THEY KISS IN THE RING, I CARRY THE CROWN
“Yes,” is all that Elchanan says to his inquiry, with one of those smiles that suggests to Septimus that he does not want to discuss the matter any further. That’s fine. He stretches his wings, very slightly, letting them shift in their sockets, and relaxes – in an utterly mundane way, though there is something in his bearing that is somehow reminiscent of a big cat or a wolf, a hunter at rest.
“Prefer to remain mysterious, I see,” he says, his tone smooth and unhindered by the golden boy’s apparent rejection. “That’s fine – I love to unravel a good mystery.” He lets his tongue slide over every honeyed syllable, tossing him a wink, and continues to stride into the library, content to play the librarian, though the strange behavior of the creature that brought him to his new friend lingers at the back of his mind like a distant threat. Knowledge is a powerful thing, and Septimus has never been blind to the various ways it can be misused; without knowing why he needs to find his way to the international scrolls, he can hardly suss out the purity of his motivations. However, in spite of the limited time he’s spent in the library, Septimus does not think that anything particularly dangerous is within it, and, if it were, he suspects that it would be in the sections on black magic or rituals, not international scrolls. And the library is open to the public besides.
Besides – he likes that easy, pretty smile. (He wouldn’t mind to make him smile a bit more, he thinks.) He’s perfectly content to let this man – this Elchanan, as he is about to discover – be his newest mystery to solve, without thinking too much about what that might mean.
It’s been a while since Septimus has done this, so he lets himself enjoy the heat of Elchanan’s wing when it ghosts along his skin, the touch so slight that he has to suppress a shudder; it makes something smug well up inside of his stomach when he glances back, out of the corner of his eye, and finds the golden man smirking. (He thinks to himself that he succeeded.) He repeats his name – “Septimus” - and he likes the way that he says it, like it’s something casual, even as his skin brushes against his shoulder and hip (warm, warm enough to be displeasing whenever he pulls aside) in a way that is decidedly not casual. “Pretty name for a pretty boy.” Those dark eyes meet his own; they gleam in the dusty sunlight. “I’m Elchanan. Nice to meet you.” And then his gaze is gone, slid away towards the corridor, and a part of him is disappointed for it.
“If I didn’t know better, I might think you’re flattering me, Elchanan.” He tests his name out on his tongue, playing with the syllables, and lets his emphasis rest lovingly on the word; he thinks that it’s probably foreign, but he doesn’t know where it’s from. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Really. Are you from Delumine?” Elchanan seems intent on avoiding any questions of his own, and that’s fine by Septimus – he’s curious by nature (perhaps a bit too curious, if you asked his mother), and he’s always liked learning about people, pressing them with gentle question after gentle, pointed question until they opened up like a book and let him see all of their pages.
If the book happened to be pretty (and very eager to be unwound), all the better.
@Elchanan || hi I've been wanting to finish writing this post for a w h i l e
"Speech!"
“Yes,” is all that Elchanan says to his inquiry, with one of those smiles that suggests to Septimus that he does not want to discuss the matter any further. That’s fine. He stretches his wings, very slightly, letting them shift in their sockets, and relaxes – in an utterly mundane way, though there is something in his bearing that is somehow reminiscent of a big cat or a wolf, a hunter at rest.
“Prefer to remain mysterious, I see,” he says, his tone smooth and unhindered by the golden boy’s apparent rejection. “That’s fine – I love to unravel a good mystery.” He lets his tongue slide over every honeyed syllable, tossing him a wink, and continues to stride into the library, content to play the librarian, though the strange behavior of the creature that brought him to his new friend lingers at the back of his mind like a distant threat. Knowledge is a powerful thing, and Septimus has never been blind to the various ways it can be misused; without knowing why he needs to find his way to the international scrolls, he can hardly suss out the purity of his motivations. However, in spite of the limited time he’s spent in the library, Septimus does not think that anything particularly dangerous is within it, and, if it were, he suspects that it would be in the sections on black magic or rituals, not international scrolls. And the library is open to the public besides.
Besides – he likes that easy, pretty smile. (He wouldn’t mind to make him smile a bit more, he thinks.) He’s perfectly content to let this man – this Elchanan, as he is about to discover – be his newest mystery to solve, without thinking too much about what that might mean.
It’s been a while since Septimus has done this, so he lets himself enjoy the heat of Elchanan’s wing when it ghosts along his skin, the touch so slight that he has to suppress a shudder; it makes something smug well up inside of his stomach when he glances back, out of the corner of his eye, and finds the golden man smirking. (He thinks to himself that he succeeded.) He repeats his name – “Septimus” - and he likes the way that he says it, like it’s something casual, even as his skin brushes against his shoulder and hip (warm, warm enough to be displeasing whenever he pulls aside) in a way that is decidedly not casual. “Pretty name for a pretty boy.” Those dark eyes meet his own; they gleam in the dusty sunlight. “I’m Elchanan. Nice to meet you.” And then his gaze is gone, slid away towards the corridor, and a part of him is disappointed for it.
“If I didn’t know better, I might think you’re flattering me, Elchanan.” He tests his name out on his tongue, playing with the syllables, and lets his emphasis rest lovingly on the word; he thinks that it’s probably foreign, but he doesn’t know where it’s from. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Really. Are you from Delumine?” Elchanan seems intent on avoiding any questions of his own, and that’s fine by Septimus – he’s curious by nature (perhaps a bit too curious, if you asked his mother), and he’s always liked learning about people, pressing them with gentle question after gentle, pointed question until they opened up like a book and let him see all of their pages.
If the book happened to be pretty (and very eager to be unwound), all the better.
@Elchanan || hi I've been wanting to finish writing this post for a w h i l e
"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
