THE WET GLASS, AND THAT CLOUD
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
Everywhere he looks, he stares back. On occasion, he isn’t alone in the mirror – he recognizes some of the faces, but others are people he has never seen before, and he never forgets a face. Some scenes are familiar. A woman with a scythe-hook of a tail surrounded by dead fireflies. A pale girl, attempting to thieve his earring. The island remembers what it has seen before, he supposes, in particular – of all his many, many years, it keeps picking images of him, here.
He doesn’t see the girl until she speaks, too caught up in his own observations to notice the sound of her approach. (An amateur mistake, really.)
Stay, comes her soft, pleading voice. You remind me of someone I have lost. My love. He had vines in his antlers like you do here. He does stop, and he does stay, but that is mostly to get a better look at her.
She looks bird-boned, fragile – a pastel and delicate creature, dripping violet flowers in her wake. He wonders if they grow in her hair (it somehow does not seem implausible, from her bearing), or if she simply tied them in. There are thousands of copies of her, reflected in every which direction; he is too perplexed by her to pay too much attention to them. It is as strange as the island itself to see any other soul in this strange, wild place, and he cannot help but assume it is the island’s will – with its wild, tangled magick – to bring her here.
At any rate – he is grateful for the company, although the nature of her request…
It is, admittedly, one of the more bizarre requests that Septimus has gotten. (He does not recall having ever being compared to someone’s lost lover, but, then, he has lived for a very, very long time.) He arches his brow at the golden girl, but he does freeze in place (although he feels rather strange about honoring her request), save for the persistent push and pull of the wind in his mane. “A lost lover?” He isn’t sure if it’s something she needs to talk about – but her breathless and half-begging tone bears questioning.
There is a dagger hanging around the curve of her neck. She faces his reflection, the one with the vine-strewn antlers, and she plucks it from its holster and raises it to the stone. Septimus watches her wide-eyed, wondering if she can be coerced to get him a sample for his service.
When she tries to cut the stone, however, a horrible sound rings out – the clash between two materials, two magicks. It screams, and he nearly winces, but he cannot bring himself to tear his eyes from the sight of her cutting. She draws the dagger back, finally, and the sound dissipates. Huh, she says, the island still doesn’t like me, then. He wonders how much time she has spent on the island. (He wonders if it can really be said to like anyone at all; wild magic, like this kind, rarely bears fondness for anyone. He thinks it might like his siblings, if they were here, or his mother, or even him, if he were properly himself – it reminds him of the wilds. But he is not himself, and they are not here, and this is not the wilds.)
His gaze lingers on her thoughtfully.
“It’s a pity,” Septimus says, still unmoving. “If you could have broken it with that dagger of yours, I would have asked for a sample.” It seems that his scientific inquiries would have to wait; perhaps he could come back later, before the season is out, with something sharper to cut the stone’s glass-like surface. His eyes drift down to the dagger, which seems to him polished bone – but what kind? The sharpness it seems to exude is entirely unlike its make. “What is your dagger made of? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.” And, considering how long Septimus has been alive, that is rather rare.
@Florentine || <3 <3 <3
"Speech!"
which is slowly taking the shape / of an astonishing idea
Everywhere he looks, he stares back. On occasion, he isn’t alone in the mirror – he recognizes some of the faces, but others are people he has never seen before, and he never forgets a face. Some scenes are familiar. A woman with a scythe-hook of a tail surrounded by dead fireflies. A pale girl, attempting to thieve his earring. The island remembers what it has seen before, he supposes, in particular – of all his many, many years, it keeps picking images of him, here.
He doesn’t see the girl until she speaks, too caught up in his own observations to notice the sound of her approach. (An amateur mistake, really.)
Stay, comes her soft, pleading voice. You remind me of someone I have lost. My love. He had vines in his antlers like you do here. He does stop, and he does stay, but that is mostly to get a better look at her.
She looks bird-boned, fragile – a pastel and delicate creature, dripping violet flowers in her wake. He wonders if they grow in her hair (it somehow does not seem implausible, from her bearing), or if she simply tied them in. There are thousands of copies of her, reflected in every which direction; he is too perplexed by her to pay too much attention to them. It is as strange as the island itself to see any other soul in this strange, wild place, and he cannot help but assume it is the island’s will – with its wild, tangled magick – to bring her here.
At any rate – he is grateful for the company, although the nature of her request…
It is, admittedly, one of the more bizarre requests that Septimus has gotten. (He does not recall having ever being compared to someone’s lost lover, but, then, he has lived for a very, very long time.) He arches his brow at the golden girl, but he does freeze in place (although he feels rather strange about honoring her request), save for the persistent push and pull of the wind in his mane. “A lost lover?” He isn’t sure if it’s something she needs to talk about – but her breathless and half-begging tone bears questioning.
There is a dagger hanging around the curve of her neck. She faces his reflection, the one with the vine-strewn antlers, and she plucks it from its holster and raises it to the stone. Septimus watches her wide-eyed, wondering if she can be coerced to get him a sample for his service.
When she tries to cut the stone, however, a horrible sound rings out – the clash between two materials, two magicks. It screams, and he nearly winces, but he cannot bring himself to tear his eyes from the sight of her cutting. She draws the dagger back, finally, and the sound dissipates. Huh, she says, the island still doesn’t like me, then. He wonders how much time she has spent on the island. (He wonders if it can really be said to like anyone at all; wild magic, like this kind, rarely bears fondness for anyone. He thinks it might like his siblings, if they were here, or his mother, or even him, if he were properly himself – it reminds him of the wilds. But he is not himself, and they are not here, and this is not the wilds.)
His gaze lingers on her thoughtfully.
“It’s a pity,” Septimus says, still unmoving. “If you could have broken it with that dagger of yours, I would have asked for a sample.” It seems that his scientific inquiries would have to wait; perhaps he could come back later, before the season is out, with something sharper to cut the stone’s glass-like surface. His eyes drift down to the dagger, which seems to him polished bone – but what kind? The sharpness it seems to exude is entirely unlike its make. “What is your dagger made of? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.” And, considering how long Septimus has been alive, that is rather rare.
@
"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
