If he weren’t on a mission, Septimus would have likely spent hours mulling over each individual leaf, patch of moss, and unnatural insect that he encountered in the stretch of woodland that coated the center of the island. Before the eruption, when he had seen it from shore – for he could only assume that this was the volcanic island – Septimus had never noticed a forest. He assumed that, like the ivy, it was the creation of some sort of strange magic, divine or otherwise. (Novus’s native population certainly seemed to think that it was divine.) That assumption made him feel a bit better about the way that he drifted past so many fascinating specimens, rather than pausing for a while to examine them, even sketch them in his notebooks (which were, of course, neatly tucked in his satchel, below his wing).
He had something even more fascinating to find, though no less magical. The relic of the time god, the natives claimed. They called him Tempus. There had been other time gods, in other lands, though not by the same name; he wondered if they were all aspects of the same god, fractured like light through a prism to shine differently on each nation, or if they, like worlds in of themselves, each had a time god all their own. (Of course, that does not mean that he believes in those other gods – or this one. Yet. Not until he has seen him with his own eyes.)
(He could almost laugh at his own presumptuousness. Until. As though anything was certain, in a land like this. But Septimus knows the importance of confidence, in any exploratory venture; if he does not believe that he will find the god, the god will certainly not show himself.)
But what he is looking for is not quite god, unless god will give his magic back to him. What Septimus is looking for is the relic of the god. He struggles to imagine it; there were plenty of items of pure magic, back in the forest he used to call him, but a divine relic seems like it should be something else entirely. Timeless, and beautiful, or maybe terrible. All he knows is that it has time magic, of some sort, and, well, if he can’t get his own magic back…
It might be able to help him return home, if nothing else.
Night has fallen, and he has to take care not to trip over gnarled roots and misplaced stones. The forest is quiet, now; occasionally, he hears the call of something like a nightjar in the distance, though he knows in some intimate, vague way that the creature making the sound is no nightjar. If he were more skittish, or less accustomed to the wilderness, he might be disquieted by the rustles in the thick underbrush, here and there, which break the silence with all the force of gunshots. However, whatever might be lurking in the dark will not go after him if he is unafraid, not with those sharp antlers and even sharper teeth -
He is not such an easy target.
Grey-green moss hangs in curtains from the branches ahead of him. He pushes forward, through the veil, and finds himself standing in front of a pool, bordered by smooth, shiny stones. Though deep, the water is tantalizingly clear, and it gives off a turquoise glow that seems to emanate from a stone protruding from the very bottom of the pool. Colorful flowers – an array of violets, pinks, and oranges – sprout amidst the stone border, giving off a sweet scent. Though Septimus is suspicious by nature, while he stands here, surrounded on all sides by trees dripping moss curtains, he cannot help but feel soothed.
The water, he thinks, looks placid (and tempting) enough to swim in, though he does not dip his hoof into the surface yet.
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
Not to say that the island isn’t beautiful—it is. The dark, glossy jungle pulsates with the noise of cats and birds, fruit hangs dense from the boughs of trees, white sand is turned over and turned over again by the endless crashing of clear waves, and the whole scene is basted in a warm yellow light, like butter, The sky is clear, a singing kind of blue. And it’s peaceful enough; there are even foals gallavanting around, spraying up bits of white salt and foam.
And still he is not impressed.
This magic, it’s—nothing. Compared to what he’s seen, compared to what he’s done. It roils, sure, it bubbles, sure, he can feel it under his feet and in the dirt like an oncoming earthquake, and it might be interesting, maybe, but it’s nothing compared to what it could be. Compared to what he is. So Elchanan traverses the shores with an eye that isn’t enthusiastic so much as it is weary, watchful, even, as he picks his way past the rocky parts of the shore and into the depths of the forest.
Under cover of the trees, the clime drops a few degrees; though comfortable, Elchanan shudders as he transitions, finally slinking from from sun into shade. Birds and insects chitter and sing from places deep in the earth, a bright sound that makes his ears twitch, and sunlight dapples the dirt in a pattern almost like cobwebs, warping and twisting as his dark hooves pass through. Dew shudders on the leaves. Elchanan’s dark, dusty eyes rove as he walks, hooves placed in a careful weaving pattern, and even as the sun dips below the horizon and the light turns from butter-yellow to deep-blue he notices the world changing from leaves to moss.
A grayish, greenish carpet of it, still fluttering from some kind of movement. Elchanan’s step slows. He pauses. What had passed? Could it be dangerous? He can’t hear anything, at least not anything more than the gentle kiss of wind passing through, of dirt shifting underfoot. A brief moment passes in which he is perfectly still, and his heart slows, and his brain is quiet. Life is but a pinpoint, a drop of rain threatening to burst on the nearest blade of grass.
He does not know fear, and he shoulders his way through the curtain.
Oh, God Almighty.
“Septimus.” Elchanan stops outside the ring of rocks that line the pool, outside the range of Septimus’ touch. He raises his head in something like indignance. Of course he still looks handsome, a Greek figure poised against the clearest diamond lake; of course Elchanan still wants him, like a candle, like a sprig of hot-white lightning.
When something passes through the curtain of hanging moss, Septimus half-expects a wildcat or a monster, or at least some stranger. God only knows how many people live on Novus, even if most of them didn’t make it to the island – and he hasn’t been here nearly long enough for the thought of encountering a familiar face to so much as cross his mind.
But there he is.
Elchanan is still striking, with his pale golden coat and bluebird wings, and those deep, dark eyes, like murky forest pools or dead autumn leaves – both descriptors flattery, coming from Septimus. Cast against the dark, greying green of the moss carpet, his pallor is even more striking than usual, a sharp and metallic contrast to the rich, earthy tones of the woods. Somehow, though he didn’t take the delicate man for the outdoorsy type, this island seems to suit him, and, in spite of his unreadable expression (Is that indignation? Anger? He hadn’t lingered long enough to discover Elchanan’s reaction to his stolen kiss.), Septimus can’t shake the feeling that this place, with its wild magic and indeterminate nature, suits him. Septimus.
The sound of his name sends a delightful chill running up his spine. He had said they’d meet again, hadn’t he? (He didn’t imagine that it would be under these circumstances.)
He lingers, stock-still in place on the bank, making no effort to bridge the distance between them. It isn’t much, but he notes that it is enough to avoid any kind of touch, and he isn’t entirely sure what to do with that revelation. It doesn’t linger; he shakes the thought like a tree shakes its leaves in the chill of autumn, dismissing observation in the name of conversation. “Elchanan,” he says, unable to resist the faint smile that stretches across his lips when he says his name. It still feels strange on his tongue, though not unpleasant. (He wonders, still, where he is from, but he does not think that he will tell him – not now, not yet, and maybe not ever.) “Fancy meeting you here. Are you searching for the relic, too?” Or the god, he thinks, which honestly interests Septimus more than any relic, but he doesn’t say it – he has no way of knowing what Elchanan believes, and he isn’t sure if he believes in Novus’s gods yet himself.
Even when he has finished speaking, his eyes – piercing and vivid green, sharp as the verdant canopy of leaves that hangs heavy as a veil above their heads – remain trained on Elchanan’s, something ambiguous in their emerald depths – save for the intensity of his stare.
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
There’s something moving within the pond, something whose scales reflect the light filtering through the forest canopy. From the right angle, it would be easy to miss, so well does it blend in.
From beneath the water’s surface it watches the first horse appear, watches the way he peers into the pool and inspects the treasure lying at the bottom. His treasure, for he was there when the god dropped it into the pool, and has guarded it jealously ever since. There was a message it held, scribed in runes upon its surface, but it was not for simply anyone to read.
He drifts closer, the water rippling all around as he dares to come near to the surface, the better to see the horses and to hear their words.
His long, whiskered face peers out at them when he finally breaches, water framing his pale body like a cloak. A single turquoise spot marks his forehead, and as his eyes meet those of the antlered horse, it begins to glow.
It glows the way the rock at the bottom of the pool glows, and oh, how it burns. The light is bright enough to illuminate each of the horse’s faces, for them to feel the warmth it casts. With a cry, the fish leaps into the air, falling back into the pool with a splash, where it swims quickly to the bottom. The stone is glowing more fiercely now, it’s light filling the pool, and it is this stone that the fish now circles around.
The water ripples, and something about the movement looks like it’s dancing, like it’s inviting the horses in to dance with it.
If they do, if they swim together to the bottom of the pool, they will find the pull of the stone strangely enticing. And if they swim near enough to it, they will find the glowing inscriptions easy to read, but perhaps harder to puzzle.
the relic chooses its wielder
Below the words is a scene, carved into the stone bottom of the pool. It shows a group of horses rearing up against a creature - a giant snake? It seems to be protecting something from its attackers.
(They best move quickly, for the fish is swimming menacingly closer.)
@Septimus and @elchanan have both been awarded +100 signos for encountering a random event!
At the bottom of the pool, the rock begins to glow, as if provoked by the horse’s presence. Perhaps it’s the curiosity, the sense of adventure that causes them to enter the pool; or perhaps it’s something else entirely. But when they do, when Septimus and Elchanan swim to the bottom of the pool, they will find carvings on the stones, and a simple inscription to go along with it.
What could it all mean? Feel free to NPC the fish or interpret the carvings however you’d like.
Enjoy!
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
Oh, couldn’t it have been anyone else? Novus is large and, more importantly, new; and Elchanan knows enough math to be aware he should be less likely to bump into Septimus than any random stranger. And yet here they are, poised across the pool from each other like Narcissus and his reflection. Elchanan’s eyes are deep-dark and inscrutable. His ears flicker back a little, toward the perfect knots of his mane, and his stance, though loose, is nothing near to comfortable.
The space between them remains painfully large. Are you searching for the relic, too? he says, and Elchanan snorts, shaking his fine-boned head with something like derision. That long, washed-out tail snaps against his back legs like a whip. He moves forward slowly—so, so slowly—around the edge of the pool. His strides are measured, nimble hooves catching easily on the pattern of shore-rocks made dark by the lapping water. “I think,” he says, low and dulcet, “There are people much more in need of it than I.” His dark gaze drops from the treeline to meet Septimus’, and it narrows slightly. When he looks back down at the pool it is with a measure of indifference that could almost be called cold—
Except for the sly twist of his lips, and the fact that, a moment later, the guise is replaced by sheer surprise.
He’s distracted by a flash of movement. Concentric circles from a singular drop, disturbed by fins. His eyes turn, and— a fish with long whiskers and unnerving glassy eyes comes tearing suddenly out of the water.
Elchanan flinches, extends a wing to protect himself from the wave of water that comes up to meet them, but over the ring of feathers he sees it—the turquoise spot in the things head, glowing bright like a rune—and instantly his predator curiosity snaps into place. He tilts forward like a scale. It’s too late, it’s gone back into the water already, he can sense it swimming way, way down. A frown pulls at his lips. By now the thing is meters deep. It should be invisible against the pattern of dark rocks and mud on the bank.
But he can still see it. Every iridescent scale, every swish of its tail. Because the pool itself has started to burn with light.
Elchanan lets out something like a laugh, punctuated with a carnivorous smile. He dips his head low toward he is no longer distracted by Septimus or the indignance that was turning in his stomach only a moment ago. No, his sooty eyes are fixed with immense concentration on the path the fish weaves through the water: warmth comes in waves to burn against his face, but he leans ever closer. The bottom of the pool is out of view, white with simmering light. Oh, if he could only see -
He turns toward Septimus. For the first time since his arrival in Novus, his magic surfaces. The smile that twists its way across is lips is just slightly ethereal, his eyes too-intense, and when he speaks, his voice is lower and smoother than should be possible, sweet as honey, like dark, dark amber: “You want to go in.”
It is not in any way a question.
He watches Septimus for a long, long moment, those deep eyes bright and watchful, and when the wave of magic subsides and leaves all his nerves tingling with cold, he pushes his wings close to his sides and goes swan-diving into the pool.
The cold sinks into him like a set of jaws; all at once it rushes in to grab at him with needle-sharp teeth and Elchanan flinches as it settles in, shocked almost to gasping at the spears of frost that seem to think into his skin, but he steels himself and pushes forward, down, down, down.
At the very bottom of the pool, still a few feet out of reach, he is starting to see through the clear, frigid water to something godly, burning with light, pulling him in like a fish on a hook.
He seems uncomfortable, and distant.
Really, that is probably his fault; he still hasn’t decided if he minds. At his question, he shakes his head, and the gesture is nearly contemptuous. I think there are people much more in need of it than I, he says, and his gaze flickers down to meet Septimus’s bright green eyes. There is no warmth in his stare, nor in his narrowed eyes. He strays closer, but he feels more distant-
Septimus offers no response. (He isn’t entirely sure what to say; there is more to his comment, he thinks, than what he knows of him, or of this land, though it has no impact on his scientific curiosity.) Instead, he lets his eyes linger on Elchanan’s (though the other man does not meet his gaze) as he looks down, towards the pool. It is only when his eyes widen, shot through with a look of surprise, that Septimus follows his gaze to the water. His shock is likely mirrored in the bay’s own features; Septimus feels himself stiffen, eyes growing large as saucers, though they are filled with anticipation more than anything.
There is a flash of scales, and he scolds himself for missing it earlier. (He is supposed to be a biologist, and this fish is no small creature; he should have been paying more attention.) It flashes closer and closer, and then, like a cleaver, its long, whiskered head splits the surface with a dull splash.
He stares at the creature – is it a koi? (No. The whiskers are far, far too long, and the body shape isn’t quite right.) It seems to him a little bit a fish and a little bit a dragon, with those long, serpentine whiskers and a surprising intelligence gleaming in those dark pits of eyes. Water drips off his elongated form like a translucent carpet. The fish is pale gold, so shiny that he might as well be made of metal, but dark-eyed. It crosses Septimus’s mind that he would like to sketch it. Are those the points of teeth, extending just beyond the ridges of its lips?
He realizes, abruptly, that the fish is staring at him.
That bright turquoise spot on its forehead begins to glow with some ethereal, burning light. It is a mirror of the light which begins to radiate from the stone in the bottom of the pool, and it begins to glow brighter and brighter, like a newborn flame – the light grows bright enough to illuminate the clearing, and so hot that he can feel it on his face, as though he stood too close to a flame.
The fish cries out – cries out! – and jolts from the pool, body convulsing in midair before it splashes back into the pool. At the bottom, the stone is growing brighter and brighter, and the light seems – somehow – strangely inviting. The fish swims slow loops around the stone, and the water, as though stirred by its movement (or something else entirely) begins to ripple. There is something tantalizing about the motion, like a well-choreographed dance.
Septimus licks his lips, already shedding his satchel; he has to investigate the stone, obviously, but he can’t let his notebooks get wet. The leather bag has just fallen to the ground when Elchanan catches his eyes again, and somehow he feels… wrong.
There is a smile on his lips, now, soft and warm and alluring in a way that makes his thoughts (excitable, intrigued, and, most importantly, purely scientific) come screeching to a halt. His words drip off his lips with the texture of fine silk - You want to go in. - and, somehow, with his mind still addled and his heart pounding to some unfamiliar, fluttering beat inside of his ribs, Septimus agrees.
Of course, he did already, but the idea seems all the more appealing now that he knows that he wants him to. Why wouldn’t he want to please him? Of course he wants to please him, to see him smile at him like that again, to feel that smile again – it has all the warmth, the beautiful warmth, of summer sun, and he wants him to keep looking at him with those dark, gleaming eyes, couldn’t he just melt into them? And his voice, his beautiful voice, he wants it, wants it in a way that borders on the possessive, in a way that burns -
He is already in the water when his mind pieces itself together again. Perhaps it is the cold that snaps him out of it.
Septimus realizes, abruptly, that he was subject to some form of manipulation. (He suspects that it would be entirely unnoticeable if Elchanan were more powerful, a thought that sends a shiver running up his spine.) He is not sure, yet, how he should feel about it, though the revelation is accompanied by the swipe of his tongue along his lips, then the carnivorous points of his teeth.
Nevermind that. The stone is what matters, with its strange light – and, though his feathers hinder the movement, almost painfully, he pushes himself towards the bottom of the pool.
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 has lost his breath. He can’t be sure if it’s the cold of the water seeping into his bones or the way the adrenaline rushes into him in one long whoosh as he recovers from the thrill of using his magic for the first time in weeks. It feels too good, unsettlingly good. Like the re-introduction of a drug he used to depend upon. And he has always been a man of simple pleasures. This is one of them—the unique opportunity to convince someone of whatever he’d like with no more than a well-placed smile and the right silver tone. Oh, he’d seen the look in his eyes, how Septimus had frozen like the prettiest deer at the bell-warning of his voice. How he’d been caught by no more than five words. Elchanan thinks—knows—that the power most invisible is the prettiest kind. And by far the most useful.
Anyway he shudders as he dives, a thrill of pain and pleasure both wandering up his spine. His wings are a dirty hindrance underwater. But he kicks and struggles, and slowly, so slowly, the bottom of the pool comes into closer view. The light is flickering brighter and brighter; it illuminates the stone at the bottom enough that Elchanan can see it’s ticked with little marks, and the curiosity that pulls him down only grows stronger. His lungs are starting to burn. But he can’t turn back, not now, not now. Panic blossoms like acid in his chest; he pushes harder and finally sinks close enough, deep enough, to see that the ticks are carvings are really drawings, made by careful hands. (He might have said loving, out of habit, but really there’s no evidence.)
The relic chooses its wielder.
Drowning is the worst way to die. That’s what he’s always thought. Now, as the seconds pass and the burning in his throat and chest grows exponentially worse, a disaster curve climbing ever upwards, he knows it’s true. Every fleeting moment stains his gaze a little darker. The scene carved into the stone is a bizarrely enchanting depiction of death, the always-still horses always-rearing against the thing that comes for them, which Elchanan can only describe as something like a giant serpent, snakelike and horrible even in carving. He wants to look at Septimus, wants to be reminded that he isn’t alone. But somehow he cannot move his gaze away. He is still drifting down, down, down, ever closer the clue, and for a brief moment he wonders if this is what it feels like to hear his magic—terrible and irresistble. Suddenly a shadow is thrown over the rock. The archpriest twists, and the blackness moves too. Cold fear slices through his throat as he realizes that the light is coming from behind him. Growing closer, brighter, purer blue.
He panics, and turns—
The fish is coming toward them—
And normally Elchanan wouldn’t be afraid of something that looks like an old swimming wizard, but this thing glows with power, pouring light out of that strange stone in its head, and even the way it moves is menacing, the slow twist from side to side and back again. The whiskers twitch like they have a mind of their own; Elchanan’s heart pounds in his chest; we have to go, he wants to say, but his voice would be lost in an instant. Fear floods him. The fish is swimming closer. The water is uncomfortably warm now, simmering with unnatural light. Closer and closer and closer it comes, and fuck this, he thinks, fuck this damn fish, and reaches for Septimus.
With a grimace of effort Elchanan rams his shoulder under the biologist’s front leg and pushes upward. His kicks are frantic as he moves toward the surface—cold hysteria rushes into his throat—his vision is starting to go deep-purple at the edges and oh, he wants to breathe, and neither of them can die here so Septimus, please breathe, please breathe—but the edge of the pool and the sun that shimmers through the water is still so far away, and Elchanan’s magic is no use here.
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
