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…?”
AND RARELY, IF THE WOOD ACCEPTS THE BLADE WITHOUT CONDITIONSthe two pieces keep their balance in spite of the blow❃please tag Septimus! contact is encouraged, short of violence
Winter, particularly the Winter Solstice, was always an important time of year to Kajaks, to her father’s Kingdom. Castalla could remember every year, ever since she was but a foal, looking forward to the festival. Nightfall Keep would be awash with colour, hung with beautiful decorations and everyone would wander around with a smile on their faces. And the scents- the scents were glorious. Woodsmoke and candle flame, oakmoss and cinnamon, spiced wines and pungent flowers. The Cook, Keyafar, would have sugar-dusted cookies on hand at all times and the tantalising aroma of grilled boar, stewed beef and spit-roasted veal would waft from the kitchen at all hours of the day. On the Winter Solstice itself the pack would stay up all night and when the moon emerged from its starry expanse, they would sing together. Their howls would split the night, caress the darkness, until they were too hoarse to even talk. They would sleep only when the moon herself dipped beneath her clouded duvet, when the first lights of dawn sent the stars scurrying for the shadows of another land. And then they would awake again in the late hours of the morning for a feast and a trade of gifts.
Such memories hung heavy in her heart now, bitter sweet and stained in sorrow. The first Winter Solstice without Skender had been the hardest. She’d hidden in the shadows of her bedroom listening to the howls of her people with tears staining her face and pain weighing down her shoulders. The second had not been so bad, but the Wolf still could not bring herself to find the joy in Solstice celebrations that she once had.
She hoped tonight would be different.
Word had reached the Night Court of a Winter festival hosted by Dusk Court, and in the name of getting to know the outlying areas, Castalla had decided to attend. Relations between the courts could be tempestuous at worst and there were whispers of past conflicts and manoeuvres but it seemed Novus was not beholden to the same power struggle and battles Alanaris always was. In fact, on the face of things, everyone seemed to live in relative peace. On the face of things of course. But nevertheless, it was a lovely change from having to be constantly on her guard and ready for some monster hunter to jump out and attack her.
The air was rich with the scents of candle-smoke and cinnamon, pine trees and log fires. All around the Court tiny little lanterns glittered and shone, casting light upon the decorations hung neatly over each building. Bathed in the shadow of the towering citadel, the Dusk city was rather cosy, particularly when it was this packed. Tables were lined with food and drink, guest meandering down the streets in conversation. Castalla herself weaved in and out of the groups, admiring the city and searching for a face she might recognise. Though of course the princess was well-versed in courtly intrigue and making conversation with those she did not know, tonight she did not feel the pressure to. There was no secret game of wits, no looming threat, no target to manipulate or informant to meet. No, tonight it was just a celebration among kind strangers and the Wolf was determined to make the best of it.
Blue eyes alight with the glow of flickering candles, she continued to cast her gaze around in wonder at the beautiful city, glad of the comfort of night. Distracted, she did not notice the winged steed who gentle backed into her. When he whirled around, nearly dropping the shiny bauble grasped within invisible hands, a smile was on her face and her own apologies on her lips. “Castalla. But please, don’t be sorry, it was my mistake.” Indeed, decades of training and practice had taught her to be aware of everyone and everything at all times. That was the joy of immortality, years to hone whatever skills you might want. Even so, it seemed that tonight instinct was belayed by the chance to let go. “And you are?” She asks, the friendly smile still on her face. Castalla was still learning the different scents of the four courts, but she could be sure he was neither of her court or the Dusk Court.
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.
AND RARELY, IF THE WOOD ACCEPTS THE BLADE WITHOUT CONDITIONSthe two pieces keep their balance in spite of the blow❃please tag Septimus! contact is encouraged, short of violence
she's a mess of gorgeous chaos, you can see it in her eyes
Castalla is no stranger to sharp teeth and at the site of the winged stallion’s, bared in a friendly smile, she tips her head ever-so-slightly to the side. Curiosity alights in the blue of her eyes as she looks at him closer. Unable to help her magic, her own teeth drop just slightly- more predatory than the elegant curve of the steed’s canines, as she allows her mouth to change. Her grin is one of solidarity, playfully conspiratorial perhaps, for such things are rare in any world. And in her world, in Alanaris, only the Fair Folk- the Fae, Seelies and Elves- are born with naturally pointed teeth. Shifters learn to change their teeth into those belonging to whichever creature they can phase into. And monsters are made rather than born. She wonders if this auburn stallion is any of those.
Before she can ask, before she can really examine his teeth (because it would not be the first time one of Adrian’s wolves have tried to hunt her down, even if this steed does not smell like Kajak), his lips close, his teeth a mere ghost. For a moment sadness haunts her gaze- there and gone in a flash. She was an immortal (even if it did not extend to this land) and her people were immortal- they would always be there when she got back. Yet, she had never strayed this far from Nightfall Keep, or from Alanaris at all. Part of her missed her family, her people. Missed singing to the full moon, her voice one among many. Missed dancing in a fire-lit night the music of her people thrumming in her veins. But what she missed were the times before Skender died, before the other half of her soul perished. It had never been the same since.
In the pause that followed her name, Castalla took the chance to glance over the stag. Wings rose proudly from his shoulders and antlers adorned in gleaming emeralds crowned his head, his coat a warm chocolate and his eyes mossy green. But it was the glasses, perched upon his nose that characterised the unassuming warmth the Wolf felt from him. Though she were usually cautious to trust strangers and it would likely come back to bite her, Castalla decided she liked him immediately.
A soft snort falls from her nares, a gentle laugh that comes out more in a hm sound. “The pleasure is mine, Septimus. And either way, no harm done.” Her smile is honest, the elegant dip of her head polite. Castalla had almost forgotten what it was to speak with words rather than weapons, to mean the things says without the backstabbing and conniving of court. And it is a welcome change.
“I recently arrived in Denocte, the Night Court was kind enough to welcome me among its citizens. But I came to see the celebrations- winter was always a spectacle in my homeland and I would be remiss if I did not join some festival or another.” Though her sense of smell is heightened enough that she can tell this steed does live among the sea-salt and rich earth of Terrastella, she does not recognise the scent that clings to him. “I take it you do not live in Terrastella? What brings you to the Dusk Court?”
AND RARELY, IF THE WOOD ACCEPTS THE BLADE WITHOUT CONDITIONSthe two pieces keep their balance in spite of the blow❃please tag Septimus! contact is encouraged, short of violence
