WE WERE HUNGRY BEFORE WE WERE BORN--
If you wander enough worlds, you learn to recognize a predator, no matter what sort of skin it wears.
In this case – from where he stands leaned against the wall of one of the shops in the market, watching the crowd with hooded eyes –, the predator is her. It is late at night, and the markets are alive with a throng of bodies, with dance and song and drunken laughter; the citizens of the darkling nation seem to be fond of revelry, even in the prelude to disaster. He is old enough (and, in spite of his youthful features, Septimus is very old) to recognize the tension that lines these star-spangled, incense-thick streets, the bright stroke of fear behind the glass-drunk eyes of the passerby. The ash-smoke and flame of volcanoes. The heavy brew of war like a growl of thunder on the edge of the horizon. He wonders if Denocte is always like this, so full of smile and song, or if it is only that desperate need to deny, deny, deny.
But. That is irrelevant.
What is relevant is the woman who stands in the center of the market square and watches the passerby. What is relevant is the neat curve of her neck, the dark tiger-stripes that interrupt the white of her coat, which is likely stark under the light of the sun, rather than the moon. What is relevant is that slip of violent red that curls like a noose around her throat, as though it has just been slit; what is relevant is her collar of teeth. And maybe those wild, burning blue eyes, visible even from some distance for the way that they catch in the gleam of wrought-iron lanterns. She is not drunk. She is not reveling. In fact, she seems deadly serious.
(And nothing, he thinks, that wears a necklace of teeth is a thing of peace.)
But Septimus has teeth of his own, jaws made to snap and tear – he does not stand apart from the crowd, but, in spite of his rather imposing stature, with great antlers and wings, moves within it. What lies beneath his skin is a thousand years (or two, or three; he loses track) of shape-shifting, of movement between spaces. He is never in one place for long, and he is certainly never one thing. He brushes shoulders with passerby, and they do not know that he is a witch-blooded thing who’s seen more centuries than he can count, and he does not know what they are either. One thing he does know: the woman who is wearing a collar like spilt blood is restless. He is restless, too, discontent among these walls, among these pretty, glittering things. Maybe that is what leads him to her, to part the crowd like a serpent slips through the grass and draw close to her side, close and close until he is sure that she can hear her over the overwhelming sound of the marketplace.
A low, easy smile rests across his dark lips, pulled just high enough to reveal the sharp curves of his canines. “Are you hunting something, Miss Tiger?” He inquires, with a curious arch of his brow, leaf-bright green eyes heavy with some indiscernible meaning.
He doesn’t sleep well within these walls, either.
@Antiope || <3
"Speech!"
If you wander enough worlds, you learn to recognize a predator, no matter what sort of skin it wears.
In this case – from where he stands leaned against the wall of one of the shops in the market, watching the crowd with hooded eyes –, the predator is her. It is late at night, and the markets are alive with a throng of bodies, with dance and song and drunken laughter; the citizens of the darkling nation seem to be fond of revelry, even in the prelude to disaster. He is old enough (and, in spite of his youthful features, Septimus is very old) to recognize the tension that lines these star-spangled, incense-thick streets, the bright stroke of fear behind the glass-drunk eyes of the passerby. The ash-smoke and flame of volcanoes. The heavy brew of war like a growl of thunder on the edge of the horizon. He wonders if Denocte is always like this, so full of smile and song, or if it is only that desperate need to deny, deny, deny.
But. That is irrelevant.
What is relevant is the woman who stands in the center of the market square and watches the passerby. What is relevant is the neat curve of her neck, the dark tiger-stripes that interrupt the white of her coat, which is likely stark under the light of the sun, rather than the moon. What is relevant is that slip of violent red that curls like a noose around her throat, as though it has just been slit; what is relevant is her collar of teeth. And maybe those wild, burning blue eyes, visible even from some distance for the way that they catch in the gleam of wrought-iron lanterns. She is not drunk. She is not reveling. In fact, she seems deadly serious.
(And nothing, he thinks, that wears a necklace of teeth is a thing of peace.)
But Septimus has teeth of his own, jaws made to snap and tear – he does not stand apart from the crowd, but, in spite of his rather imposing stature, with great antlers and wings, moves within it. What lies beneath his skin is a thousand years (or two, or three; he loses track) of shape-shifting, of movement between spaces. He is never in one place for long, and he is certainly never one thing. He brushes shoulders with passerby, and they do not know that he is a witch-blooded thing who’s seen more centuries than he can count, and he does not know what they are either. One thing he does know: the woman who is wearing a collar like spilt blood is restless. He is restless, too, discontent among these walls, among these pretty, glittering things. Maybe that is what leads him to her, to part the crowd like a serpent slips through the grass and draw close to her side, close and close until he is sure that she can hear her over the overwhelming sound of the marketplace.
A low, easy smile rests across his dark lips, pulled just high enough to reveal the sharp curves of his canines. “Are you hunting something, Miss Tiger?” He inquires, with a curious arch of his brow, leaf-bright green eyes heavy with some indiscernible meaning.
He doesn’t sleep well within these walls, either.
@Antiope || <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
