Elchanan is not sure what, exactly, he is looking for.
Even if he did, trying to find it would be an exercise in becoming overwhelmed.
Delumine’s library is the largest in all of Novus. Someone had told him this - it was, truthfully, the only reason he had altered his recent pattern of getting piss-drunk at night in the Denoctian streets and sleeping away his hangover into the afternoon - but the mere description could not have begun to prepare him.
The forest begins to narrow, and to show its age. He is walking slowly through Viride, the sun (thankfully) distracted somewhat by the webbing of leaves above so that it cannot be bothered to singe him. Frost crunches underfoot, beginning to refreeze as the day wanes. Small lanterns smile from the boughs. Anyway, it is almost dusk. How worried can he be? What light does shine through is bloody with sunset, as dead as it is warm. It has lost its bite.
Now he is in charge.
The ground turns from dirt to wood, the path inlaid with spirals of knobbed, gnarly tree roots: overhead the branches on either side of the road start to knit themselves together into a kind of roof: suddenly it splits into a cavernous circle, and Elchanan stops short to observe what must be the center of Delumine’s infamous library.
Small canine things scutter across the floor, appearing and disappearing from tunnels cut into the hard dirt. Scholars in green robes and eyeglasses drift quickly from aisle to aisle. (Elchanan presses himself, somewhat irritably, against the wall where the light does not hit so hard.) Intricately woven silk and canvas rugs line the floor, as do thickly knit blankets and pillows.Bookcases sweep from floor to ceiling, stacked with perfectly-organized gluts of scrolls, diagrams and hardback novels. Elchanan has never been too enthusiastic a student, but even he is unwillingly awed by the sheer volume of information.
He realizes, somewhat miserably, that even his homeland must have a story written about it here.
One of the little fox-things runs past him. Or tries to - Elchanan abruptly extends a limb into its path, and, as planned, it stops, though not without a hearty glare from its position crouched against the floor. Ugly thing, he mumbles to himself almost inaudibly, and then, to it, with a fakely cheerful smile, he asks, Where are your international scrolls?
It whips a tail toward a hallway to their right, and as soon as Elchanan turns to look, tears away and into the nearest tunnel.
Rat, he says dismissively, watching it flatten itself into the hole and disappear. A Deluminian overhears and gives him bitter side-eye.
Elchanan merely shrugs, and slinks in what might be the right direction.
Delumine’s library is magnificent.
Compared to most enclosed spaces, Septimus finds it wonderfully tolerable. The roots and trunks and branches that make up the structure (rather than unpleasant, suffocating walls) retain the impression of the forest, even as the shelves and halls come into view. It is one of the larger libraries that he has encountered in his travels, though certainly not the largest, and, as he strides among the shelves, he is grateful for the time he has spent learning to navigate, for the maze-like halls and precariously organized shelves are practically a wild place in and of themselves.
He has, nevertheless, almost managed to get his bearings, in the few weeks that he has been in Delumine. He tilts his head at a group of scholars as they pass, and they greet him in turn; he didn’t expect to be joining anything while he was in this land of Novus, and he already feels the urge to get out of Dawn and continue to wander the rest of Novus, but he is forcing himself to acclimate and settle for a time, to come to know the people who live in the sunrise court. (It makes him fidget.) Nevertheless, without his magic, he is trapped in Novus for the foreseeable future. He is going to have to live normally - mortally - for a while.
The strange little fox-creatures that live in the library scatter around his hooves, and he bends to look one in its almond-brown eyes. It chirps at him. They’re clever little things, though, for the life of him, Septimus can’t figure out how he’s been here for weeks and failed to discover what the natives call them. The little fox flattens his ears to his skull and hisses towards the end of the hall, clearly agitated, and scampers a few feet away. It looks over its shoulder, fur standing on end, as though it is asking him to follow it.
He doesn’t know what’s upset the helper – a book out of place, perhaps – but trots behind it anyways. It scampers down to the end of the hall and turns a corner, then sits up on its hindquarters, staring down another hallway. Septimus follows it, then, when he stands just behind the little creature, he follows its stare.
Wandering the shelves is a lovely golden man, interrupted by hints of white (he realizes, after a moment, that it is actually blue) – he is slender and graceful and smaller than Septimus, with locks as pretty a cream as much of the rest of him. A pair of wings that put Septimus in mind of an especially pale bluebird sprout from his shoulders, and somehow the color is flattering. The little fox narrows his eyes at the man, and then he bounds off again. Septimus wonders what the man has done to upset it.
He approaches regardless. “Are you looking for something, friend?” In spite of the pleasant smile that curves the dark corners of his lips, there is an edge to Septimus’s voice.
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
The ground is not marble but dappled. It is light and dark and light again. No luxurious tile, just the easy, beautiful pattern of sun shining through the moving leaves - and though Elchanan is no wilderness explorer, he smiles at it, surprisingly warmed by the sight. There is some humble beauty to finding something he simply cannot find in the sky, though he will always belong to it.
He blinks contentedly at the the fox as it skitters away, the movement of its paws warping the pattern of light underneath.
After the briefest, watchful pause, Elchanan turns down the hall. He walks slow and untroubled, strides collected, tail swishing absentmindedly against his haunches, and for the first time in a long time is totally quiet, content to do nothing more than observe: the shining dark wood of the shelves, the spines of so many leather-bound books turned out from the walls, decorative rugs gilded with lavishly dyed fabric, piles of pillows, stacks of quills. Something almost like admiration shines in the priests’ dark eyes. He is, for the most part, not so easily impressed by petty mortal accomplishments, but this is something - different, if only for the way it is overwhelming.
Elchanan’s staff drags lazily behind him. It leaves a little furrow, the sharp end breaking a line into the hard ground. The weight of it in his telekinetic grasp is as comforting as a childhood blanket. He reaches out to ruffle an egg-shell blue feather against a particularly pretty embossed title, debating whether to take it off the shelf, and eventually decides against it. There are more important scrolls to be unfurled.
He wonders if, in this corner of the world, his homeland has been given a name. He wonders who would know.
A pitter-patter sounds on the dirt behind him, and Elchanan turns his head over a narrow shoulder just as the question comes: Are you looking for something, friend?
The priest stops short. At once his whole face changes: his expression brightens, a charming smile breaks over his lips, his hazel eyes narrow into something sly and clever as he turns in a neat circle to face the stranger. And ah, what a handsome stranger he is — ! Tall, dark and lean with thick lashes and a forest-green gaze partially obscured by a pair of clear spectacles. A neat blaze and snip interrupt the otherwise perfect hazel of his skin. It reminds Elchanan of the white markings on his own face, though the stranger’s are less creepily exact than his.
Indeed. His answer is almost wry. Elchanan is not shy about meeting the man’s green eyes, and when he does it is with a significant and yet utterly shameless measure of interest. He blinks with measured slowness: with him, with those thick, dark lashes and too-intense gaze, the movement is almost salacious. (Only almost.) International scrolls. Walk me?
The magic does not leach into his voice, not yet. He’s sure they’ll get along fine without it.
When the man turns to look at him, it is with a sly, knowing smile that reminds Septimus instinctively of the wildling creatures that haunt the forest where he grew up. “Indeed,” he says, but Septimus is mostly distracted by the way that those eyes (hazel, now that he is looking at them, and dark, and knowing) creep the length of his face, then settle, very deliberately, on his bright green eyes. They linger there shamelessly - Septimus almost expects him to start batting his lashes. (He wouldn’t mind it if he did. It would probably make for an appealing sight; they’re long and thick and strikingly dark compared to the rest of him.)
The disgruntled young fox lingers vividly in the back of his mind as he meets his stare, which is familiar enough in some indiscernible way to leave Septimus with a distinct afterthought of caution, caution, something his mother would always warn him to keep in mind when he interacted with the strange folk he found in the depths of the woods. But they are not in the woods, there is no tangible reason to expect that the man in front of him is particularly strange (and he would have to be incredibly strange for Septimus to think him so), and he has never been known for his caution. “International scrolls. Walk me?”
He tilts his head so that his dark hair falls across his features in an appealingly disheveled manner, the shimmering trinkets on his antlers clinking and catching in the light, though his emerald-green eyes never leave the man’s own. Two can play at that game – in spite of his youthful appearance, Septimus has lived far too long to be demure or oblivious, and he’s never been one to shy away from obvious interest. (And, if asked, Septimus could easily call this stranger beautiful, with his petite, graceful, and perhaps avian physique. He isn’t sure about the little fox that brought him to his side, yet, but there will be time enough to discern what that was all about. For now…)
For now, he lets his lashes flutter low across his bright green eyes, watching him through the clear lens of his spectacles, and then turns away, glancing towards the branching hallways leading deeper and deeper into the libraries. “International scrolls, then. Are you looking for anything in particular?” The words drip off his tongue warmly, smooth and lilting as silk. He supposes that they can take the long way, while they’re at it. (Just to discern if this man is as unsavory as the library helpers would have him believe, of course.) That smile remains curved across his features, but it tugs up, just revealing the sharp points of canine teeth before he turns and brushes past the golden man and into the next hall, moving close enough to him in the process to allow the feathers of his great, dark wings to brush against his pale side. “I’m Septimus. And who might you be?”
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
Elchanan is pleasantly surprised that the stranger meets his eyes so easily. Even through the thin glass of his spectacles his gaze is lovely and intense, and the archpriest’s smile deepens when Septimus tilts his head. Pretty boy —! They are opposite in ways that Elchanan finds ludicrously attractive — how tall he is, how perfectly lean, all the places he is dark where Elchanan is not. The clink of those bright green jewels against the smooth and perfect web of his antlers.
(Were Elchanan less self-assured, he might be jealous of the trinkets. As it is, he wonders if there is any way to distract Septimus enough that he could steal them for himself.)
The stranger turns, and Elchanan watches with a subtle tilt of his head, the little smile still on his pink lips. The sun streams down, coats the two of them in a warm kind of glitter: it turns the perfect ochre of Septimus’ hair to something brighter, softer, glints off the emerald that shines from his antlers, highlights the razor-sharp edge of his cheekbone. He wonders briefly what it would be like to see the future, then realizes he shouldn’t care. (Elchanan has never been one for love, or commitment, but neither of those things matter at the moment — it is just the two of them here in the library, close enough to kiss, and that is all that is worthy of thought for now.)
“Yes.” Elchanan offers nothing more in the way of explanation, just smiles. (It has always kept him out of trouble.) He is not sure he could explain what he is looking for even if he wanted to, and why waste time pretending he does? He watches the curve of the stranger’s lips, and for a brief moment it seems as though his teeth are sharp, like a faerie’s, like a wolf’s - he can’t help blinking in surprise — no, it must be simply a trick of the light. A moment, like many, where Elchanan’s want overtakes his realism. Anyway, the potential sharpness of Septimus’ teeth is nothing compared to the very real electricity of his wingtips brushing Septimus’ side, light as a breeze, hot as a fire.
He tries (sort of) to suppress a sudden, wolfish smirk. And fails entirely. It won’t matter.
The hallways stretch out in front of them, dappled alternatively in light and dark, in empty and dirt. Elchanan is suddenly glad they are the only people to be found in this particular stretch of the atrium: “Septimus,” he repeats with a practiced air of casualty, and pretends not to notice the way his shoulder bumps against Septimus’, then his hip, as they fall into an easy, almost-matched step. “Pretty name for a pretty boy.” His dark gaze slips sideways to meet Septimus’ again. “I’m Elchanan. Nice to meet you - “
And turns his gaze back toward the passage ahead of them, as if utterly unconcerned with how the conversation proceeds. Though that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“Yes,” is all that Elchanan says to his inquiry, with one of those smiles that suggests to Septimus that he does not want to discuss the matter any further. That’s fine. He stretches his wings, very slightly, letting them shift in their sockets, and relaxes – in an utterly mundane way, though there is something in his bearing that is somehow reminiscent of a big cat or a wolf, a hunter at rest. “Prefer to remain mysterious, I see,” he says, his tone smooth and unhindered by the golden boy’s apparent rejection. “That’s fine – I love to unravel a good mystery.” He lets his tongue slide over every honeyed syllable, tossing him a wink, and continues to stride into the library, content to play the librarian, though the strange behavior of the creature that brought him to his new friend lingers at the back of his mind like a distant threat. Knowledge is a powerful thing, and Septimus has never been blind to the various ways it can be misused; without knowing why he needs to find his way to the international scrolls, he can hardly suss out the purity of his motivations. However, in spite of the limited time he’s spent in the library, Septimus does not think that anything particularly dangerous is within it, and, if it were, he suspects that it would be in the sections on black magic or rituals, not international scrolls. And the library is open to the public besides.
Besides – he likes that easy, pretty smile. (He wouldn’t mind to make him smile a bit more, he thinks.) He’s perfectly content to let this man – this Elchanan, as he is about to discover – be his newest mystery to solve, without thinking too much about what that might mean.
It’s been a while since Septimus has done this, so he lets himself enjoy the heat of Elchanan’s wing when it ghosts along his skin, the touch so slight that he has to suppress a shudder; it makes something smug well up inside of his stomach when he glances back, out of the corner of his eye, and finds the golden man smirking. (He thinks to himself that he succeeded.) He repeats his name – “Septimus” - and he likes the way that he says it, like it’s something casual, even as his skin brushes against his shoulder and hip (warm, warm enough to be displeasing whenever he pulls aside) in a way that is decidedly not casual. “Pretty name for a pretty boy.” Those dark eyes meet his own; they gleam in the dusty sunlight. “I’m Elchanan. Nice to meet you.” And then his gaze is gone, slid away towards the corridor, and a part of him is disappointed for it. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you’re flattering me, Elchanan.” He tests his name out on his tongue, playing with the syllables, and lets his emphasis rest lovingly on the word; he thinks that it’s probably foreign, but he doesn’t know where it’s from. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Really. Are you from Delumine?” Elchanan seems intent on avoiding any questions of his own, and that’s fine by Septimus – he’s curious by nature (perhaps a bit too curious, if you asked his mother), and he’s always liked learning about people, pressing them with gentle question after gentle, pointed question until they opened up like a book and let him see all of their pages.
If the book happened to be pretty (and very eager to be unwound), all the better.
@Elchanan || hi I've been wanting to finish writing this post for a w h i l e "Speech!"
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
I love to unravel a good mystery, Septimus says, and Elchanan smiles dirty and sly at him, thinks, Dear boy, if only you knew.
His magic is doing something like begging, currently, in the small map of his veins. Elchanan has never been good at self-control in the first place, and since his arrival in Novus he’s noticed more and more of an itch to use it — a consistent gnawing at his already thin grasp on containing the part of him, teeth and claws, that wants nothing more than to be worshipped. When he speaks, he has to be careful not to let it slip out unbidden. Careful to keep things clean. Careful not to ruin any possibilities with too heavy a hand. No, and it wouldn’t be necessary here, anyway; they seem to be getting along just fine. “You’re in luck, then,” Elchanan answers, returning the boy’s wink with a smirk of his own, and his voice vibrates with a thinly suppressed laugh echoing all the way into his chest.
He has almost forgotten about the real errand he is here to run. When they turn a corner and face the seemingly endless length of yet another corridor piled with books, it suddenly comes rushing back to him, and he lets out an exhale just a little louder than normal. He thinks of the patch of blue on his back — the white marking on his face — of what it might be called in the scroll that they’re looking for. Madness? Disease? Something about that makes his bird-bones shudder. But he’s always been an actor, and it doesn’t take much to collect himself, even as a brief tingle of dread moves through him; Elchanan merely shakes it off and evens his step to match Septimus’, falling back a stride as the tunnels (seem to) narrow around them. Unconsciously he closes the space that separates them by another centimeter or two.
“Oh, you do know better, smart boy—“ It would be condescending if his tone wasn’t so terribly light, so perfectly casual — if the dusty-dark of his eyes weren’t aglow with mischief. And his steps are still easy, his path still unhurried. Nothing of him speaks of malice. (This has always been Elchanan’s power: the slightness of his bones, the deep dish of his face, the ability to blend into a crowd of suspects and convince someone with a bright smile that oh, no, it wasn’t me.) This is no different, though the stakes are a little lower, technically speaking. “—of course I’m flattering you.” He’s never been subtle, and today is not the day to experiment.
The archpriest’s next words are casual but effective — though spoken with an easy tone, they’re decisive, carrying an air that says his answer isn’t to be discussed further. “Not from anywhere near here. Are you? You seem to know quite a bit more than I do. About some things.” Another wolfish grin, bright-splitting his pale lips, and he reaches out to prod one of the pretty green jewels hanging from Septimus’ antlers absentmindedly.
“You’re in luck, then.”
His smile is so smug that Septimus could practically call it a smirk – there is something serpentine in the gesture, a hint of a predatory nature that gives him momentary pause. He has no reason to feel suspicious, save for perhaps the reaction of the little library-keeper, and he can’t explain why he feels that lingering sense of suspicion, like a dark, cold, and rippling undertow to an otherwise clear and babbling stream. The sort of current that drug unsuspecting creatures under, when they came to drink from the brook; but there is that ghost of a laugh there, and it coerces Septimus to suppress his more flighty instincts.
When they turn a corner, however, something in Elchanan’s demeanor changes. Septimus tilts his head at him, dark tendrils of hair tumbling down his face; the golden man stiffens, exhaling so sharply that Septimus looks back at him, green eyes momentarily widening with concern. There is something that he cannot quite place in his expression, and it does not linger long enough for Septimus to find the right words to describe it. He is quick to pull himself through whatever the corridor sparked, and, soon, his expression is as unhindered as it had been a moment before. His paces quicken, until he falls into stride alongside him again.
The corridors draw in closer, and Elchanan falls behind him. Septimus is not sure that he likes that, but they don’t have enough space to spread out; but, like this, he can’t see his face, and that doesn’t just bother him because it’s a pretty one. (Call it paranoia, but years of travelling had taught him that it was rarely a good idea to turn his back to a stranger.) “Oh, so you do know better, smart boy-“ comes Elchanan’s voice, so nearly patronizing – but not patronizing at all, for the mischievous lightness of his tone. “-of course I’m flattering you.” There is something amusing about his term of address, calling the antlered man a boy, and Septimus allows a smile that he knows that Elchanan cannot see to pull at the corners of his lips. Though Septimus looks like a boy, and he has hardly let his once-immortal existence hinder his youthful demeanor, he has lived for hundreds – if not thousands; it is sometimes hard to tell – of years. “I am rather smart, aren’t I?” He tosses his reply back with equally playful conceit, glancing over his shoulder to smirk; he lets eyes trail down the curve of Elchanan’s neck rather deliberately, and then he looks away.
His response is just as ambiguous as Septimus had anticipated – hoped – for. “Not from anywhere near here. Are you? You seem to know quite a bit more than I do. About some things.” He is up beside of him again, but Septimus does not notice it when he leans forward to prod at the jewels hanging from his antlers; on something like impulse, his head turns, and he recovers the motion by just allowing his muzzle to brush against the curve of Elchanan’s jawline, before he draws away wordlessly, turning his head back to the corridor in front of them. “Not at all,” he says, with a somewhat more serious shake of his head. “I’m just a traveler, from a land that is - exceptionally - far away.” A grimace curls across his features momentarily, and his eyes darken a hint. “I’m a bit stuck here, for now, that’s all. And as for knowing…” That grimace is gone, then, replaced by an unusual and almost-dangerous lightness. His eyes gleam in the warm lights of the library, strangely reflective and far older than they might have seemed before, and he turns to examine the man with a smile broad enough to reveal his wolfish canines curling across his lips. “I suppose that depends on what things you are implying that I know.”
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
“Sure you are. Quite the scholar,” Elchanan replies, easy. But he is distracted, dark eyes roaming the towering stacks of books on either sides of them. Sunlight casts a warm metallic glow on the library, lighting up the scrolls, tomes and bibles in the same shade as the gnarled tree roots. The archpriest nearly trips as he observes the scene. It is awe-inspiring, and a little scary, just how many of them there are — it is the first time in a long time that Elchanan has really had to face the fact that not only does he not know everything, in the grand scheme of things, he knows very little. Only a very few of the embossed titles are familiar to him, and even those are fuzzy and hard to recall, like a years-old dream. He wonders vaguely how many of them Septimus has read and almost wants to ask. (But it would only make him feel inferior, and besides, old poetry is not quite what either of them is here for.)
The focus almost blinds him from the way Septimus’ eyes travel down the curve of his neck, sticky-sweet as fresh honey. Almost, but not quite. He catches the scholar’s gaze and grins. But there is a real warmth in his gaze now, vibrant and intensely personal, one that cannot be misconstrued as anything but genuine interest. Elchanan blinks, and the flutter of his thick lashes is almost soft.
He does not think much of the gesture that brings him toward Septimus’ antlers. If it were him, he thinks, he’d take it as little more than a casual expression of interest. But the other man turns, almost a jerk, and for a split second Elchanan thinks he might be admonished for crossing a line as thin as cloud against sky. No, it’s worse — the black satin of Septimus’ lips brush over his jaw, and Elchanan cannot entirely fight the tilt of his head back, nor the surprise in his wide eyes, more the slight shudder that passes through his muscles and ruffles the feathers on his wings and shoulders. A wordless heat tingles from the base of his throat down, down into his chest and the pit of his stomach, and he watches Septimus with a slanted gaze that says nothing but more.
It is impossible, then, to focus on the rest of the world, Even the pretty pattern of the dappled sunlight. Even the narrowing of the tunnel as they get closer to something Elchanan is not sure he wants anymore. No, none of it matters but for the way there is no space between them, and the patch of pale skin still dark with blooming warmth that pulses against his jaw.
When he does look up, Septimus’ eyes are flashing unusually dark; he smiles, then, and Elchanan is dazed to find a row of needle-sharp teeth looking back at him but not nearly afraid. (It’s not fear that makes his heart beat faster, is it?) “What you know,” repeats the priest. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me?” A little wry smile twists at his lips, not nearly as close to a smirk as the previous ones. He is not even sure what he wants Septimus to answer -- if anything, or with only a wink.
“Sure you are. Quite the scholar.”
He’s looking at the books, and not at Septimus, and he can hardly blame him – when he first stepped into Delumine’s library, he spent many hours spellbound by the vast quantity of books, and, better yet, the way that they seamlessly integrated with the natural structure, the curls of roots and branches. For the naturalist, it was a haven. He was not so dumbfounded by the unknown, for it was his job to seek it. All of the knowledge on the shelves just made it harder to find what was really unknown, particularly in lands that were not so strange or magical as his own; however, even a place like Novus must have some unknown expanses and bizarre things, and those are what he hopes to find.
When Septimus lunges for his jaw, he knows that Elchanan will react, and there is a part of him that expects him to flinch away; he doesn’t, though. He doesn’t, and it pleases Septimus, though what pleases him more is his reaction. The way that his jaw tilts upward, allows him to brush the curve of it more easily – the look of dazed shock in those deep brown eyes, that smooth confidence shed in favor of something else - the way that he shudders, down to the very tips of his wing, that makes something warm pool inside of Septimus’s chest. He pretends to ignore the sudden, fiery want in those slanted eyes of his, the way that they seem to beg him, beguile him for something more; the way it almost feels like need to him. The way that there is no distance between them, the way that he can feel the heat as it rolls off of his skin, and the way that the corridor suddenly seems so much smaller (and warmer) than before.
He smiles, and Elchanan looks at his teeth, in the hazy way of a prey animal. “What you know,” he repeats, then, with a twisting smile, adds, “Aren’t you supposed to tell me?” Septimus, in his feral way, is still smiling. “Knowledge, Elchanan,” he says, with a deliberate pause, “is something that must be sought-“ Another pause. He glances at the stretch of scrolls in the aisle they’ve stepped into, a faint, unreadable smile still lingering on his lips. “-and we’ve found our way to the international scrolls.” For a moment, he considers. He could stay. He sees the raw want in Elchanan’s eyes, and he knows that he could – he could stay with him, and help, or follow him from the library. But Septimus is not so easy to unravel himself – and the part of him that his mother wants to linger, in a way that is not-quite but almost possessive. He wants more? Septimus will give it to him. “But we’ll meet again soon…” Quick as a wolf might bite, he closes what little space is left between them, impressing upon him a fleeting ghost of a kiss – the afterthought of teeth. “I’m sure of it.”
And then he is gone among the shelves – his long strides more like a wild thing than the scholar he claims to be.
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
