TO TRAVEL ON AND TRAVEL LIGHT
to travel deep into the night
Night has fallen, and the cold is almost unbearable.
Septimus trudges through a particularly thick snow bank, his lips curled downward, into an expression that borders on pain; the chill wraps itself around his legs and into his bones and makes his teeth chatter so furiously that the tightness it creates in his jaw threatens to bloom into a pounding headache. His wings are pulled in tight at his side, and, though they hang heavy with a kind of perpetual tiredness that he seems to feel all the time nowadays, he is grateful for their presence, which is almost like a cape about his shoulders. They provide some degree of warmth, though not much. It isn’t as though there isn’t still skin beneath those feathers.
He would have covered more ground if he flew, and it is a particularly clear and starry night, with the full moon high in the sky; however, that would only make him colder, so, although Septimus is anxious to find somewhere to hide from the cold, he remains on the ground, trotting restlessly between the trees. He tries to keep a steady pace – he’ll be warmer if he stays moving, and he stays moving quickly. (Just not quickly enough to break a sweat, which is possible, in spite of the weather.) His satchel is tucked neatly under one wing, shielding his notebooks and quills from the cold; he can only hope that his body heat will be enough to keep the ink pots from freezing over, but he doesn’t feel especially hopeful about it. He might have to resort to the charcoal, which smudges something horrible, or some of the lead…which is better than the charcoal, at least.
He is shaken from his thoughts by a burst of light.
It seems to flicker into existence just a few feet away from Septimus; he freezes, his hooves kicking up snow from the sudden movement, and stares. The light bobs, and the gestures seems almost welcoming. When it drifts further into the trees, which seem to be growing denser and denser (and greener and greener; once he passed by dead deciduous tree after dead deciduous tree, he began to discover some firs, and he wonders if they won’t be even more populous deeper in the woods) the further he walks into the forest, it moves slowly.
Mortality has not yet taught him caution. Septimus, shaking himself from his trance, follows.
He does not know how long he walks, following the light. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Time does not feel the same here; it is too fluid. However long it takes, he feels as though he crosses a threshold – and suddenly there are hundreds of lights and a grove amidst the conifers, with a frozen, shallow pool in the center. He can see little beings at the center of the orbs of light, ever-shifting, never the same creature for long; more and more appear from the woods, like a hundred thousand fireflies blinking in unison. Dazzled, Septimus moves towards the center of the grove, pacing out onto the ice. (If this island were not so different, he could almost imagine it was the pool with that strange fish he encountered last time.) He looks at these shifting creatures, and he forgets that he is cold. He feels them, and he almost, almost forgets that he is mortal.
He stands amidst the swarm of little lights, his eyes bright and wide, and he doesn’t ever want to leave.
@Vaeri || <3
"Speech!"
to travel deep into the night
Night has fallen, and the cold is almost unbearable.
Septimus trudges through a particularly thick snow bank, his lips curled downward, into an expression that borders on pain; the chill wraps itself around his legs and into his bones and makes his teeth chatter so furiously that the tightness it creates in his jaw threatens to bloom into a pounding headache. His wings are pulled in tight at his side, and, though they hang heavy with a kind of perpetual tiredness that he seems to feel all the time nowadays, he is grateful for their presence, which is almost like a cape about his shoulders. They provide some degree of warmth, though not much. It isn’t as though there isn’t still skin beneath those feathers.
He would have covered more ground if he flew, and it is a particularly clear and starry night, with the full moon high in the sky; however, that would only make him colder, so, although Septimus is anxious to find somewhere to hide from the cold, he remains on the ground, trotting restlessly between the trees. He tries to keep a steady pace – he’ll be warmer if he stays moving, and he stays moving quickly. (Just not quickly enough to break a sweat, which is possible, in spite of the weather.) His satchel is tucked neatly under one wing, shielding his notebooks and quills from the cold; he can only hope that his body heat will be enough to keep the ink pots from freezing over, but he doesn’t feel especially hopeful about it. He might have to resort to the charcoal, which smudges something horrible, or some of the lead…which is better than the charcoal, at least.
He is shaken from his thoughts by a burst of light.
It seems to flicker into existence just a few feet away from Septimus; he freezes, his hooves kicking up snow from the sudden movement, and stares. The light bobs, and the gestures seems almost welcoming. When it drifts further into the trees, which seem to be growing denser and denser (and greener and greener; once he passed by dead deciduous tree after dead deciduous tree, he began to discover some firs, and he wonders if they won’t be even more populous deeper in the woods) the further he walks into the forest, it moves slowly.
Mortality has not yet taught him caution. Septimus, shaking himself from his trance, follows.
He does not know how long he walks, following the light. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Time does not feel the same here; it is too fluid. However long it takes, he feels as though he crosses a threshold – and suddenly there are hundreds of lights and a grove amidst the conifers, with a frozen, shallow pool in the center. He can see little beings at the center of the orbs of light, ever-shifting, never the same creature for long; more and more appear from the woods, like a hundred thousand fireflies blinking in unison. Dazzled, Septimus moves towards the center of the grove, pacing out onto the ice. (If this island were not so different, he could almost imagine it was the pool with that strange fish he encountered last time.) He looks at these shifting creatures, and he forgets that he is cold. He feels them, and he almost, almost forgets that he is mortal.
He stands amidst the swarm of little lights, his eyes bright and wide, and he doesn’t ever want to leave.
@Vaeri || <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
