NOW YOU'VE GONE, NOW YOU'VE GONE TO A DIFFERENT LIFE--
He’s been in Denocte for a few weeks, now, struggling to find his bearings in this strange new land.
Today, as dawn breaks over the edge of the horizon – a spill of pastel pinks and oranges cut jagged by the lunging sharpness of the mountains that he has been informed are called the Arma -, Septimus greets the day by stepping outside of the city walls for the first time since he arrived. When he entered the Night Kingdom, he thought that his magic would return in a matter of days; realm-hopping spells were always straining, particularly when they went wrong. When it became obvious that his fae-blood had been suppressed by some force that was not mere exhaustion, he’d fallen into a great and terrible despair, and he’d comforted himself by wandering the city streets, sketching the jewel-like pygmy dragons, and struggling to piece together bit by bit of information about this Novus from any passerby who seemed to be even somewhat interesting.
(The Scarab, at least, had proven good for that.)
However, tempting as it was to linger and linger until he lost his mind from the lingering, Septimus soon grew tired of sulking, and even more tired of city walls and cobblestone streets. He left before the sun could rise, and, though he suspected that he’d be back to gather supplies enough for the journey across the continent (to Delumine, which supposedly has a wonderful library which might contain some information of how to regain his magic), Septimus set to mind to enjoy the land outside of the Night Court as much as possible, for he did not know how long it would take him to return.
He circles above rolling hills, looking down.
Snow covers the ground in a thin layer of crisp white, largely untouched but discolored here and there by muddy banks. From above, it seems exceptionally pristine and linear, and it sparkles in the newborn sun as though it is made of crushed diamonds instead of frozen water. It is early spring; the snow will not remain much longer, and he suspects that it is already melting in the morning heat, but, for now, the world is blanketed in soft white, occasionally interrupted by dark stubs of grass that have already broken the surface. Dark trees, still leafless and bony from winter, sprout sporadically across the fields, near-black from the distance. (And in the early dawn; the sun is only just beginning to rise on the horizon.)
Septimus does not swoop down, his dark wings curving to make for a comfortable, circling landing, until he reaches the massive lake nestled in the territory. From above, it is like a mirror, reflecting the sky; half is the bright rose of dawn, but half is still dark, so dark that he can still see the stars. He lands on the bank, hooves digging into the wet soil (half from the lake and half from the melting snow), and stares out across the water, at nothing.
It’s quiet – not even the birds are out yet, this early, and it isn’t late enough in spring for the bugs. Tucking his wings over his pack neatly, Septimus stares out across the water wistfully.
He longs, for a moment, for home.
@August || <3
"Speech!"
He’s been in Denocte for a few weeks, now, struggling to find his bearings in this strange new land.
Today, as dawn breaks over the edge of the horizon – a spill of pastel pinks and oranges cut jagged by the lunging sharpness of the mountains that he has been informed are called the Arma -, Septimus greets the day by stepping outside of the city walls for the first time since he arrived. When he entered the Night Kingdom, he thought that his magic would return in a matter of days; realm-hopping spells were always straining, particularly when they went wrong. When it became obvious that his fae-blood had been suppressed by some force that was not mere exhaustion, he’d fallen into a great and terrible despair, and he’d comforted himself by wandering the city streets, sketching the jewel-like pygmy dragons, and struggling to piece together bit by bit of information about this Novus from any passerby who seemed to be even somewhat interesting.
(The Scarab, at least, had proven good for that.)
However, tempting as it was to linger and linger until he lost his mind from the lingering, Septimus soon grew tired of sulking, and even more tired of city walls and cobblestone streets. He left before the sun could rise, and, though he suspected that he’d be back to gather supplies enough for the journey across the continent (to Delumine, which supposedly has a wonderful library which might contain some information of how to regain his magic), Septimus set to mind to enjoy the land outside of the Night Court as much as possible, for he did not know how long it would take him to return.
He circles above rolling hills, looking down.
Snow covers the ground in a thin layer of crisp white, largely untouched but discolored here and there by muddy banks. From above, it seems exceptionally pristine and linear, and it sparkles in the newborn sun as though it is made of crushed diamonds instead of frozen water. It is early spring; the snow will not remain much longer, and he suspects that it is already melting in the morning heat, but, for now, the world is blanketed in soft white, occasionally interrupted by dark stubs of grass that have already broken the surface. Dark trees, still leafless and bony from winter, sprout sporadically across the fields, near-black from the distance. (And in the early dawn; the sun is only just beginning to rise on the horizon.)
Septimus does not swoop down, his dark wings curving to make for a comfortable, circling landing, until he reaches the massive lake nestled in the territory. From above, it is like a mirror, reflecting the sky; half is the bright rose of dawn, but half is still dark, so dark that he can still see the stars. He lands on the bank, hooves digging into the wet soil (half from the lake and half from the melting snow), and stares out across the water, at nothing.
It’s quiet – not even the birds are out yet, this early, and it isn’t late enough in spring for the bugs. Tucking his wings over his pack neatly, Septimus stares out across the water wistfully.
He longs, for a moment, for home.
@August || <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
