I'M FINDING, WITH MY FINDER, THE ANTLERS PATHS LEADING FROM MY HEAD
Septimus certainly finds this development intriguing.
Novus was certainly unlike his homeland, or at least it had been; where the woods he was raised in were ever-changing, prone to shift this way or that or grow in the most bizarre and fascinating ways as soon as you turned your eyes, where paths and hedges and vast swathes of vines were apt to grow and wither in the space of moments, where the tree would branch and twist without any sense of reason, most of the lands he had visited afterwards were simpler, more contained. Particularly when it thought to steal his magic from him, he had assumed that Novus was like the rest of them – dry and methodical.
However, as he strides out onto the shiny, black-lava bridge, Septimus feels strangely at home. His strides are fluid and eager, unhindered by the weight of the air on his wings; he’d tried, before walking, to fly, but the strange, watery quality of the wind against his feathers had kept him grounded.
This was clearly dangerous. (If he fell into the sea, his water-logged wings would be quick to drag him down, and there was no telling what sort of creature could have created this spectacle besides.) Septimus does not care.
He starts down the bridge, marveling at all the strange – and wonderful – things that he sees. Jutting ridges of pearl, bizarrely linear spires of marble, serpentine curls of seaweed, spirals of shells and oysters, indented into the ink-black lava as though they were fossilized…and the bridge itself was a mystery, changing with each stretch, endless fathom after endless fathom. In some places, it felt too thin and glass-like to walk, as though it might shatter beneath the weight of his hooves, but he kept walking; the sea frothed and bit beneath his hooves, and, within it, he saw flashes of writhing tentacles and sharp, sharp teeth, hundreds of them. He saw them in flashes – bloody red, like flame, or amethyst, or-
(Perhaps he smiled at the sea monsters, as they beat and begged at the bridge; perhaps he smiled.)
One passage seemed to have grow scales, which were nebulous and glittering in coloration; they reminded Septimus of the night sky. The next…the next was like home, and it seemed to stretch on forever. Flowers grew from stone, and great cogs ticked furiously, all out of tune and out of time. (But whose were they attuned to? He didn’t know.) Things split and shifted and were reborn anew, from the wrongness of blooming feathers that seemed to sprout from no-where to stretches of swirling sand that didn’t seem to be bobbed by any wind that he could feel. But for Septimus, this was horribly right, to look away and see the world altered entirely when he looked back.
He would have remained in place to sketch a while (for he’d naturally taken his supplies, seawater be damned), but Septimus was eager to reach the end of the bridge.
And there it is.
Interesting.
An endless wall of ivy (perhaps) that stretched out in all directions. It beckons to him, so he goes to it – hooves clacking against the smooth lava. He passes by others, heedless of their caution, and darts right up to the vines, eager as a dashing minnow; up close, the vines are even more fascinating, sprouting little berries that pulsed and beat like hearts. He’s tempted to eat one, but he isn’t quite that foolhardy, but he does stare at them longingly for a moment, green eyes narrowing to slits. He had the faint impression of a breeze, warm and soothing (or unnerving), from beyond the ivy.
But, considering that he can only reach the vines, he decides to focus on them instead.
Perhaps he should take a sample.
septimus, encountering obviously-suspicious berries: I want to eat them and it is only my 1% survival instinct that is stopping me from doing so posthaste || alice notley, [woman with antlers]
"Speech!"
Septimus certainly finds this development intriguing.
Novus was certainly unlike his homeland, or at least it had been; where the woods he was raised in were ever-changing, prone to shift this way or that or grow in the most bizarre and fascinating ways as soon as you turned your eyes, where paths and hedges and vast swathes of vines were apt to grow and wither in the space of moments, where the tree would branch and twist without any sense of reason, most of the lands he had visited afterwards were simpler, more contained. Particularly when it thought to steal his magic from him, he had assumed that Novus was like the rest of them – dry and methodical.
However, as he strides out onto the shiny, black-lava bridge, Septimus feels strangely at home. His strides are fluid and eager, unhindered by the weight of the air on his wings; he’d tried, before walking, to fly, but the strange, watery quality of the wind against his feathers had kept him grounded.
This was clearly dangerous. (If he fell into the sea, his water-logged wings would be quick to drag him down, and there was no telling what sort of creature could have created this spectacle besides.) Septimus does not care.
He starts down the bridge, marveling at all the strange – and wonderful – things that he sees. Jutting ridges of pearl, bizarrely linear spires of marble, serpentine curls of seaweed, spirals of shells and oysters, indented into the ink-black lava as though they were fossilized…and the bridge itself was a mystery, changing with each stretch, endless fathom after endless fathom. In some places, it felt too thin and glass-like to walk, as though it might shatter beneath the weight of his hooves, but he kept walking; the sea frothed and bit beneath his hooves, and, within it, he saw flashes of writhing tentacles and sharp, sharp teeth, hundreds of them. He saw them in flashes – bloody red, like flame, or amethyst, or-
(Perhaps he smiled at the sea monsters, as they beat and begged at the bridge; perhaps he smiled.)
One passage seemed to have grow scales, which were nebulous and glittering in coloration; they reminded Septimus of the night sky. The next…the next was like home, and it seemed to stretch on forever. Flowers grew from stone, and great cogs ticked furiously, all out of tune and out of time. (But whose were they attuned to? He didn’t know.) Things split and shifted and were reborn anew, from the wrongness of blooming feathers that seemed to sprout from no-where to stretches of swirling sand that didn’t seem to be bobbed by any wind that he could feel. But for Septimus, this was horribly right, to look away and see the world altered entirely when he looked back.
He would have remained in place to sketch a while (for he’d naturally taken his supplies, seawater be damned), but Septimus was eager to reach the end of the bridge.
And there it is.
Interesting.
An endless wall of ivy (perhaps) that stretched out in all directions. It beckons to him, so he goes to it – hooves clacking against the smooth lava. He passes by others, heedless of their caution, and darts right up to the vines, eager as a dashing minnow; up close, the vines are even more fascinating, sprouting little berries that pulsed and beat like hearts. He’s tempted to eat one, but he isn’t quite that foolhardy, but he does stare at them longingly for a moment, green eyes narrowing to slits. He had the faint impression of a breeze, warm and soothing (or unnerving), from beyond the ivy.
But, considering that he can only reach the vines, he decides to focus on them instead.
Perhaps he should take a sample.
septimus, encountering obviously-suspicious berries: I want to eat them and it is only my 1% survival instinct that is stopping me from doing so posthaste || alice notley, [woman with antlers]
"Speech!"
STAFF EDIT***
@Septimushas rolled a 3! He has been awarded +80 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
