I AM MORE THAN ONE THING, AND NOT ALL OF THOSE THINGS ARE GOOD --
Even if Septimus hadn’t spent most of his (many, many) years in a forest far stranger and trickier than this one, he probably still would have heard the woman and her Borzoi approaching long before he actually saw them. (The woman, at least. He was not entirely expecting the dog, though he thought he heard the patter of something nearby, accompanying her through the woods – or hunting the both of them, and either option seemed equally likely.)
The dog (a lovely specimen, to the naturalist’s eye, though a bit small for an adult) appears first, and Septimus eyes him suspiciously, though any discomfort he felt at the appearance of the animal, which was certainly not native to a place like this, like the birds in the trees and the cats in the brush, was alleviated in its entirety when the mare emerged from the woods behind him.
She was heavier in build, but tall and leggy enough to be deceptively graceful in spite of it (much as the branches and leaves and recently-deceased flowers tangled in her mane and coat suggested otherwise). Unlike the rich, deceptively normal bay of Septimus’s own coat, hers is a mesh of dark blue and silver, with a steel-gray around her face and the feathers that collected around her hooves; most striking, though, were the flecks of silver scattered across her rump, which, from across the water, seemed almost nebulous. Her eyes, too, were unusual – bright, pure, and pale. When she opens her mouth, presumably in response to something she has heard from her Borzoi scout, there is something about her that charms him, reminding him of the very certain fondness he had for some of his younger, less worldly sisters.
“Oh?” Comes her voice, just as she presses through the treeline. “There are more horses here than I’ve met on the mainland— ah! Antlers!” She blinks at him (or, more specifically, at his extensive rack of antlers), and he blinks back, somewhat taken aback by the remark. Though the Borzoi nips at her ankles, perhaps to stop her from approaching, she curves around the too-clear, too-blue pool and comes to stand right in front of him, staring up at his antlers. “And I thought I had trouble walking through here! How do you not have whole trees dangling from you by now?” Septimus finds a warm smile pulling at the corners of his lips, and he contemplates how to explain himself. Moving through a forest is, to him, so like breathing that he sometimes forgets that it is not so simple for others.
“I grew up in a forest that was far denser than this one,” he admits, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof. “I did get my antlers tangled in brush all the time when I was younger, but…” He trails off, considering. It is hard to explain his childhood to others, least of all those who had no experience with the strangeness (and the beauty) of the Woods, which were a living thing. They would change whenever he glanced away, and nothing would remain as it was for more than a few moments at a time; this place is almost like it, but less strange. There, he had to learn how to treat the forest as an extension of himself, like a phantom limb – another organ, but one he could not control. He had to feel to understand. “I learned how to move with the woods, not against it, as I grew older,” Septimus decides, finally, though he is not sure that his words will mean anything to this girl. (He does not know how old she is, but most creatures are young to him – and, even if she is not, her demeanor is girlish.)
His reply is unusual, and he knows it, so he decides to distract for a moment (or attempt to) with introductions. Gods know he has a tendency to forget them, in his excitement. “I’m Septimus, of the Dawn Court. And you are, Miss…?” He trails off, then shoots a glance at her Borzoi companion, and adds, “And you, of course? – though I am not sure that your companion can understand me.” From what little Septimus knew of the bonded creatures that accompanied the equines of Novus, some seemed to be able to, and some could not.
Either way – he looks into her pearlescent eyes, and he thinks that there is something otherworldly to them, a bit of mystery. He wonders what she is, to be so like the night sky.
@Kassandra || kassandra is literally the cutest thing eversorry for the wait!
"Speech!"
Even if Septimus hadn’t spent most of his (many, many) years in a forest far stranger and trickier than this one, he probably still would have heard the woman and her Borzoi approaching long before he actually saw them. (The woman, at least. He was not entirely expecting the dog, though he thought he heard the patter of something nearby, accompanying her through the woods – or hunting the both of them, and either option seemed equally likely.)
The dog (a lovely specimen, to the naturalist’s eye, though a bit small for an adult) appears first, and Septimus eyes him suspiciously, though any discomfort he felt at the appearance of the animal, which was certainly not native to a place like this, like the birds in the trees and the cats in the brush, was alleviated in its entirety when the mare emerged from the woods behind him.
She was heavier in build, but tall and leggy enough to be deceptively graceful in spite of it (much as the branches and leaves and recently-deceased flowers tangled in her mane and coat suggested otherwise). Unlike the rich, deceptively normal bay of Septimus’s own coat, hers is a mesh of dark blue and silver, with a steel-gray around her face and the feathers that collected around her hooves; most striking, though, were the flecks of silver scattered across her rump, which, from across the water, seemed almost nebulous. Her eyes, too, were unusual – bright, pure, and pale. When she opens her mouth, presumably in response to something she has heard from her Borzoi scout, there is something about her that charms him, reminding him of the very certain fondness he had for some of his younger, less worldly sisters.
“Oh?” Comes her voice, just as she presses through the treeline. “There are more horses here than I’ve met on the mainland— ah! Antlers!” She blinks at him (or, more specifically, at his extensive rack of antlers), and he blinks back, somewhat taken aback by the remark. Though the Borzoi nips at her ankles, perhaps to stop her from approaching, she curves around the too-clear, too-blue pool and comes to stand right in front of him, staring up at his antlers. “And I thought I had trouble walking through here! How do you not have whole trees dangling from you by now?” Septimus finds a warm smile pulling at the corners of his lips, and he contemplates how to explain himself. Moving through a forest is, to him, so like breathing that he sometimes forgets that it is not so simple for others.
“I grew up in a forest that was far denser than this one,” he admits, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof. “I did get my antlers tangled in brush all the time when I was younger, but…” He trails off, considering. It is hard to explain his childhood to others, least of all those who had no experience with the strangeness (and the beauty) of the Woods, which were a living thing. They would change whenever he glanced away, and nothing would remain as it was for more than a few moments at a time; this place is almost like it, but less strange. There, he had to learn how to treat the forest as an extension of himself, like a phantom limb – another organ, but one he could not control. He had to feel to understand. “I learned how to move with the woods, not against it, as I grew older,” Septimus decides, finally, though he is not sure that his words will mean anything to this girl. (He does not know how old she is, but most creatures are young to him – and, even if she is not, her demeanor is girlish.)
His reply is unusual, and he knows it, so he decides to distract for a moment (or attempt to) with introductions. Gods know he has a tendency to forget them, in his excitement. “I’m Septimus, of the Dawn Court. And you are, Miss…?” He trails off, then shoots a glance at her Borzoi companion, and adds, “And you, of course? – though I am not sure that your companion can understand me.” From what little Septimus knew of the bonded creatures that accompanied the equines of Novus, some seemed to be able to, and some could not.
Either way – he looks into her pearlescent eyes, and he thinks that there is something otherworldly to them, a bit of mystery. He wonders what she is, to be so like the night sky.
@Kassandra || kassandra is literally the cutest thing ever
"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
