WHEREVER WE GO, WE'LL NEVER BE LOST--
Wind whistles through the hazelnut-brown feathers of Septimus’s wings as he circled down to a slow, lazy halt in the tall golden sea of the Eleutheria. After spending several weeks wandering Novus, largely aimlessly, with little but his own intuition and the often-ambiguous directions of passers-by to guide him on his way, he’d finally managed to regain some semblance of his bearings. He’s comfortable enough to wander the unclaimed regions of Novus on his own, at least, which is something – not that Septimus is an especially fearful creature, hamstringed as he is by his lack of magic. However, he’s also not a fool, and, now that he is susceptible to his own mortality, he knows better than to take unnecessary risks.
Night hangs heavy on the edge of the horizon, a fierce blush of deep navy cast against the paler shades of day. In the grass, crickets have already begun to chirp, and the sound brings the soft semblance of a smile to Septimus’s lips; in his line of work, he has come to carry a particular admiration for the littlest creatures in nature, particularly those who, in spite of their size, were striking. (In the case of crickets, it was because of their sound – so distinct and loud, and they were so tiny. Even a single cricket might as well have been an orchestra.) But he is has not come to the plains tonight to listen to crickets. No, with the sky promising to be so tantalizingly cloudless and the moon nearing its fullest point, he has determined that tonight will be promising enough to work on the star map that he has been sketching sporadically since his arrival. (Of course, his sporadic work is in and of itself problematic; the night sky changes, and he has barely had the time to accommodate for it.)
Still, with help enough from the books in the library to determine the major constellations in Novus’s spring, he likes to think that he can strive for something reminiscent of accuracy. If he hopes to keep exploring the wilder corners of this foreign land, having a map of his own would be invaluable.
He crests a hill, his hooves crunching in the still-dry grass (touched by the last hints of winter frosts in the mornings), and then he pauses. A young mare – still a girl, really – stands with her back turned to him. A pretty, simple creature painted in dusky, monochromatic hues of black and white, with a small pair of wings sprouting from her skull and a slender, dainty build. He dips his head to her, though he knows that she cannot see the gesture, and offers a polite, “Hello there.” It is a traveler’s greeting – he doesn’t know if she would want him to stay and speak with her, and he doesn’t know if he wants to talk with her yet either, so his tone is intentionally evasive. If she reacts poorly, he’ll go on his way. If she continues the conversation…
There is always more to be learned, he thinks.
@Philomena || <3
"Speech!"
Wind whistles through the hazelnut-brown feathers of Septimus’s wings as he circled down to a slow, lazy halt in the tall golden sea of the Eleutheria. After spending several weeks wandering Novus, largely aimlessly, with little but his own intuition and the often-ambiguous directions of passers-by to guide him on his way, he’d finally managed to regain some semblance of his bearings. He’s comfortable enough to wander the unclaimed regions of Novus on his own, at least, which is something – not that Septimus is an especially fearful creature, hamstringed as he is by his lack of magic. However, he’s also not a fool, and, now that he is susceptible to his own mortality, he knows better than to take unnecessary risks.
Night hangs heavy on the edge of the horizon, a fierce blush of deep navy cast against the paler shades of day. In the grass, crickets have already begun to chirp, and the sound brings the soft semblance of a smile to Septimus’s lips; in his line of work, he has come to carry a particular admiration for the littlest creatures in nature, particularly those who, in spite of their size, were striking. (In the case of crickets, it was because of their sound – so distinct and loud, and they were so tiny. Even a single cricket might as well have been an orchestra.) But he is has not come to the plains tonight to listen to crickets. No, with the sky promising to be so tantalizingly cloudless and the moon nearing its fullest point, he has determined that tonight will be promising enough to work on the star map that he has been sketching sporadically since his arrival. (Of course, his sporadic work is in and of itself problematic; the night sky changes, and he has barely had the time to accommodate for it.)
Still, with help enough from the books in the library to determine the major constellations in Novus’s spring, he likes to think that he can strive for something reminiscent of accuracy. If he hopes to keep exploring the wilder corners of this foreign land, having a map of his own would be invaluable.
He crests a hill, his hooves crunching in the still-dry grass (touched by the last hints of winter frosts in the mornings), and then he pauses. A young mare – still a girl, really – stands with her back turned to him. A pretty, simple creature painted in dusky, monochromatic hues of black and white, with a small pair of wings sprouting from her skull and a slender, dainty build. He dips his head to her, though he knows that she cannot see the gesture, and offers a polite, “Hello there.” It is a traveler’s greeting – he doesn’t know if she would want him to stay and speak with her, and he doesn’t know if he wants to talk with her yet either, so his tone is intentionally evasive. If she reacts poorly, he’ll go on his way. If she continues the conversation…
There is always more to be learned, he thinks.
@Philomena || <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
