I WALKED THE WORLD'S FULL LENGTH IN OVER-SIZED CLOCKWORK, SHAVED SKIN OF A BRUTE --
He notices the heron just before it flies. There is a fish caught in the needle-like incline of its beak, fat and silver and still wriggling. Had the bird not noticed his presence, he might have sketched the scene; mundane as it was, this land is new to Septimus, so he aspires to find wonder in those parts of it that are mundane. (After all – most worlds are not wildly different in design or character. If he were so easily bored by repetition, he would have lost his mind from it years ago.) The bird takes off, and he watches it skim across the surface of the lake, then arc up into the sky – soon, it disappears entirely, swallowed up by the dusky blue-black that still coats the rolling Denoctian hills. Septimus looks back at the water.
It is then that there is the sound of hooves against the shoreline, the familiar squelch of something pressed into and then pulled from the mud; he sees movement out of his peripheral vision, and, slowly, his skull swings up, like the arc of a pendulum. His eyes flicker beneath his lashes. That “pensive stare” is turned, abruptly, on his visitor.
He recognizes him, doesn’t he? They’ve never spoken, but Septimus has a good memory for faces – surprisingly good, considering how many faces he has encountered, and how rarely they tend to linger in his presence, given both his long lifespan and propensity for adventure – and he’s seen this golden man’s quite often recently. He is a pretty creature, with a dappled coat which shines, even in the dull morning light, like beaten metal; delicate features, a slender build. Pale, pale eyes, and pale, pale hair, braided tightly to his scalp but left long about his hindquarters. The only dark bit of him comes in the form of those subtle stripes on his back legs, and the grey-brown curves of his hooves.
(And that golden nose ring, a slim and pale band that is nevertheless striking in the way it catches the light – it adds character, Septimus thinks.)
At his words, his ears snap forward and his lips quirk up in a grin, though they do not pull tight enough to reveal his teeth. The boy’s demeanor is careless; although he claims regret, his expression (and tone, ripe with humor) suggest that he was looking for company. “I suppose that depends on whether or not you are the lover I’m supposed to meet.” His tone is thick with mischief, particularly when he allows his eyes to run the length of the other boy’s frame with a playful deliberation. He inclines his skull; his dangling green gems clack a melody against his antlers. “Pensive staring, you say? You’ll have to teach me your methods; I feel no more enlightened than I was when I arrived.” He isn’t sure that he wants to be enlightened, either – his mind was drifting dangerously towards home, before this boy (man? no, still a boy in the eyes) appeared, and Septimus knows that, with his magic and immortality gone like ashes in the wind, he can’t afford to let his mind wander there. In that direction lies regret, or sorrow, or some mixture thereof, and both of those emotions were a hindrance to his productivity.
So, instead of thinking about how he is trapped and worlds upon worlds away from the familiar embrace of the Wilds (and his mother, and his siblings, and cousins, and aunts, and uncles, and-), Septimus focuses on the boy. “I’m Septimus. You work at the Scarab, don’t you?”
Might as well get acquainted, now that he’s here – Septimus isn’t sure how long he’ll be staying at the establishment, and he’s not sure that he should want to get acquainted with its various workers and patrons, but nevermind that. He’s in the mood for company, even if he chances company being unsavory-
But he thinks that this boy is far too golden for it.
@August || <3
"Speech!"
He notices the heron just before it flies. There is a fish caught in the needle-like incline of its beak, fat and silver and still wriggling. Had the bird not noticed his presence, he might have sketched the scene; mundane as it was, this land is new to Septimus, so he aspires to find wonder in those parts of it that are mundane. (After all – most worlds are not wildly different in design or character. If he were so easily bored by repetition, he would have lost his mind from it years ago.) The bird takes off, and he watches it skim across the surface of the lake, then arc up into the sky – soon, it disappears entirely, swallowed up by the dusky blue-black that still coats the rolling Denoctian hills. Septimus looks back at the water.
It is then that there is the sound of hooves against the shoreline, the familiar squelch of something pressed into and then pulled from the mud; he sees movement out of his peripheral vision, and, slowly, his skull swings up, like the arc of a pendulum. His eyes flicker beneath his lashes. That “pensive stare” is turned, abruptly, on his visitor.
He recognizes him, doesn’t he? They’ve never spoken, but Septimus has a good memory for faces – surprisingly good, considering how many faces he has encountered, and how rarely they tend to linger in his presence, given both his long lifespan and propensity for adventure – and he’s seen this golden man’s quite often recently. He is a pretty creature, with a dappled coat which shines, even in the dull morning light, like beaten metal; delicate features, a slender build. Pale, pale eyes, and pale, pale hair, braided tightly to his scalp but left long about his hindquarters. The only dark bit of him comes in the form of those subtle stripes on his back legs, and the grey-brown curves of his hooves.
(And that golden nose ring, a slim and pale band that is nevertheless striking in the way it catches the light – it adds character, Septimus thinks.)
At his words, his ears snap forward and his lips quirk up in a grin, though they do not pull tight enough to reveal his teeth. The boy’s demeanor is careless; although he claims regret, his expression (and tone, ripe with humor) suggest that he was looking for company. “I suppose that depends on whether or not you are the lover I’m supposed to meet.” His tone is thick with mischief, particularly when he allows his eyes to run the length of the other boy’s frame with a playful deliberation. He inclines his skull; his dangling green gems clack a melody against his antlers. “Pensive staring, you say? You’ll have to teach me your methods; I feel no more enlightened than I was when I arrived.” He isn’t sure that he wants to be enlightened, either – his mind was drifting dangerously towards home, before this boy (man? no, still a boy in the eyes) appeared, and Septimus knows that, with his magic and immortality gone like ashes in the wind, he can’t afford to let his mind wander there. In that direction lies regret, or sorrow, or some mixture thereof, and both of those emotions were a hindrance to his productivity.
So, instead of thinking about how he is trapped and worlds upon worlds away from the familiar embrace of the Wilds (and his mother, and his siblings, and cousins, and aunts, and uncles, and-), Septimus focuses on the boy. “I’m Septimus. You work at the Scarab, don’t you?”
Might as well get acquainted, now that he’s here – Septimus isn’t sure how long he’ll be staying at the establishment, and he’s not sure that he should want to get acquainted with its various workers and patrons, but nevermind that. He’s in the mood for company, even if he chances company being unsavory-
But he thinks that this boy is far too golden for it.
@August || <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
