OUR TEMPLE, YOUR TOMB--
A starving lioness.
“I did not stumble into this world,” she tells him, “but it seems it is hungrier even than a starving lioness. It did not take my magic, but weakened it.” He tilts his head, something ticking behind his eyes – as though he has encountered a problem, and now he must see it solved.
He does not linger long over her words, but he thinks that this world is less of a starving lioness than the woman in front of him, though he does not know what she is hungry for – wild-eyed and with a presence that eclipsed the crowded marketplace around them. When she is here, he can almost forget that the crowd, hurrying about their business, exists, like she is the only other thing in the world; a vacuous, gaping space that swallows up the world around it.
“A strange consequence,” Septimus remarks, raising his brows at the tiger-woman. “What manner of magic do you have?” It is not simply his curiosity at the situation that prompts him to ask – he is witch-blooded, with wildly divergent magic that comes primarily from ritual, but he has always been fascinated by those with more inherent abilities, beautiful and rampant in their singularity. He wonders what magic would suit this woman, with her tiger-striped skin and eyes that are a storm at sea, with her necklace of teeth. Something destructive, he thinks, something violent - he cannot see her with a magic that makes flowers grow or stitches closed wounds.
His comments hit a nerve.
Unintentionally, of course – but he sees her darken, sees the lightning flare above the waves that are her eyes. Her voice is a growl. “Pray that I never find them,” she says, and he believes her, though these gods are not his to pray to.
“They are no gods of mine,” he says, that half-feral smirk, like a wolf’s, curling across his lips. He wonders: is she implying that she would kill them? Septimus is not sure that he would mind to see her try. The idea of a mortal – though, the more he looks at her, the less sure he is that she is a mere mortal; she feels too much like the half of him that is not, relentless and feral, the half of him that would hunt through the dark, tangling woods by moonlight, for want of blood in his teeth - clashing with something divine is exciting.
But there is more than the desire of a man for a beast beyond his skill in her voice. There is genuine resent - and he wonders what the divine have done to her.
She is quiet, for a moment. He does not dare to break the silence, though it hangs between them awkwardly, even uncomfortably. Then : “I’ve yet to see evidence of magical things and places.” Her gaze turns from him, towards the crowd – and she scans each face, as though she is still searching for that old friend.
He wonders if they are as strange and wild as she.
“I’ve heard nothing more than rumors, myself,” Septimus admits, “but I find that most rumors hold a hint of truth…I’d like to search for those places, if they might help me find what I’m looking for.”
(There is a part of him that wonders if this tiger-woman would hunt with him – perhaps they could find what they were looking for in this strange land together. But he dares not ask. Not yet.)
“But I haven’t introduced myself, have I-?” He chides himself inwardly. How rude, even to a tigress, to say so much without offering his name. “My name is Septimus. And you? Unless you’d prefer I call you Miss Tiger, that is.” The smile that pricks at the corners of his lips is genuine, and somewhat tame – he swallows the wolf, with his smirking and his sharp teeth, in favor of common courtesy.
@Antiope || <3
"Speech!"
A starving lioness.
“I did not stumble into this world,” she tells him, “but it seems it is hungrier even than a starving lioness. It did not take my magic, but weakened it.” He tilts his head, something ticking behind his eyes – as though he has encountered a problem, and now he must see it solved.
He does not linger long over her words, but he thinks that this world is less of a starving lioness than the woman in front of him, though he does not know what she is hungry for – wild-eyed and with a presence that eclipsed the crowded marketplace around them. When she is here, he can almost forget that the crowd, hurrying about their business, exists, like she is the only other thing in the world; a vacuous, gaping space that swallows up the world around it.
“A strange consequence,” Septimus remarks, raising his brows at the tiger-woman. “What manner of magic do you have?” It is not simply his curiosity at the situation that prompts him to ask – he is witch-blooded, with wildly divergent magic that comes primarily from ritual, but he has always been fascinated by those with more inherent abilities, beautiful and rampant in their singularity. He wonders what magic would suit this woman, with her tiger-striped skin and eyes that are a storm at sea, with her necklace of teeth. Something destructive, he thinks, something violent - he cannot see her with a magic that makes flowers grow or stitches closed wounds.
His comments hit a nerve.
Unintentionally, of course – but he sees her darken, sees the lightning flare above the waves that are her eyes. Her voice is a growl. “Pray that I never find them,” she says, and he believes her, though these gods are not his to pray to.
“They are no gods of mine,” he says, that half-feral smirk, like a wolf’s, curling across his lips. He wonders: is she implying that she would kill them? Septimus is not sure that he would mind to see her try. The idea of a mortal – though, the more he looks at her, the less sure he is that she is a mere mortal; she feels too much like the half of him that is not, relentless and feral, the half of him that would hunt through the dark, tangling woods by moonlight, for want of blood in his teeth - clashing with something divine is exciting.
But there is more than the desire of a man for a beast beyond his skill in her voice. There is genuine resent - and he wonders what the divine have done to her.
She is quiet, for a moment. He does not dare to break the silence, though it hangs between them awkwardly, even uncomfortably. Then : “I’ve yet to see evidence of magical things and places.” Her gaze turns from him, towards the crowd – and she scans each face, as though she is still searching for that old friend.
He wonders if they are as strange and wild as she.
“I’ve heard nothing more than rumors, myself,” Septimus admits, “but I find that most rumors hold a hint of truth…I’d like to search for those places, if they might help me find what I’m looking for.”
(There is a part of him that wonders if this tiger-woman would hunt with him – perhaps they could find what they were looking for in this strange land together. But he dares not ask. Not yet.)
“But I haven’t introduced myself, have I-?” He chides himself inwardly. How rude, even to a tigress, to say so much without offering his name. “My name is Septimus. And you? Unless you’d prefer I call you Miss Tiger, that is.” The smile that pricks at the corners of his lips is genuine, and somewhat tame – he swallows the wolf, with his smirking and his sharp teeth, in favor of common courtesy.
@Antiope || <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
