I'LL TAKE IT, THE TREE SEEMS TO SAY
a new, slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm.
It snowed last a few days ago, and the heat – and bright sunlight – that came by in the storm’s wake have successfully melted all of the residue. When Septimus wakes in the morning, he wakes with intent. (It is so rare, lately, for there to be much direction to his cheerful wandering. He still needs to fix his magic, to regain his ancient powers and become what he should be, not the mortal shell; but the concern is slow, and he is so easily distracted, and he has such a poor grasp of time.) It is still dark when he rises, stretches out his wings, and leaves through the gates of the capital city. He could have flown, if he’d wanted to arrive in the stretch of meadow he’d left off at last evening more quickly, but he walks instead, enjoys the feel of the sun rising slowly and the meadow coming to light with daybreak.
It is still pre-dawn. The horizon is a blush of peach and gold, barely extending her tender fingers into the navy darkness of night. The light isn’t much, but it is enough to begin working, even with frost clinging to the plants like spiderwebs, even though there is a thin gauze of fog as far as the eye can see, even though – or especially because – he is still half-asleep and the snap of cold and movement is only just beginning to stir him into proper wakefulness. He shakes his head, wraps his wings about him like a thick coat, and pulls out the notebook that he has been working in – one with a newer cover, stamped with intricate flowers and roiling masses of ivy. He has only had it for a few years, but there are added, yellowed pages and many, many tabs of notes sticking out of its body. He eyes it for a moment, from above, unsuccessfully swallowing down a yawn, and he finally finds the tab that is the soft dawn-red of the court’s colors. He flips the book open to the tab, and then he finds another tab within the section, this one pale green, and then, in the green section, he finds a white tab. Novus Flora / Delumine / Illuster Meadow / Winter. His cataloguing system is not fancy, but that makes it all the easier to find his place when he is forced to wake early – or in the middle of the night.
Realistically, there are only so many plants that grow in the cold of winter. He knows this without requiring confirmation. The lion’s share of trouble will be the spring, though he is only about halfway through the meadow and he has already found more than he expected. Septimus skims over the pages, re-familiarizing himself with the winter flora that he has already sketched and noted – only half of them have their names written, the result of numerous (but not yet enough) conversations with the locals -, then turns to the first empty page.
He dips his head low to the meadow – disturbed, here and there, by gusts of wind that send the dry grass bobbing like waves on the sea – and begins to search for the next plant to add to his catalog.
@Andras || welp, beetles aren't in season, but plants........
"Speech!"
a new, slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm.
It snowed last a few days ago, and the heat – and bright sunlight – that came by in the storm’s wake have successfully melted all of the residue. When Septimus wakes in the morning, he wakes with intent. (It is so rare, lately, for there to be much direction to his cheerful wandering. He still needs to fix his magic, to regain his ancient powers and become what he should be, not the mortal shell; but the concern is slow, and he is so easily distracted, and he has such a poor grasp of time.) It is still dark when he rises, stretches out his wings, and leaves through the gates of the capital city. He could have flown, if he’d wanted to arrive in the stretch of meadow he’d left off at last evening more quickly, but he walks instead, enjoys the feel of the sun rising slowly and the meadow coming to light with daybreak.
It is still pre-dawn. The horizon is a blush of peach and gold, barely extending her tender fingers into the navy darkness of night. The light isn’t much, but it is enough to begin working, even with frost clinging to the plants like spiderwebs, even though there is a thin gauze of fog as far as the eye can see, even though – or especially because – he is still half-asleep and the snap of cold and movement is only just beginning to stir him into proper wakefulness. He shakes his head, wraps his wings about him like a thick coat, and pulls out the notebook that he has been working in – one with a newer cover, stamped with intricate flowers and roiling masses of ivy. He has only had it for a few years, but there are added, yellowed pages and many, many tabs of notes sticking out of its body. He eyes it for a moment, from above, unsuccessfully swallowing down a yawn, and he finally finds the tab that is the soft dawn-red of the court’s colors. He flips the book open to the tab, and then he finds another tab within the section, this one pale green, and then, in the green section, he finds a white tab. Novus Flora / Delumine / Illuster Meadow / Winter. His cataloguing system is not fancy, but that makes it all the easier to find his place when he is forced to wake early – or in the middle of the night.
Realistically, there are only so many plants that grow in the cold of winter. He knows this without requiring confirmation. The lion’s share of trouble will be the spring, though he is only about halfway through the meadow and he has already found more than he expected. Septimus skims over the pages, re-familiarizing himself with the winter flora that he has already sketched and noted – only half of them have their names written, the result of numerous (but not yet enough) conversations with the locals -, then turns to the first empty page.
He dips his head low to the meadow – disturbed, here and there, by gusts of wind that send the dry grass bobbing like waves on the sea – and begins to search for the next plant to add to his catalog.
@
"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
