DO YOU HEAR THE WORDS OF THE CONQUERORS OR DO YOU HEAR THE VOICES OF DEER? --
In the pines, each grasping branch – thin and sharp, with rugged bark and sweet-scented needles that lay sticky with sap – that brushed Septimus’s side felt like an embrace.
Strange birdsong echoes from the highest reaches of the canopy, but he cannot see the birds from the ground; he would like to get a better look at them, but they are flighty, wild things, and he can respect that. (Besides, the trees are far too densely-spaced for him to spread his wings.) The light that filters through the pine trees is hazy and unfocused, dappled with little patches of shadow and bright light; in some spaces, it is so brilliant that it seems like sunbeams have filtered right through the trees, but, in most, it is the dull gold of late evening, and you can make out all the little things – dust and leaf and small, strange, glittering beetle – floating down to the forest floor.
Septimus runs, graceful and deerlike, through the brush.
The forest is kinder to him than the shore; the sand shifts beneath his hooves in a way that makes his stomach turn, and the sticky tangle of salt-slick moisture in his fur, mingled with sweat, makes his skin crawl. The world around him smells of mud and leaf, of stripped-cedar and decaying log – he clears one in a single, graceful bound, landing on the slick mass of mud, wet leaf, and just-sprouted weed that covers the ground in front of him with practiced ease. His antlers catch in the brambles and branches, on occasion, but he knocks the obstacles aside without much of a struggle. He hears the forest. He hears it in the soft heave of his breath and the low buzz of passing insects – sweat bees and flies, the occasional gnat. He hears it in the dull thud of his hooves, the shifting of foliage beneath his every step. He hears it in the distant hum of birdsong, distorted by his movement, and the occasional rustle that suggested there were other things about, watching him from the trees. He even hears it in the clink of the gemstones that adorn his antlers and his ears, that harsh sound that two stones make when they scrape against each other. The tamed parts of him have been pushed aside; his glasses are tucked into his satchel, which is, in turn, hidden beneath the feathered mass of his wing. This is Septimus as he was in his home, half-feral and all teeth.
Septimus spills out of the dense forest to stand in front of a small pool, colored murky green with a sheen of algae. Small shrubs, the wrong kind for a coniferous forest, hang over the edges, and, near the center, the algae twitches with the occasional suggestion of movement; frogs, maybe, or a snake. Night is falling fast, and the dusky golden remnants of the light are fading away to stretches of dull green and navy. However, with the disappearance of the sunlight comes another kind of luminance -
Tiny lights spring from the brush, floating up towards the treetops. Fireflies, he realizes, as they blink in-and-out of sight, dancing lazily across the clearing. He is reminded of himself as a boy, creeping away from his mother at night to watch the lightning bugs rise up from the undergrowth when darkness began to fall, during hot, sticky summer nights; some were sprites, and some were will-o’-wisps, but some were simple bugs, little traces of normalcy amongst the eldritch angles of his childhood.
He watches them from the shore of that strange pool, momentarily enthralled; there are many beautiful, terrifying, wonderful sights on this strange island. This might be the loveliest he has seen so far, simple though it may be.
@Thana || <3
"Speech!"
In the pines, each grasping branch – thin and sharp, with rugged bark and sweet-scented needles that lay sticky with sap – that brushed Septimus’s side felt like an embrace.
Strange birdsong echoes from the highest reaches of the canopy, but he cannot see the birds from the ground; he would like to get a better look at them, but they are flighty, wild things, and he can respect that. (Besides, the trees are far too densely-spaced for him to spread his wings.) The light that filters through the pine trees is hazy and unfocused, dappled with little patches of shadow and bright light; in some spaces, it is so brilliant that it seems like sunbeams have filtered right through the trees, but, in most, it is the dull gold of late evening, and you can make out all the little things – dust and leaf and small, strange, glittering beetle – floating down to the forest floor.
Septimus runs, graceful and deerlike, through the brush.
The forest is kinder to him than the shore; the sand shifts beneath his hooves in a way that makes his stomach turn, and the sticky tangle of salt-slick moisture in his fur, mingled with sweat, makes his skin crawl. The world around him smells of mud and leaf, of stripped-cedar and decaying log – he clears one in a single, graceful bound, landing on the slick mass of mud, wet leaf, and just-sprouted weed that covers the ground in front of him with practiced ease. His antlers catch in the brambles and branches, on occasion, but he knocks the obstacles aside without much of a struggle. He hears the forest. He hears it in the soft heave of his breath and the low buzz of passing insects – sweat bees and flies, the occasional gnat. He hears it in the dull thud of his hooves, the shifting of foliage beneath his every step. He hears it in the distant hum of birdsong, distorted by his movement, and the occasional rustle that suggested there were other things about, watching him from the trees. He even hears it in the clink of the gemstones that adorn his antlers and his ears, that harsh sound that two stones make when they scrape against each other. The tamed parts of him have been pushed aside; his glasses are tucked into his satchel, which is, in turn, hidden beneath the feathered mass of his wing. This is Septimus as he was in his home, half-feral and all teeth.
Septimus spills out of the dense forest to stand in front of a small pool, colored murky green with a sheen of algae. Small shrubs, the wrong kind for a coniferous forest, hang over the edges, and, near the center, the algae twitches with the occasional suggestion of movement; frogs, maybe, or a snake. Night is falling fast, and the dusky golden remnants of the light are fading away to stretches of dull green and navy. However, with the disappearance of the sunlight comes another kind of luminance -
Tiny lights spring from the brush, floating up towards the treetops. Fireflies, he realizes, as they blink in-and-out of sight, dancing lazily across the clearing. He is reminded of himself as a boy, creeping away from his mother at night to watch the lightning bugs rise up from the undergrowth when darkness began to fall, during hot, sticky summer nights; some were sprites, and some were will-o’-wisps, but some were simple bugs, little traces of normalcy amongst the eldritch angles of his childhood.
He watches them from the shore of that strange pool, momentarily enthralled; there are many beautiful, terrifying, wonderful sights on this strange island. This might be the loveliest he has seen so far, simple though it may be.
@Thana || <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
