THEY KISS IN THE RING, I CARRY THE CROWN
“You’re in luck, then.”
His smile is so smug that Septimus could practically call it a smirk – there is something serpentine in the gesture, a hint of a predatory nature that gives him momentary pause. He has no reason to feel suspicious, save for perhaps the reaction of the little library-keeper, and he can’t explain why he feels that lingering sense of suspicion, like a dark, cold, and rippling undertow to an otherwise clear and babbling stream. The sort of current that drug unsuspecting creatures under, when they came to drink from the brook; but there is that ghost of a laugh there, and it coerces Septimus to suppress his more flighty instincts.
When they turn a corner, however, something in Elchanan’s demeanor changes. Septimus tilts his head at him, dark tendrils of hair tumbling down his face; the golden man stiffens, exhaling so sharply that Septimus looks back at him, green eyes momentarily widening with concern. There is something that he cannot quite place in his expression, and it does not linger long enough for Septimus to find the right words to describe it. He is quick to pull himself through whatever the corridor sparked, and, soon, his expression is as unhindered as it had been a moment before. His paces quicken, until he falls into stride alongside him again.
The corridors draw in closer, and Elchanan falls behind him. Septimus is not sure that he likes that, but they don’t have enough space to spread out; but, like this, he can’t see his face, and that doesn’t just bother him because it’s a pretty one. (Call it paranoia, but years of travelling had taught him that it was rarely a good idea to turn his back to a stranger.) “Oh, so you do know better, smart boy-“ comes Elchanan’s voice, so nearly patronizing – but not patronizing at all, for the mischievous lightness of his tone. “-of course I’m flattering you.” There is something amusing about his term of address, calling the antlered man a boy, and Septimus allows a smile that he knows that Elchanan cannot see to pull at the corners of his lips. Though Septimus looks like a boy, and he has hardly let his once-immortal existence hinder his youthful demeanor, he has lived for hundreds – if not thousands; it is sometimes hard to tell – of years.
“I am rather smart, aren’t I?” He tosses his reply back with equally playful conceit, glancing over his shoulder to smirk; he lets eyes trail down the curve of Elchanan’s neck rather deliberately, and then he looks away.
His response is just as ambiguous as Septimus had anticipated – hoped – for. “Not from anywhere near here. Are you? You seem to know quite a bit more than I do. About some things.” He is up beside of him again, but Septimus does not notice it when he leans forward to prod at the jewels hanging from his antlers; on something like impulse, his head turns, and he recovers the motion by just allowing his muzzle to brush against the curve of Elchanan’s jawline, before he draws away wordlessly, turning his head back to the corridor in front of them.
“Not at all,” he says, with a somewhat more serious shake of his head. “I’m just a traveler, from a land that is - exceptionally - far away.” A grimace curls across his features momentarily, and his eyes darken a hint. “I’m a bit stuck here, for now, that’s all. And as for knowing…” That grimace is gone, then, replaced by an unusual and almost-dangerous lightness. His eyes gleam in the warm lights of the library, strangely reflective and far older than they might have seemed before, and he turns to examine the man with a smile broad enough to reveal his wolfish canines curling across his lips. “I suppose that depends on what things you are implying that I know.”
@Elchanan || <3
"Speech!"
“You’re in luck, then.”
His smile is so smug that Septimus could practically call it a smirk – there is something serpentine in the gesture, a hint of a predatory nature that gives him momentary pause. He has no reason to feel suspicious, save for perhaps the reaction of the little library-keeper, and he can’t explain why he feels that lingering sense of suspicion, like a dark, cold, and rippling undertow to an otherwise clear and babbling stream. The sort of current that drug unsuspecting creatures under, when they came to drink from the brook; but there is that ghost of a laugh there, and it coerces Septimus to suppress his more flighty instincts.
When they turn a corner, however, something in Elchanan’s demeanor changes. Septimus tilts his head at him, dark tendrils of hair tumbling down his face; the golden man stiffens, exhaling so sharply that Septimus looks back at him, green eyes momentarily widening with concern. There is something that he cannot quite place in his expression, and it does not linger long enough for Septimus to find the right words to describe it. He is quick to pull himself through whatever the corridor sparked, and, soon, his expression is as unhindered as it had been a moment before. His paces quicken, until he falls into stride alongside him again.
The corridors draw in closer, and Elchanan falls behind him. Septimus is not sure that he likes that, but they don’t have enough space to spread out; but, like this, he can’t see his face, and that doesn’t just bother him because it’s a pretty one. (Call it paranoia, but years of travelling had taught him that it was rarely a good idea to turn his back to a stranger.) “Oh, so you do know better, smart boy-“ comes Elchanan’s voice, so nearly patronizing – but not patronizing at all, for the mischievous lightness of his tone. “-of course I’m flattering you.” There is something amusing about his term of address, calling the antlered man a boy, and Septimus allows a smile that he knows that Elchanan cannot see to pull at the corners of his lips. Though Septimus looks like a boy, and he has hardly let his once-immortal existence hinder his youthful demeanor, he has lived for hundreds – if not thousands; it is sometimes hard to tell – of years.
“I am rather smart, aren’t I?” He tosses his reply back with equally playful conceit, glancing over his shoulder to smirk; he lets eyes trail down the curve of Elchanan’s neck rather deliberately, and then he looks away.
His response is just as ambiguous as Septimus had anticipated – hoped – for. “Not from anywhere near here. Are you? You seem to know quite a bit more than I do. About some things.” He is up beside of him again, but Septimus does not notice it when he leans forward to prod at the jewels hanging from his antlers; on something like impulse, his head turns, and he recovers the motion by just allowing his muzzle to brush against the curve of Elchanan’s jawline, before he draws away wordlessly, turning his head back to the corridor in front of them.
“Not at all,” he says, with a somewhat more serious shake of his head. “I’m just a traveler, from a land that is - exceptionally - far away.” A grimace curls across his features momentarily, and his eyes darken a hint. “I’m a bit stuck here, for now, that’s all. And as for knowing…” That grimace is gone, then, replaced by an unusual and almost-dangerous lightness. His eyes gleam in the warm lights of the library, strangely reflective and far older than they might have seemed before, and he turns to examine the man with a smile broad enough to reveal his wolfish canines curling across his lips. “I suppose that depends on what things you are implying that I know.”
@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
