BE BOLD, BE BOLD
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
He is so lost in thought that he barely notices the winter wind, or the crystals collecting like little diamonds in the dark cover of his coat and the wild, salt-strewn tangles of his hair; he barely notices the way that his breath comes out as a thick, trailing cloud of white, a clear sign of the cold. He barely notices the way that he shivers, the way that the feathers on his great wings ruffle persistently and try to cover every inch of his bare skin that they can, paltry a shield against the cold as they are. It was cold, sometimes, in the woods, and he has been to many a northern nation before, but he has rarely been so…unprepared for the cold, much less the cold when it is accompanied by the turbulent winds which border the sea and a fine sheen of salt water clinging to his fur and freezing.
Septimus is far too lost in his thoughts, his desperate calculations as he attempts to get his bearings, to notice the cold.
What he does notice, however, is the woman. There is the sound of hooves against dry, crystalline glance, which is enough to make him turn and look over his shoulder; and there she is. If he said that she was not a beautiful creature, he would have been lying. She is the portrait of delicate grace, with a slender build and a dancer’s stride, and her coat is like polished metal, which gleams in ripples when it catches the light. Her hair is tumultuously long and vibrant pink, like fresh flowers’ first bloom in early spring, and adorned with little trinkets; she has antlers, too, but not like his own. Rather than bone, they resemble red gemstones, curved up to blunt edges, where his are sharp as spears – they seem more to him like adornment than anything, particularly as they drip little clinking gems of their own.
(Then again, his are also populated with dangling green stones.)
It is her eyes, most of all, that capture his attention. They are quicksilver and hard enough to cut, and, when he stares into them, they send a chill up his spine that touches him far more deeply than the winter wind. She does not smile.
“Haven’t we all.” Her voice is a smooth, succinct drawl, but it isn’t pleasant. He wouldn’t call it that at all. (Apparently, she’d overheard him – the wind loud enough to mask her arrival.) “You will catch your death out here.” Those silver eyes burn into him, intense enough to make him wonder what she hopes to find, to make him wonder if they could peel back his skin and find what is inside. It strikes him, then, that he is cold, but only because she told him; the revelation (of chattering teeth and trembling sides) is accompanied by a faint flush of embarrassment, burning white-hot in his chest. “There is a fire not far from here. Come, get warm, and you can tell me just how badly you have miscalculated.”
It is a kindness he does not expect from her, this winter-girl. When she turns, she turns without looking back, impassive and lovely as fallen snow, and she does not wait for him to follow. But he does. He is a stranger in a strange land; he is in no place to reject kindness if it is offered, no matter who might be offering it. He falls into step at her side, forcing his disorientation back into line, and allows an easy, gentle smile – even a warm one – to curl across his dark lips. Even if she won’t smile, it doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t try to return kindness with a subtle one of his own.
“Thank you, Miss…?”
@Minya || I love her <3
"Speech!"
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
He is so lost in thought that he barely notices the winter wind, or the crystals collecting like little diamonds in the dark cover of his coat and the wild, salt-strewn tangles of his hair; he barely notices the way that his breath comes out as a thick, trailing cloud of white, a clear sign of the cold. He barely notices the way that he shivers, the way that the feathers on his great wings ruffle persistently and try to cover every inch of his bare skin that they can, paltry a shield against the cold as they are. It was cold, sometimes, in the woods, and he has been to many a northern nation before, but he has rarely been so…unprepared for the cold, much less the cold when it is accompanied by the turbulent winds which border the sea and a fine sheen of salt water clinging to his fur and freezing.
Septimus is far too lost in his thoughts, his desperate calculations as he attempts to get his bearings, to notice the cold.
What he does notice, however, is the woman. There is the sound of hooves against dry, crystalline glance, which is enough to make him turn and look over his shoulder; and there she is. If he said that she was not a beautiful creature, he would have been lying. She is the portrait of delicate grace, with a slender build and a dancer’s stride, and her coat is like polished metal, which gleams in ripples when it catches the light. Her hair is tumultuously long and vibrant pink, like fresh flowers’ first bloom in early spring, and adorned with little trinkets; she has antlers, too, but not like his own. Rather than bone, they resemble red gemstones, curved up to blunt edges, where his are sharp as spears – they seem more to him like adornment than anything, particularly as they drip little clinking gems of their own.
(Then again, his are also populated with dangling green stones.)
It is her eyes, most of all, that capture his attention. They are quicksilver and hard enough to cut, and, when he stares into them, they send a chill up his spine that touches him far more deeply than the winter wind. She does not smile.
“Haven’t we all.” Her voice is a smooth, succinct drawl, but it isn’t pleasant. He wouldn’t call it that at all. (Apparently, she’d overheard him – the wind loud enough to mask her arrival.) “You will catch your death out here.” Those silver eyes burn into him, intense enough to make him wonder what she hopes to find, to make him wonder if they could peel back his skin and find what is inside. It strikes him, then, that he is cold, but only because she told him; the revelation (of chattering teeth and trembling sides) is accompanied by a faint flush of embarrassment, burning white-hot in his chest. “There is a fire not far from here. Come, get warm, and you can tell me just how badly you have miscalculated.”
It is a kindness he does not expect from her, this winter-girl. When she turns, she turns without looking back, impassive and lovely as fallen snow, and she does not wait for him to follow. But he does. He is a stranger in a strange land; he is in no place to reject kindness if it is offered, no matter who might be offering it. He falls into step at her side, forcing his disorientation back into line, and allows an easy, gentle smile – even a warm one – to curl across his dark lips. Even if she won’t smile, it doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t try to return kindness with a subtle one of his own.
“Thank you, Miss…?”
@
"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
