HERE ARE THE ROOTS IN ONE WORLD
AND THE BLOSSOM IN THE OTHER
The sky is burning.
This is not the first time that Septimus has encountered a volcanic eruption. When he still had his magic, he had studied one or two up close; of course, he doesn’t have it now, and he can’t be sure that this volcanic eruption is anything similar to the ones he encountered in the past anyways. (Different lands were unusual like that. Novus seemed to have some sort of innate magic, perhaps a result of those supposed gods he keeps hearing about, but it’s nothing like his own or his family’s.) He imagines that it is probably the lack of magic that makes his stomach lurch as he steps out of the Scarab and into the streets, his gaze upturned towards the red-streaked sky. Tendrils of smoke were swallowing the horizon, creeping like vines over the tops of buildings; occasional flecks of ash and cinder, carried by the ocean winds, stumbled down into the alleyways. (He is glad that it is winter, when things are less likely to catch fire.)
Septimus is never one to miss a spectacle. He steps into the throng of bodies streaming towards the shoreline, making his way down winding streets, stumbling and crowded with panic; but the horned man is completely serene, his eyes ablaze with something implacable but undisturbed. His steps are unhindered and fluid as he draws through the draws through the crowd of Denoctians with practiced ease, the wind – a scent of smoke and salt – tangling in the dark curls of his mane.
(He slips off his glasses and places them in his bag.)
He passes faces, some familiar and some entirely unrecognizable. His green-eyed gaze catches on Minya and August, on trails of ore and blood-red stone; on the faces of the hopeless and the furious, on the shocked and the despairing. Strange. All quite strange – but, then, he supposes that this is not his land, and he is no stranger to nature’s fury, to rampant and volatile destruction. His own stare turns out to sea, towards that black mountain as it spits ash and fire and thick clouds of dark smoke that swallow up the sky, and the only thought that crosses his mind is that they should not be standing on the shoreline like this, enraged or weeping or unable to understand what is before their eyes at all. There is no stopping what has already begun – and, as the smoke rolls in, they chance illness and suffocation if they linger.
A smattering of pale ash, like sulfuric, crushing snow, begins to fall from the sky.
His gaze catches on Valefor, who might as well be made of flame himself, and he picks his way over to the boy. His eyes narrow as he steps near enough to hear his muttering, something about this eruption being his fault. Septimus brushes against his shoulder, giving him a gentle nudge.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Septimus says, his tone surprisingly gentle. “This is nature at work – it’s no fault of yours.” His eyes train themselves on the volcano again, and those dark clouds of smoke; they are already creeping close and close, and he has no intention of staying in place to suffocate himself on them, if this eruption is as bad as it seems. At least it is off-shore. “We should get out of the smoke.”
@Valefor || <3
"Speech!"
AND THE BLOSSOM IN THE OTHER
The sky is burning.
This is not the first time that Septimus has encountered a volcanic eruption. When he still had his magic, he had studied one or two up close; of course, he doesn’t have it now, and he can’t be sure that this volcanic eruption is anything similar to the ones he encountered in the past anyways. (Different lands were unusual like that. Novus seemed to have some sort of innate magic, perhaps a result of those supposed gods he keeps hearing about, but it’s nothing like his own or his family’s.) He imagines that it is probably the lack of magic that makes his stomach lurch as he steps out of the Scarab and into the streets, his gaze upturned towards the red-streaked sky. Tendrils of smoke were swallowing the horizon, creeping like vines over the tops of buildings; occasional flecks of ash and cinder, carried by the ocean winds, stumbled down into the alleyways. (He is glad that it is winter, when things are less likely to catch fire.)
Septimus is never one to miss a spectacle. He steps into the throng of bodies streaming towards the shoreline, making his way down winding streets, stumbling and crowded with panic; but the horned man is completely serene, his eyes ablaze with something implacable but undisturbed. His steps are unhindered and fluid as he draws through the draws through the crowd of Denoctians with practiced ease, the wind – a scent of smoke and salt – tangling in the dark curls of his mane.
(He slips off his glasses and places them in his bag.)
He passes faces, some familiar and some entirely unrecognizable. His green-eyed gaze catches on Minya and August, on trails of ore and blood-red stone; on the faces of the hopeless and the furious, on the shocked and the despairing. Strange. All quite strange – but, then, he supposes that this is not his land, and he is no stranger to nature’s fury, to rampant and volatile destruction. His own stare turns out to sea, towards that black mountain as it spits ash and fire and thick clouds of dark smoke that swallow up the sky, and the only thought that crosses his mind is that they should not be standing on the shoreline like this, enraged or weeping or unable to understand what is before their eyes at all. There is no stopping what has already begun – and, as the smoke rolls in, they chance illness and suffocation if they linger.
A smattering of pale ash, like sulfuric, crushing snow, begins to fall from the sky.
His gaze catches on Valefor, who might as well be made of flame himself, and he picks his way over to the boy. His eyes narrow as he steps near enough to hear his muttering, something about this eruption being his fault. Septimus brushes against his shoulder, giving him a gentle nudge.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Septimus says, his tone surprisingly gentle. “This is nature at work – it’s no fault of yours.” His eyes train themselves on the volcano again, and those dark clouds of smoke; they are already creeping close and close, and he has no intention of staying in place to suffocate himself on them, if this eruption is as bad as it seems. At least it is off-shore. “We should get out of the smoke.”
@Valefor || <3
"Speech!"
***STAFF EDIT
@Septimushas rolled a 2! He has been awarded +20 signos
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
