He sees her from above.
Like a hawk, Septimus is circling high above the sprawling expanse of the Siderealis Prairie; he is flying so high that it is almost, just almost difficult to breathe, and it is disappointing. Before he was afflicted with his own mortality, such a height never bothered him. He could fly as high as he wanted – even far above the clouds, if he were struck with the desire -, and he never felt winded or lightheaded, much less nauseas. (It was the nausea, really, that suggested he should drop in altitude. Every time he beats his wings, his stomach lurches in unison.) Now, he is only mortal, and his strength and stamina reflect it.
He resents it. He doesn’t feel like himself at all.
As he begins to drop in altitude, with sweeping beats of his gargantuan wings, he catches sight of a streak of chocolate-brown splitting through the bobbing tan waves of the prairie. He freezes, for a moment, wings snapping out to allow him to hover in place. The figure is – equine? – and moving almost impossibly fast, the details of their form blurred by a mixture of proximity and speed; he catches a flash of white on an otherwise brown canvas, and he wonders, for a moment, if that coloration isn’t familiar…
Either way, this is an obvious use of magic, and, in his search for his own, Septimus can’t turn down the opportunity to investigate its bearer. He curves his wings and outstretches his pinions as far as they will go, shifting his body into a slow, swooping dive; though the figure is moving far faster than he, he has the benefit of height, and so he is not particularly worried about losing them.
When he is almost halfway to the ground, the figure slows – first to a canter, then to a trot, and then to a walk. He wonders if they are already drained; they didn’t seem to have been running for that long, though he supposes that it likely takes quite a bit of energy to close such a distance so quickly. Either way, with the figure slowed, he steepens his dive, picking up speed. It will be far easier to catch them now.
The figure disappears beneath the branches of a tree, obscuring them from view; he circles above it, for a moment, and then, stretching out his wings, drifts easily to the ground. Once his hooves touch down in the grass, which rises high enough to brush the curve of his stomach, he turns his green-eyed gaze on the figure, who is leaned up against the base of the tree, sides heaving. Even from here, even in the shadows, her body gleams with sweat, and her hair – tied up in buns – is beginning to fall. He watches her, for a moment. She is still striking. Predatory. The tiger-lady - had he expected anyone else, when he saw her dancing across the prairie?
He didn’t know it then, but now he is sure that it could only ever have been her. Septimus tilts his head, stepping forward – though not close enough to stand beneath the tree; he quite likes the warmth of the sun on his back – and calling out to her. (Hopefully, he thinks, she won’t mind the intrusion…or his observation.)
“Was that your magic?” He inquires, green eyes flitting the length of her sweat-slick, muscular form. (It’s not exactly a greeting, but his scientific interest is getting the better of his politeness. He doesn’t want pleasantries, he wants information.) He doesn’t know what else it could have been, drained as she looks; there’s no way that she could have cleared such an expansive distance so quickly without some sort of magical influence involved. (She’d said that this land had weakened her magic anyways – much as she absolutely does not seem weak to him. He shudders to think of the destructive potential her powers might hold, if they were present in their entirety…whatever her powers might be.)
I gave my promise to the world
and the world followed me here.
and the world followed me here.
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
