BE BOLD, BE BOLD
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
She is a little slip of dark against the pallor of the landscape, save for the bubblegum pink of her hair and the bright silver of her eyes. If she is beautiful, and he thinks that she is, she is beautiful in a way that is strange – a collection of parts made alluring at least in part by the way that she moves. He watches her long strides, hears the sharp click of those jewels, and he wonders – perhaps she is a dancer, of sorts? An entertainer? She moves like something meant to draw the eyes.
(But he does not watch her in a way that one watches an entertainer, with eyes that capture and admire – Septimus’s stare is, as always, scientific. What can he pry from her simply by watching? It is always best to know a stranger before you follow them off into the unknown, after all, and he is too old to be a fool, caught up in some spider’s web.)
She looks at him, then away, pressing forward, and does not slow until he asks for her name. He catches up to her, and she does not meet his eyes. Her silence lasts for what feels like a long time, and he wonders, at first, if she did not hear the question – but then she looks at him, finds his eyes, and she smiles.
Septimus is not sure that it is a smile. If it is, it is a dangerous thing, even with those doe-eyes; nearly predatory, behind sweet trappings. The fire is before them, dancing metallic against her skin, and, when he smiles back, for a flash – quick enough to be a trick of the light – perhaps his lips are pulled far enough to reveal the pinpricks of his teeth. But then they are gone, quick enough to wonder if they were ever there in the first place, and his lips are closed, though still smiling. The arch of his brow, however, suggests a certain, fae mischief, a hint of his wildling blood – which will not allow him to be so easily enraptured, like a captive beast.
Tannous, she says. Miss Tannous. He wonders if it is a first name or a last name (he has no other name of his own, because that is not the way of the Wilds, but he has been to many lands where it is normal to have more than one, and he does not yet know the etiquette of this place), or perhaps an alias; he wouldn’t blame her for it. There are some places where he would not tell his name to strangers, too. (It was always a danger in the Wilds. But, of course, Septimus is not his true name, and he would not make the mistake of giving that to one of the fae anyways. Names were only dangerous if they had weight. He wonders, then, if her does.)
She asks, then, for his name – a secret for a secret. The flames continue to dance in front of them, and she moves to stand at his side, her dark-iron hide just brushing the pinions of his wing. Little embers. He could imagine her as one too, almost, were she not such a cold thing; in the way that she moves, with a grace that seems so like a flame, and in the sound of her, each clink of the jewels which adorn her slender frame nearly a crackle, like the spit of a spark. Septimus lets the heat soak his skin, then looks at her, green eyes coming to linger on the bright silver of her own; his stare is a sincere thing, somehow, unbothered by her beauty or by her coldness.
One of those pleasant, courteous smiles continues to curl comfortably at the edges of his lips, though it never stretches far enough to show his teeth. (No need to spook her – though he is not sure that she is a girl who spooks.) He dips his head. “Septimus,” he says, simply – offers it up obediently. “My name is Septimus. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tannous.” And, so far, he means it; although she is nearly as cold as the wind, she has aided him, a perfect stranger. Not all would be so kind.
His head tilts, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Where are we? I meant to travel to Svarstell – a land of eternal ice and snow – but this place…does not seem to be it.” It is cold, but there is no snow on the ground, so this cannot be Svarstell.
Pity. He’d thought that he could help.
@Minya || I still love her <3
"Speech!"
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
She is a little slip of dark against the pallor of the landscape, save for the bubblegum pink of her hair and the bright silver of her eyes. If she is beautiful, and he thinks that she is, she is beautiful in a way that is strange – a collection of parts made alluring at least in part by the way that she moves. He watches her long strides, hears the sharp click of those jewels, and he wonders – perhaps she is a dancer, of sorts? An entertainer? She moves like something meant to draw the eyes.
(But he does not watch her in a way that one watches an entertainer, with eyes that capture and admire – Septimus’s stare is, as always, scientific. What can he pry from her simply by watching? It is always best to know a stranger before you follow them off into the unknown, after all, and he is too old to be a fool, caught up in some spider’s web.)
She looks at him, then away, pressing forward, and does not slow until he asks for her name. He catches up to her, and she does not meet his eyes. Her silence lasts for what feels like a long time, and he wonders, at first, if she did not hear the question – but then she looks at him, finds his eyes, and she smiles.
Septimus is not sure that it is a smile. If it is, it is a dangerous thing, even with those doe-eyes; nearly predatory, behind sweet trappings. The fire is before them, dancing metallic against her skin, and, when he smiles back, for a flash – quick enough to be a trick of the light – perhaps his lips are pulled far enough to reveal the pinpricks of his teeth. But then they are gone, quick enough to wonder if they were ever there in the first place, and his lips are closed, though still smiling. The arch of his brow, however, suggests a certain, fae mischief, a hint of his wildling blood – which will not allow him to be so easily enraptured, like a captive beast.
Tannous, she says. Miss Tannous. He wonders if it is a first name or a last name (he has no other name of his own, because that is not the way of the Wilds, but he has been to many lands where it is normal to have more than one, and he does not yet know the etiquette of this place), or perhaps an alias; he wouldn’t blame her for it. There are some places where he would not tell his name to strangers, too. (It was always a danger in the Wilds. But, of course, Septimus is not his true name, and he would not make the mistake of giving that to one of the fae anyways. Names were only dangerous if they had weight. He wonders, then, if her does.)
She asks, then, for his name – a secret for a secret. The flames continue to dance in front of them, and she moves to stand at his side, her dark-iron hide just brushing the pinions of his wing. Little embers. He could imagine her as one too, almost, were she not such a cold thing; in the way that she moves, with a grace that seems so like a flame, and in the sound of her, each clink of the jewels which adorn her slender frame nearly a crackle, like the spit of a spark. Septimus lets the heat soak his skin, then looks at her, green eyes coming to linger on the bright silver of her own; his stare is a sincere thing, somehow, unbothered by her beauty or by her coldness.
One of those pleasant, courteous smiles continues to curl comfortably at the edges of his lips, though it never stretches far enough to show his teeth. (No need to spook her – though he is not sure that she is a girl who spooks.) He dips his head. “Septimus,” he says, simply – offers it up obediently. “My name is Septimus. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tannous.” And, so far, he means it; although she is nearly as cold as the wind, she has aided him, a perfect stranger. Not all would be so kind.
His head tilts, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Where are we? I meant to travel to Svarstell – a land of eternal ice and snow – but this place…does not seem to be it.” It is cold, but there is no snow on the ground, so this cannot be Svarstell.
Pity. He’d thought that he could help.
@
"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
