BE BOLD, BE BOLD
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
His thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of a familiar face; a slightly taller but distinctly younger boy, all red and gold, like licks of flame. He greets Septimus with a murmur, that tail of his – he can’t quite call it leonine, or draconian, and settles for just not knowing what it is – sweeping against the cobblestones. Septimus tilts his head, dark hair nearly falling in his spectacles in the process.
“Hello, Valefor,” he greets, with a practiced pleasantry. He looks tired, but Septimus is under the impression that’s normal for him – it probably still isn’t healthy, but he can’t visualize Valefor without the various hallmarks of sleeplessness (dark circles, red rims, veins that are altogether too obvious, hunched shoulders, slow strides, a subtle hint of exhaustion to his every move, hindering him like a leaden weight) haunting him like a dark and heavy shroud. There were ghosts in Valefor, he’d decided, from their few interactions, and he wouldn’t be free until they were out. Septimus wonders what happened to him to make him like - this -, but he doesn’t ask, or he doesn’t ask yet. He barely knows him; it would be in poor taste.
Instead, he follows Valefor’s stare to his sketchbook, and he flashes him a grin. “It’s one of my sketchbooks,” he replies, opening it again and offering it to Valefor with a flourish of his telekinesis. “I’m a naturalist, you see-“ He flips through pages of neat diagrams and anatomical sketches, lingering occasionally on the ones that he’s especially proud of. “-so I study the plants and animals I encounter on my travels.” He pauses on the page with the pygmy dragon he just sketched, glancing (upside-down, for he is on the wrong side of the book to actually read them) at his scribbled, haphazard notes on the subject. “The pygmy dragons in Denocte are a subspecies that I’ve never seen before. I wonder if it has something to do with the acidity of the ocean, or their habitat – I’ve never known dragons to inhabit cities before. Or maybe it’s the influence of the goddess. They say the Night deity of this land came down and made them, a few months ago; were you there for it?” He glances back and forth suspiciously, and adds, in a slightly more hushed tone. “I’m still a bit, err, unsure about the idea of physical gods appearing here, personally.” Septimus had always been a skeptic, and a new, magic-stealing realm would not take that from him; it was always best to use caution when dealing with information you weren’t sure was factual, and, in spite of his extraordinary, eldritch background, he hasn’t forgotten that.
@Valefor || <3
"Speech!"
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
His thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of a familiar face; a slightly taller but distinctly younger boy, all red and gold, like licks of flame. He greets Septimus with a murmur, that tail of his – he can’t quite call it leonine, or draconian, and settles for just not knowing what it is – sweeping against the cobblestones. Septimus tilts his head, dark hair nearly falling in his spectacles in the process.
“Hello, Valefor,” he greets, with a practiced pleasantry. He looks tired, but Septimus is under the impression that’s normal for him – it probably still isn’t healthy, but he can’t visualize Valefor without the various hallmarks of sleeplessness (dark circles, red rims, veins that are altogether too obvious, hunched shoulders, slow strides, a subtle hint of exhaustion to his every move, hindering him like a leaden weight) haunting him like a dark and heavy shroud. There were ghosts in Valefor, he’d decided, from their few interactions, and he wouldn’t be free until they were out. Septimus wonders what happened to him to make him like - this -, but he doesn’t ask, or he doesn’t ask yet. He barely knows him; it would be in poor taste.
Instead, he follows Valefor’s stare to his sketchbook, and he flashes him a grin. “It’s one of my sketchbooks,” he replies, opening it again and offering it to Valefor with a flourish of his telekinesis. “I’m a naturalist, you see-“ He flips through pages of neat diagrams and anatomical sketches, lingering occasionally on the ones that he’s especially proud of. “-so I study the plants and animals I encounter on my travels.” He pauses on the page with the pygmy dragon he just sketched, glancing (upside-down, for he is on the wrong side of the book to actually read them) at his scribbled, haphazard notes on the subject. “The pygmy dragons in Denocte are a subspecies that I’ve never seen before. I wonder if it has something to do with the acidity of the ocean, or their habitat – I’ve never known dragons to inhabit cities before. Or maybe it’s the influence of the goddess. They say the Night deity of this land came down and made them, a few months ago; were you there for it?” He glances back and forth suspiciously, and adds, in a slightly more hushed tone. “I’m still a bit, err, unsure about the idea of physical gods appearing here, personally.” Septimus had always been a skeptic, and a new, magic-stealing realm would not take that from him; it was always best to use caution when dealing with information you weren’t sure was factual, and, in spite of his extraordinary, eldritch background, he hasn’t forgotten that.
@Valefor || <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
