BE BOLD, BE BOLD
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
Septimus feels ill-contained in this space, with its narrow, serpentine streets and artificial gleam. There are beautiful trinkets that line each and every passing stall, and they catch his eye as he walks, his wings jerked in at his sides and his steps hounded by the sort of tension that overtakes a wild animal in a cage; no amount of resplendent beauty can distract him from the way that the walls are too tight, the way that the roads guide his movements, that, even if he wanted to, he does not have enough space to fly in these back alleys. But they are beautiful, lined with moonstones that gleam like silver chips of fire in the light of cast-iron lanterns that cast the shape of strange, fantastical beings (dragons and trolls and phoenixes and chimeras and wisps) on the dark pathways. The bob in the winter wind, stirred by the chill. (Before he stepped into the city, when he could still see the sky, he saw distant tendrils of clouds on the horizon, a mar in an otherwise pristine sky; the court is not covered in snow tonight, but he suspects that it will be in the morning, so he might be forced to remain longer than he intended.)
The air is so thick with incense and woodsmoke that it makes his head spin, as though he is dizzy with a kind of intoxication – and the sound! All around, singers and minstrels make their way along the streets, and dancers twirl, so quick and dark in the dull light that they might as well be streams of silver and gold, characterized only by the precious gems and metals that so often adorn their graceful forms. He wonders if the markets are always like this, so bright and so much. He is allured by it. He is repulsed by it. His heart threatens to pound through his chest, sped by the noise and the cold and the overwhelming movement, wherever he looks.
(He thinks that this is another symptom of his newfound mortality. He is being so easily charmed and strung along, buffeted by his mortal blood; if he still had every piece of his soul, he would not have lingered nearly so long on this place, which is not altogether different than dazzling marketplaces he has visited before. But there is a gaping hole where his wildling blood used to run hot and brilliant red, and he is scrambling to fill it up with something, and his mortal half, like most mortal things, is grasping for heat and light, for a flickering beauty – anything to stave off that absence.)
His antlered head feels too heavy. He dips into a darker alleyway, breathing in the cold, and tries to clear his head. The light cast from the lanterns pulls at his legs like chains, but he stands stock-still in the shade as the first flakes of snow begin to fall, so fragile and small that you’d be forgiven for missing them entirely.
(He must ask himself what he regrets: his lost magic, and his lost fae-blood with it, or his stubborn pride that will not allow him to embrace the half of himself that is becoming his whole.)
@Nestle || your choice <3 || gregory orr, "his dream: the black tree/thirst"
"Speech!"
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
Septimus feels ill-contained in this space, with its narrow, serpentine streets and artificial gleam. There are beautiful trinkets that line each and every passing stall, and they catch his eye as he walks, his wings jerked in at his sides and his steps hounded by the sort of tension that overtakes a wild animal in a cage; no amount of resplendent beauty can distract him from the way that the walls are too tight, the way that the roads guide his movements, that, even if he wanted to, he does not have enough space to fly in these back alleys. But they are beautiful, lined with moonstones that gleam like silver chips of fire in the light of cast-iron lanterns that cast the shape of strange, fantastical beings (dragons and trolls and phoenixes and chimeras and wisps) on the dark pathways. The bob in the winter wind, stirred by the chill. (Before he stepped into the city, when he could still see the sky, he saw distant tendrils of clouds on the horizon, a mar in an otherwise pristine sky; the court is not covered in snow tonight, but he suspects that it will be in the morning, so he might be forced to remain longer than he intended.)
The air is so thick with incense and woodsmoke that it makes his head spin, as though he is dizzy with a kind of intoxication – and the sound! All around, singers and minstrels make their way along the streets, and dancers twirl, so quick and dark in the dull light that they might as well be streams of silver and gold, characterized only by the precious gems and metals that so often adorn their graceful forms. He wonders if the markets are always like this, so bright and so much. He is allured by it. He is repulsed by it. His heart threatens to pound through his chest, sped by the noise and the cold and the overwhelming movement, wherever he looks.
(He thinks that this is another symptom of his newfound mortality. He is being so easily charmed and strung along, buffeted by his mortal blood; if he still had every piece of his soul, he would not have lingered nearly so long on this place, which is not altogether different than dazzling marketplaces he has visited before. But there is a gaping hole where his wildling blood used to run hot and brilliant red, and he is scrambling to fill it up with something, and his mortal half, like most mortal things, is grasping for heat and light, for a flickering beauty – anything to stave off that absence.)
His antlered head feels too heavy. He dips into a darker alleyway, breathing in the cold, and tries to clear his head. The light cast from the lanterns pulls at his legs like chains, but he stands stock-still in the shade as the first flakes of snow begin to fall, so fragile and small that you’d be forgiven for missing them entirely.
(He must ask himself what he regrets: his lost magic, and his lost fae-blood with it, or his stubborn pride that will not allow him to embrace the half of himself that is becoming his whole.)
@Nestle || your choice <3 || gregory orr, "his dream: the black tree/thirst"
"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
