much in the way of melancholy (and he most decidedly isn’t), he thinks that he might have felt it then; staring after the ghost of red feathers, unsure of where to go next, aimless, caught with one hoof in winter and one in spring.
But he is not aimless for long. There is the sound of metal-on-metal. A clink, or maybe – the faint ringing of small bells. It is hard to be sure from a distance, but the sound itself is enough to pique Septimus’s curiosity. (It is not much of a feat to do so; his hunger for any kind of knowledge, however small and however specific, is nearly insatiable.) He can hear it rather clearly, so he suspects that the source must be close, and he finds himself striding in the direction of the sound, almost thoughtlessly.
He presses through branches and thicket, lets his hooves crunch across half-patches of snow and fallen twigs, tugs the tangles of his mane and jewel-adorned antlers from the brush-
and he steps out across from a red mare. He immediately pegs the jewelry that adorns her neck, and tail, and crown as the source of the sound – the character of her accessories is distinctly foreign, he thinks, but suits her. She looks decidedly young, too; and, when he manages to trace her blue-eyed stare up, into the leafless canopy, he catches sight of the cardinal again, not quite so gone as he expected. It is nearly enough to make him smile.
(He reserves that, however, for his greeting.)
“Why,” he says, a quiet smile settling across the dark, faintly wolfish (but ever-so friendly) curve of his lips, not pulled back far enough to show his canine teeth, “hello, there. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else out in the Viride this morning.” He takes care to keep distance between them, settling his hooves where he stands between an arch of bare-branched Oaks, but he lets his eyes drift over her carefully, taking account of her colorful, elegant jewelry, the shape of her antlers, the red of her coat – the markings around her bright blue eyes that might be paint or might be the natural character of her fur.
At any rate – he is pleased by the company. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around-“ Septimus hasn’t, but that doesn’t mean much, since he never remains in one place for very long at all. “I’m Septimus. Who are you?”
He has, on more than one occasion, been accused of being overfriendly with perfect strangers.
(Better overfriendly, he would say, than underfriendly – especially when one was running on limited, perfectly mortal, time.)
@Torielle || <3 || billy collins, "days"
Speech
RE: each one a gift - Torielle - 12-02-2020
Though I am sure that I heard his approach (and then promptly filed it away somewhere to be shredded later as useless, a trait I’m sure is going to get me killed one of these days) it was his vocals that drew my attention away from the cardinal and back to this earth. While I knew that there were few denizens who chose to roam the Viride, I had not particularly thought of what I might do if I were to encounter one of them. A shiver ran through me as I recalled my first encounter with the subjects of Novus, and the detail that it had occurred perhaps not too far from where I was now standing did not escape my recollection. I had at first thought that the guardian might have been a god, but as I have had the opportunity to learn the small area I now knew as Delumine, I can say with certainty that he was not a deity. In fact, as much as those around me may appear powerful and fantastic and otherworldly in a way that perhaps I could not explain, they were all fairly mortal. Flesh and blood and breathing living creatures that like me, would some day die. I found some comfort in that knowledge, that there were still a few certainties within my ever changing world.
The dark antlers branching out from the stallion’s skull adorned with trinkets not unlike my own struck a particular heartstring, and I realized it was a stiff barb of homesickness. My Tribe would have adored the jewels and their craftsmanship. Equally so the bag that hugged his body, a rich hue that reminded me of a particularly large and creamy cup of hot chocolate. He spoke as I indulged in his appearance as much as he did mine, and I found the soft green of his eyes to be the most appealing. There was something hidden behind them that I couldn’t quite pin down, but I found it somehow very exciting. At the very least, the way that he carried himself and the way he spoke warmed me, though perhaps that was just the charisma. And perhaps also the loneliness- His was the first openly warm and inviting face that I had yet come across, and there was a part of me (the still scared and sick child part) that clung to that smile like a drowning man to a life preserve.
“I will admit,” I spoke in a tone that I hope came across as light and only a bit bashful as I tilted my head and turned my gaze to the foliage, “I am quite new to this area, Septimus.” I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool morning air and with it the confidence of the forest finding new growth in a ravaged earth. I met his gaze and held it steady, a smile crossing my lips. “You may call me Torielle. Well met.”
I shifted my weight between my pistons, as the pause in walking had caused me to sink into the still soft earth. In a few weeks it would be fully carpeted with lush ferns and grasses and the various lives of the creatures who called this forest home. I ached to see it and momentarily wished that I could hibernate like a bear to make the time pass by more quickly. I allowed it to pass through me without lingering on it for too long. It would do me no good to dwell on things that would cause me heartache. I heard the stubborn voices of the Sages, memories that I wished to forget more and more as time passed, warning me to not run towards warmth in a desire to rid myself of cold, lest I plunge myself into a blazing fire and be consumed whole.
I took a few steps forward, fixing my tiara at a curious angle, and asked “What has drawn you to the forest this morning, Septimus? I had assumed it would be just a bit too chilly for there to be many others out this way, and running into you like this has piqued my curiosity.” I paused, rapidly blinking as I realized what I had said may be seen as too forward or perhaps even rude. I bowed my head, my veil falling forward and obscuring my vision while I sought for a moment to collect myself.
“I apologize, that must have seemed a bit prodding. I didn’t mean it so.” I lifted my eyes again and I was surprised to find that they had just the faintest fog to their picture. The tears in them teased at the corners of my blue orbs before finally settling. My strength of my own emotion took me by surprise. “I’m just so delighted to see a genuinely friendly face, I had forgotten myself and my manners for a moment. My arrival here has been… rocky at best.” I shuffled my hooves and moved my gaze to watch them, feeling an awkwardness that I had not since I was but a young girl trying to explain her first crush. Perhaps the travel and the silence from my goddess had taken more of a toll on me than I had initially thought. Now this poor stallion, who seemed a good sort and a gentle soul, was going to get the brunt of my emotional outburst.
I thought briefly about finding an excuse to run, anything to distance myself from this situation. But I found that I couldn’t. I wanted too much to have a genuinely warm encounter. No magic, no sorcery or tricks or manipulation or unnecessary weakness or shows of strength. Just a gentleman who would provide some conversation and pleasant company. The desire for something to be perfectly normal, average and predictable outweighed the feelings of embarrassment and childish excitement. Those too would come to pass, I knew. In the end, finding a lovely friend would benefit me much more than hiding away with myself.
Seeking in the corners of the earth
My companions I have never known
My companions I have never known
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