TO TRAVEL ON AND TRAVEL LIGHT
to travel deep into the night
He is pulled from his sketching by the sound of laughter.
Well, it is more accurate to say that he is unable to continue his sketching due to the laughter; the little bright thing that was his subject, so like him (as he should be, anyways) and so unlike him all at once, darts off at the sound, disappearing once it has flown several feet away from him. These faerie creatures are strange. Sometimes they speak, and sometimes they don’t, and sometimes they speak in the language of these mortal-creatures, and sometimes in his native tongue. When he manages to catch them for a moment, they seem to enjoy teasing him with just a taste of what he has lost, but never giving it back, and they never stay still for long enough for him to finish a sketch.
Perhaps, he thinks bemusedly, as the little faerie flickers away, he has just grown unaccustomed to the mercurial nature of his own kind. Mortals were so different – his people were fickle, mostly, even to their own kind.
He sticks his tongue out at the faerie as it disappears. He thinks that he hears it giggle as it does, but it could be the laughter of whoever shook them both from his sketching, not the faerie creature; on such a magical island, it is hard to tell.
Septimus shakes off the thin layer of snow that fell on his wings while he was sketching, stretching them out to their full, considerable length and then snapping them back at his sides; there is still snow in his mane, and on his antlers, and blotching on his sketchbooks. He returns his notebook and drawing tools to his satchel, looking at the water marks with disappointment, and, tucking it under his wings, he turns to stare in the direction of the laughter.
He supposes that it could be another faerie, or, better yet, another person – and he wouldn’t mind some company that might be a bit less prone to running away. He straightens, and then bounds forward, dashing up the low crest of a hill in a blur of chocolate brown, and coming to an abrupt stop when his gaze falls upon the source of the laughter. A pegasus girl. She looks quite young, and her expression, as she plays in the snow, is nearly childlike with uncontained glee; he watches her for a moment, an amused smile perking at the corners of his lips, and he decides that he can’t be annoyed with her for scaring off his subject. (Or something like that.) She is having far too good of a time to be annoyed with her – it would be quite terrible of him to begrudge her for it.
He steps forward, his green eyes glinting with warmth. “You look like you’re enjoying the snow,” Septimus remarks, punctuating with a good-mannered chuckle. He could warn her that this island is dangerous, that there are creatures here and strange magics to beware of…but he doesn’t.
The subject feels far too heavy.
@Maddox || <3
"Speech!"
to travel deep into the night
He is pulled from his sketching by the sound of laughter.
Well, it is more accurate to say that he is unable to continue his sketching due to the laughter; the little bright thing that was his subject, so like him (as he should be, anyways) and so unlike him all at once, darts off at the sound, disappearing once it has flown several feet away from him. These faerie creatures are strange. Sometimes they speak, and sometimes they don’t, and sometimes they speak in the language of these mortal-creatures, and sometimes in his native tongue. When he manages to catch them for a moment, they seem to enjoy teasing him with just a taste of what he has lost, but never giving it back, and they never stay still for long enough for him to finish a sketch.
Perhaps, he thinks bemusedly, as the little faerie flickers away, he has just grown unaccustomed to the mercurial nature of his own kind. Mortals were so different – his people were fickle, mostly, even to their own kind.
He sticks his tongue out at the faerie as it disappears. He thinks that he hears it giggle as it does, but it could be the laughter of whoever shook them both from his sketching, not the faerie creature; on such a magical island, it is hard to tell.
Septimus shakes off the thin layer of snow that fell on his wings while he was sketching, stretching them out to their full, considerable length and then snapping them back at his sides; there is still snow in his mane, and on his antlers, and blotching on his sketchbooks. He returns his notebook and drawing tools to his satchel, looking at the water marks with disappointment, and, tucking it under his wings, he turns to stare in the direction of the laughter.
He supposes that it could be another faerie, or, better yet, another person – and he wouldn’t mind some company that might be a bit less prone to running away. He straightens, and then bounds forward, dashing up the low crest of a hill in a blur of chocolate brown, and coming to an abrupt stop when his gaze falls upon the source of the laughter. A pegasus girl. She looks quite young, and her expression, as she plays in the snow, is nearly childlike with uncontained glee; he watches her for a moment, an amused smile perking at the corners of his lips, and he decides that he can’t be annoyed with her for scaring off his subject. (Or something like that.) She is having far too good of a time to be annoyed with her – it would be quite terrible of him to begrudge her for it.
He steps forward, his green eyes glinting with warmth. “You look like you’re enjoying the snow,” Septimus remarks, punctuating with a good-mannered chuckle. He could warn her that this island is dangerous, that there are creatures here and strange magics to beware of…but he doesn’t.
The subject feels far too heavy.
@Maddox || <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
