BE BOLD, BE BOLD
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
Cold wind tangles in Septimus’s mane as he walks the streets of the Night Market. It’s early morning; dawn has just swept over the horizon, painting it in pale pinks and dusty oranges. It looks entirely different in the Markets during the day. When darkness falls, they feel magical, like something that exists outside of the horrible, mundane reality of mortal existence. Without the stars and the dark, however, it becomes blaringly obvious that the streets are just streets, the minstrels just minstrels, the market stalls just market stalls, and the lanterns just lanterns. He finds them impossibly dull, and he wishes that he could leave – but it’s snowed since he arrived, and he’s more than willing to lean on the hospitality of his hosts until the weather is a bit more amiable to travelling long-distance.
One of the tiny dragons that inhabit the markets flies out from an alley, gleaming like a sunset-colored jewel in the newborn light; it lands on a barrel and begins to nibble at what looks like some strange piece of red, lumpy fruit, little tail twitching back and forth eagerly as it grasps the fruit in its front paws. Septimus opens his satchel, thanking his lucky stars that this land didn’t deprive him of his telekinesis, and pulls out his notebook, a jar of ink, and a quill. He dips the tip of the quill into the jar, and, with a flourish, writes “Pygmy Dragon – Novus, Denocte” on the top of the page.
His quill dances the page as the shape of the dragon begins to take form. The little creature seems to notice that he is watching it, and it preens, insect-like wings outstretching to catch and glimmer in the early-morning light. He sketches their leaflike veins, tries to shade the wing to capture the translucency, the way that the light gleams little stars into the thin chitin. He outlines each scale, each spine – and, in the absence of color, scribbles a short paragraph of description in the far corner. Satisfied, he holds the book open as he walks, murmuring his soft thanks to the little dragon as he passes.
It flaps its wings, purrs like a kitten, and presses its nose up against his before it disappears down an alleyway. He watches it go, letting a soft laugh escape his lips.
In the absence of his magic, he has to let the ink dry on its own, so he holds the pages steady and up to the sun as he moves down the streets. They aren’t very crowded yet; he wonders if the Denoctians wore themselves out with all the drinking and revelry that seemed to have occurred the night before. (They seem like a happy people, these Night denizens.) He basks in the morning light, and the relative illusion of space, although his legs are freezing from the thick layer of snow that he’s trudging his way through; if he could fly, this wouldn’t be an issue, but the buildings are too close together to take off.
He exhales a long breath of white and leans back against one of the walls, pulling his notebook down to eye level; a few little streams of ink have smudged, but, otherwise, the drawing seems to be dry.
@Valefor || <3
"Speech!"
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
Cold wind tangles in Septimus’s mane as he walks the streets of the Night Market. It’s early morning; dawn has just swept over the horizon, painting it in pale pinks and dusty oranges. It looks entirely different in the Markets during the day. When darkness falls, they feel magical, like something that exists outside of the horrible, mundane reality of mortal existence. Without the stars and the dark, however, it becomes blaringly obvious that the streets are just streets, the minstrels just minstrels, the market stalls just market stalls, and the lanterns just lanterns. He finds them impossibly dull, and he wishes that he could leave – but it’s snowed since he arrived, and he’s more than willing to lean on the hospitality of his hosts until the weather is a bit more amiable to travelling long-distance.
One of the tiny dragons that inhabit the markets flies out from an alley, gleaming like a sunset-colored jewel in the newborn light; it lands on a barrel and begins to nibble at what looks like some strange piece of red, lumpy fruit, little tail twitching back and forth eagerly as it grasps the fruit in its front paws. Septimus opens his satchel, thanking his lucky stars that this land didn’t deprive him of his telekinesis, and pulls out his notebook, a jar of ink, and a quill. He dips the tip of the quill into the jar, and, with a flourish, writes “Pygmy Dragon – Novus, Denocte” on the top of the page.
His quill dances the page as the shape of the dragon begins to take form. The little creature seems to notice that he is watching it, and it preens, insect-like wings outstretching to catch and glimmer in the early-morning light. He sketches their leaflike veins, tries to shade the wing to capture the translucency, the way that the light gleams little stars into the thin chitin. He outlines each scale, each spine – and, in the absence of color, scribbles a short paragraph of description in the far corner. Satisfied, he holds the book open as he walks, murmuring his soft thanks to the little dragon as he passes.
It flaps its wings, purrs like a kitten, and presses its nose up against his before it disappears down an alleyway. He watches it go, letting a soft laugh escape his lips.
In the absence of his magic, he has to let the ink dry on its own, so he holds the pages steady and up to the sun as he moves down the streets. They aren’t very crowded yet; he wonders if the Denoctians wore themselves out with all the drinking and revelry that seemed to have occurred the night before. (They seem like a happy people, these Night denizens.) He basks in the morning light, and the relative illusion of space, although his legs are freezing from the thick layer of snow that he’s trudging his way through; if he could fly, this wouldn’t be an issue, but the buildings are too close together to take off.
He exhales a long breath of white and leans back against one of the walls, pulling his notebook down to eye level; a few little streams of ink have smudged, but, otherwise, the drawing seems to be dry.
@Valefor || <3
"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
