THE FOREST HIDES STRANGE CREATURES
When the man turns to look at him, it is with a sly, knowing smile that reminds Septimus instinctively of the wildling creatures that haunt the forest where he grew up. “Indeed,” he says, but Septimus is mostly distracted by the way that those eyes (hazel, now that he is looking at them, and dark, and knowing) creep the length of his face, then settle, very deliberately, on his bright green eyes. They linger there shamelessly - Septimus almost expects him to start batting his lashes. (He wouldn’t mind it if he did. It would probably make for an appealing sight; they’re long and thick and strikingly dark compared to the rest of him.)
The disgruntled young fox lingers vividly in the back of his mind as he meets his stare, which is familiar enough in some indiscernible way to leave Septimus with a distinct afterthought of caution, caution, something his mother would always warn him to keep in mind when he interacted with the strange folk he found in the depths of the woods. But they are not in the woods, there is no tangible reason to expect that the man in front of him is particularly strange (and he would have to be incredibly strange for Septimus to think him so), and he has never been known for his caution.
“International scrolls. Walk me?”
He tilts his head so that his dark hair falls across his features in an appealingly disheveled manner, the shimmering trinkets on his antlers clinking and catching in the light, though his emerald-green eyes never leave the man’s own. Two can play at that game – in spite of his youthful appearance, Septimus has lived far too long to be demure or oblivious, and he’s never been one to shy away from obvious interest. (And, if asked, Septimus could easily call this stranger beautiful, with his petite, graceful, and perhaps avian physique. He isn’t sure about the little fox that brought him to his side, yet, but there will be time enough to discern what that was all about. For now…)
For now, he lets his lashes flutter low across his bright green eyes, watching him through the clear lens of his spectacles, and then turns away, glancing towards the branching hallways leading deeper and deeper into the libraries.
“International scrolls, then. Are you looking for anything in particular?” The words drip off his tongue warmly, smooth and lilting as silk. He supposes that they can take the long way, while they’re at it. (Just to discern if this man is as unsavory as the library helpers would have him believe, of course.) That smile remains curved across his features, but it tugs up, just revealing the sharp points of canine teeth before he turns and brushes past the golden man and into the next hall, moving close enough to him in the process to allow the feathers of his great, dark wings to brush against his pale side. “I’m Septimus. And who might you be?”
@Elchanan ||<3
"Speech!"
When the man turns to look at him, it is with a sly, knowing smile that reminds Septimus instinctively of the wildling creatures that haunt the forest where he grew up. “Indeed,” he says, but Septimus is mostly distracted by the way that those eyes (hazel, now that he is looking at them, and dark, and knowing) creep the length of his face, then settle, very deliberately, on his bright green eyes. They linger there shamelessly - Septimus almost expects him to start batting his lashes. (He wouldn’t mind it if he did. It would probably make for an appealing sight; they’re long and thick and strikingly dark compared to the rest of him.)
The disgruntled young fox lingers vividly in the back of his mind as he meets his stare, which is familiar enough in some indiscernible way to leave Septimus with a distinct afterthought of caution, caution, something his mother would always warn him to keep in mind when he interacted with the strange folk he found in the depths of the woods. But they are not in the woods, there is no tangible reason to expect that the man in front of him is particularly strange (and he would have to be incredibly strange for Septimus to think him so), and he has never been known for his caution.
“International scrolls. Walk me?”
He tilts his head so that his dark hair falls across his features in an appealingly disheveled manner, the shimmering trinkets on his antlers clinking and catching in the light, though his emerald-green eyes never leave the man’s own. Two can play at that game – in spite of his youthful appearance, Septimus has lived far too long to be demure or oblivious, and he’s never been one to shy away from obvious interest. (And, if asked, Septimus could easily call this stranger beautiful, with his petite, graceful, and perhaps avian physique. He isn’t sure about the little fox that brought him to his side, yet, but there will be time enough to discern what that was all about. For now…)
For now, he lets his lashes flutter low across his bright green eyes, watching him through the clear lens of his spectacles, and then turns away, glancing towards the branching hallways leading deeper and deeper into the libraries.
“International scrolls, then. Are you looking for anything in particular?” The words drip off his tongue warmly, smooth and lilting as silk. He supposes that they can take the long way, while they’re at it. (Just to discern if this man is as unsavory as the library helpers would have him believe, of course.) That smile remains curved across his features, but it tugs up, just revealing the sharp points of canine teeth before he turns and brushes past the golden man and into the next hall, moving close enough to him in the process to allow the feathers of his great, dark wings to brush against his pale side. “I’m Septimus. And who might you be?”
@Elchanan ||<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
