S E P T I M U S
Do they not hear their chorus ring a bit softer than the night
before? I do not understand. What good is joy if you cannot mourn what is lost in the name of light?
The first thing that Septimus notices, when he turns, wide-eyed, to look at the woman that he so carelessly bumps into is the color of her eyes. They are perhaps the sharpest hue of cerulean blue that he has ever seen, bright enough to cut and all but glowing in the lurid haze of the numerous – thousands of them, perhaps – candles situated around the room and in the boughs of the massive cedar tree. He blinks into those brilliant blue eyes for a moment, deer in the headlights, before he takes in the rest of her.
She is pale, but he would not quite call her white. Her coat is closer to a cream, with hair that he would almost call blonde. She is lithe, with a slender physique, but she seems to him to be all muscle, and riddled with scars. In spite of her long hair and her admittedly noble bearing, she seems to be every bit a hardened warrior, and, though he doesn’t have much time to linger on the thought, he decides that she is an impressive figure.
But she was smiling. It struck him as a warm gesture, and, before he could even latch onto her words or piece together his own, he found himself returning her smile. His lips curled up, and, though he would have been more careful were he not so flustered by his mistake, his smile is just broad enough to reveal the wolfish curvature of his teeth, his carnivorous jaws. Were he thinking, he would be thinking enough to hide them – in a land full of mortals with blunt teeth, transient figures that grazed in fields of literal and metaphorical flowers, it was helpful to remain wary. The last thing he wanted to do was to arouse suspicion, or to be mistaken for something like a kelpie.
(And perhaps this is why, almost instinctually, his smile quickly creeps back down, his lips pressing tight together – teeth only a memory.)
Castalla, she finishes, and he rolls her name around on his tongue without speaking it aloud. But please, don’t be sorry, it was my mistake. He is rather positive that it isn’t, but he lets it go for the moment. And you are? she asks, then, and it occurs to him that he didn’t introduce himself, amidst all his apologizing. He straightens, dipping his head in some mixture of acknowledgement and polite greeting – the motion sends the jewels adorning his antlers shaking, scattering fragments of candlelight across the room -, and, in the wake of his embarrassment, manages to piece together a response to her question.
“Castalla. I really should have been paying more attention –“ he can’t quite bring himself to let it go, because he had run into her first, “-but my name is Septimus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There is a genuine warmth to his tone, to match the pleasant smile still spread across his lips, and, unsure of what to say, he decides to ask about the festival; he can’t place her scent in the crowded room, with candlesmoke and cinnamon everywhere, so he stops trying. “Are you from Terrastella? What brings you out tonight?” He’s curious, if she is a member of the Dusk Court – although he came all the way from Delumine to attend their festival, he knows nothing of it, or the traditions that might be behind it. As part of his initiative to better understand mortals and mortal living, he supposes that he should start investigating their traditions, much in the way that he would investigate any other creature. Even if she isn’t, he can’t help but wonder what brought her out tonight. Perhaps it was even more fascinating that strangers from other courts came from near and far to gather for the festival; it seemed to him a delightful display of unity, particularly after what had happened in Solterra a few months prior.
The bauble still hovers at his side - half-forgotten, but stable.
tags | @Castalla
notes | <3
"speech"
Do they not hear their chorus ring a bit softer than the night
before? I do not understand. What good is joy if you cannot mourn what is lost in the name of light?
The first thing that Septimus notices, when he turns, wide-eyed, to look at the woman that he so carelessly bumps into is the color of her eyes. They are perhaps the sharpest hue of cerulean blue that he has ever seen, bright enough to cut and all but glowing in the lurid haze of the numerous – thousands of them, perhaps – candles situated around the room and in the boughs of the massive cedar tree. He blinks into those brilliant blue eyes for a moment, deer in the headlights, before he takes in the rest of her.
She is pale, but he would not quite call her white. Her coat is closer to a cream, with hair that he would almost call blonde. She is lithe, with a slender physique, but she seems to him to be all muscle, and riddled with scars. In spite of her long hair and her admittedly noble bearing, she seems to be every bit a hardened warrior, and, though he doesn’t have much time to linger on the thought, he decides that she is an impressive figure.
But she was smiling. It struck him as a warm gesture, and, before he could even latch onto her words or piece together his own, he found himself returning her smile. His lips curled up, and, though he would have been more careful were he not so flustered by his mistake, his smile is just broad enough to reveal the wolfish curvature of his teeth, his carnivorous jaws. Were he thinking, he would be thinking enough to hide them – in a land full of mortals with blunt teeth, transient figures that grazed in fields of literal and metaphorical flowers, it was helpful to remain wary. The last thing he wanted to do was to arouse suspicion, or to be mistaken for something like a kelpie.
(And perhaps this is why, almost instinctually, his smile quickly creeps back down, his lips pressing tight together – teeth only a memory.)
Castalla, she finishes, and he rolls her name around on his tongue without speaking it aloud. But please, don’t be sorry, it was my mistake. He is rather positive that it isn’t, but he lets it go for the moment. And you are? she asks, then, and it occurs to him that he didn’t introduce himself, amidst all his apologizing. He straightens, dipping his head in some mixture of acknowledgement and polite greeting – the motion sends the jewels adorning his antlers shaking, scattering fragments of candlelight across the room -, and, in the wake of his embarrassment, manages to piece together a response to her question.
“Castalla. I really should have been paying more attention –“ he can’t quite bring himself to let it go, because he had run into her first, “-but my name is Septimus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There is a genuine warmth to his tone, to match the pleasant smile still spread across his lips, and, unsure of what to say, he decides to ask about the festival; he can’t place her scent in the crowded room, with candlesmoke and cinnamon everywhere, so he stops trying. “Are you from Terrastella? What brings you out tonight?” He’s curious, if she is a member of the Dusk Court – although he came all the way from Delumine to attend their festival, he knows nothing of it, or the traditions that might be behind it. As part of his initiative to better understand mortals and mortal living, he supposes that he should start investigating their traditions, much in the way that he would investigate any other creature. Even if she isn’t, he can’t help but wonder what brought her out tonight. Perhaps it was even more fascinating that strangers from other courts came from near and far to gather for the festival; it seemed to him a delightful display of unity, particularly after what had happened in Solterra a few months prior.
The bauble still hovers at his side - half-forgotten, but stable.
tags | @
notes | <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
