LADY OF THE MOUNTAINS, EMERGES FROM MY RIGHT SIDE AND ALL THE LACY SCARS THERE, WHY IS SHE A DEER? --
There is a darkness among the fireflies.
When she emerges from the leaves like the blossom of a spider-lily, he does not notice her, but for a prickle on his spine – for Septimus has spent enough time in the woods to know when he is being watched. (What he wonders, then, is if the creature who approaches is predator or prey.) There is a sound, but he is not sure that he can put a name to it, which accompanies her appearance, and it is that sound which makes him turn, the jewels which dangle from his antlers clinking a soft melody to accompany the sudden movement.
The unicorn is haloed by dying fireflies, which go dark and twitch once they are in the radius of her frame. A strange girl, practically patchwork – deep chestnut, like blood, with a lithe frame but feathered hooves, a gnarled spiral of a horn, eyes like amethyst chips to match the stone on her forehead, a lion’s tail which bears a scythe. Predator, he decides, because she can kill, or because she does kill; predator, but she stands still before him, silent and dark, and he wonders if she, like the strange birds and cats and jungle plants, has been born from the wild magic of this island. It suits her like a second skin.
“Hello,” Septimus says, his voice a soft, low thing – because he does not know what matter of creature he is looking at, but he knows that she is a wild thing, and he does not want her to leave. “Who are you?”
But before the unicorn can answer, if she intends to answer at all, the forest shifts again. The fireflies seem to shudder, and then they expand, like ripples; he barely notices the movement of the water, for the darkness, but he knows that it is unnatural, as though it is a living thing, shaking itself off. As the fireflies spread out, the glade seems to brighten, and what it reveals is unusual, but in a way that soothes Septimus far more than it unnerves him, for it reminds him of his home.
(The thought, while he is so far from it, with no way back, would be enough to bring tears to his eyes, were he not so fascinated by the scene before him.)
First the rabbit, with his bony crown; he blinks at them tiredly, and Septimus steps forward to examine him, tilting his head like a curious dog. (He has seen stranger things, but he has never seen this strange thing before, so it warrants investigation.) Its dark eyes catch his attention – they are illuminated in flecks, as though there are fireflies trapped inside of their rims.
The sound of feathers from somewhere above him draws his attention upward, and he finds himself staring at a strange macaw, which twists his head like an owl and is such an unnaturally bright shade of red that, though it looks like a macaw, he knows it cannot be one. He opens his beak, as if to speak, his outstretched wings like twin flames in the unnaturally brilliant light from the fireflies, but no sound escapes his throat.
As the light reaches the furthest edges of the glade, it reveals something that, though he should have walked through it, Septimus is sure was not there before. A garden, full of flowers. (Lotus? No – like everything here, he is sure that the flowers are not what they seem.) Reds and whites and oranges, spectacularly vivid in the light – and growing. He watches, spellbound, as the flowers grow and grow, until they rival the trees for sides, mess of thorns adorning their trunk-stems.
The fireflies settle at the base of the flowers, and, somewhere behind him, the water quiets; he does not look to see if it stills. Instead, his eyes remain trained on those blossoms-
Even as they, like the faces of sunflowers, turn to stare at him. He almost swears that their dark centers could be eyes, but he tells himself that it is a trick of the light.
The garden is like a little forest, and, though he knows that he will have to mind the thorns, he thinks that he can fit in the space between the stems. He throws a look over his shoulder at the strange unicorn-girl, such a mystery herself, and he allows himself a warm smile, though he does not think that she is a creature hunting warmth.
“Would you like to explore the flowers?” he inquires, searching for her jewel-like eyes in the shadows; better, he thinks, to search them in a group. He doesn’t know what secrets (or dangers) they might hide.
@Thana || I adore her (and the scene in that RE!)
"Speech!"
There is a darkness among the fireflies.
When she emerges from the leaves like the blossom of a spider-lily, he does not notice her, but for a prickle on his spine – for Septimus has spent enough time in the woods to know when he is being watched. (What he wonders, then, is if the creature who approaches is predator or prey.) There is a sound, but he is not sure that he can put a name to it, which accompanies her appearance, and it is that sound which makes him turn, the jewels which dangle from his antlers clinking a soft melody to accompany the sudden movement.
The unicorn is haloed by dying fireflies, which go dark and twitch once they are in the radius of her frame. A strange girl, practically patchwork – deep chestnut, like blood, with a lithe frame but feathered hooves, a gnarled spiral of a horn, eyes like amethyst chips to match the stone on her forehead, a lion’s tail which bears a scythe. Predator, he decides, because she can kill, or because she does kill; predator, but she stands still before him, silent and dark, and he wonders if she, like the strange birds and cats and jungle plants, has been born from the wild magic of this island. It suits her like a second skin.
“Hello,” Septimus says, his voice a soft, low thing – because he does not know what matter of creature he is looking at, but he knows that she is a wild thing, and he does not want her to leave. “Who are you?”
But before the unicorn can answer, if she intends to answer at all, the forest shifts again. The fireflies seem to shudder, and then they expand, like ripples; he barely notices the movement of the water, for the darkness, but he knows that it is unnatural, as though it is a living thing, shaking itself off. As the fireflies spread out, the glade seems to brighten, and what it reveals is unusual, but in a way that soothes Septimus far more than it unnerves him, for it reminds him of his home.
(The thought, while he is so far from it, with no way back, would be enough to bring tears to his eyes, were he not so fascinated by the scene before him.)
First the rabbit, with his bony crown; he blinks at them tiredly, and Septimus steps forward to examine him, tilting his head like a curious dog. (He has seen stranger things, but he has never seen this strange thing before, so it warrants investigation.) Its dark eyes catch his attention – they are illuminated in flecks, as though there are fireflies trapped inside of their rims.
The sound of feathers from somewhere above him draws his attention upward, and he finds himself staring at a strange macaw, which twists his head like an owl and is such an unnaturally bright shade of red that, though it looks like a macaw, he knows it cannot be one. He opens his beak, as if to speak, his outstretched wings like twin flames in the unnaturally brilliant light from the fireflies, but no sound escapes his throat.
As the light reaches the furthest edges of the glade, it reveals something that, though he should have walked through it, Septimus is sure was not there before. A garden, full of flowers. (Lotus? No – like everything here, he is sure that the flowers are not what they seem.) Reds and whites and oranges, spectacularly vivid in the light – and growing. He watches, spellbound, as the flowers grow and grow, until they rival the trees for sides, mess of thorns adorning their trunk-stems.
The fireflies settle at the base of the flowers, and, somewhere behind him, the water quiets; he does not look to see if it stills. Instead, his eyes remain trained on those blossoms-
Even as they, like the faces of sunflowers, turn to stare at him. He almost swears that their dark centers could be eyes, but he tells himself that it is a trick of the light.
The garden is like a little forest, and, though he knows that he will have to mind the thorns, he thinks that he can fit in the space between the stems. He throws a look over his shoulder at the strange unicorn-girl, such a mystery herself, and he allows himself a warm smile, though he does not think that she is a creature hunting warmth.
“Would you like to explore the flowers?” he inquires, searching for her jewel-like eyes in the shadows; better, he thinks, to search them in a group. He doesn’t know what secrets (or dangers) they might hide.
@Thana || I adore her (and the scene in that RE!)
"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
