NOW RUSHED INTO THIS BRIGHTNESS
as if by a shutter / that, once opened, can never be closed
It is a particularly cold day, and, although that does not especially bother Septimus, he opted to flee into the library with a cup of tea rather than to study outdoors after he woke this morning.
He’d slipped through the court, found one small café or another that he hadn’t visited yet, and picked up a cup of blueberry green tea. It wasn’t especially good, but he drank it regardless while watching the passers-by on the streets of Delumine through windows fogged over with a fine layer of frost. He’d intended to take the tea with him, but, since he didn’t like it, he finished it as quickly as he could and then hurried to the library, washing the aftertaste out of his mouth with winter chill.
He might have encountered familiar faces on the way, if he’d been paying attention. He might not. Septimus is a perpetual drifter, even in the court he technically calls his own, never quite willing to cling to anyone or anything for too long. He might say that it is in his nature, because that has always been what he has been told; he might say that it is a consequence of his fae-blood. He’s never been sure of the veracity of that statement, however, since his relatives are content to stay in the wilds forever, for eternity, and he could probably never be content with anything at all.
And – his blood lies dormant, now, anyways.
After several hours of studying a text on Denoctian wildlife, Septimus stands up to stretch his legs, and that is when he happens upon the man.
Maybe he is intrigued by him because it seems precisely like he does not want to be seen. He is not especially striking; he is colorful, certainly, yellow-gold and white with a gentle touch of blues and violets like expanding nebulae or a bruise, but bright colors alone are hardly enough to render someone striking, particularly after the many years that Septimus has spent wandering. (He has seen wonderous things, and he has seen them often – but that has mostly given him appreciation for things that are smaller and plainer, the oft-ordinary foundations to the marvelous sights and structures and creatures that he has encountered. A forest of great trees cannot grow without the little things squirming in the soil, or the underbrush.) At any rate – the man, in his wandering, catches Septimus’s eye.
(Perhaps it is merely because he remembers being a stranger, here, too.)
The library in Delumine is not the largest that he has encountered, in his many, many years of travelling – it isn’t even in the same caliber. Still, it is large enough to be daunting, particularly to those unfamiliar with the system, or the small helpers that inhabit the arboreal shelves. He strides forward, and forward, and forward until he has bridged much of the distance between himself and the man, and then he tilts his head, a gentle smile curving across his dark lips. “Looking for something?”
@Ceylon || hi Ilu
"Speech!"
as if by a shutter / that, once opened, can never be closed
It is a particularly cold day, and, although that does not especially bother Septimus, he opted to flee into the library with a cup of tea rather than to study outdoors after he woke this morning.
He’d slipped through the court, found one small café or another that he hadn’t visited yet, and picked up a cup of blueberry green tea. It wasn’t especially good, but he drank it regardless while watching the passers-by on the streets of Delumine through windows fogged over with a fine layer of frost. He’d intended to take the tea with him, but, since he didn’t like it, he finished it as quickly as he could and then hurried to the library, washing the aftertaste out of his mouth with winter chill.
He might have encountered familiar faces on the way, if he’d been paying attention. He might not. Septimus is a perpetual drifter, even in the court he technically calls his own, never quite willing to cling to anyone or anything for too long. He might say that it is in his nature, because that has always been what he has been told; he might say that it is a consequence of his fae-blood. He’s never been sure of the veracity of that statement, however, since his relatives are content to stay in the wilds forever, for eternity, and he could probably never be content with anything at all.
And – his blood lies dormant, now, anyways.
After several hours of studying a text on Denoctian wildlife, Septimus stands up to stretch his legs, and that is when he happens upon the man.
Maybe he is intrigued by him because it seems precisely like he does not want to be seen. He is not especially striking; he is colorful, certainly, yellow-gold and white with a gentle touch of blues and violets like expanding nebulae or a bruise, but bright colors alone are hardly enough to render someone striking, particularly after the many years that Septimus has spent wandering. (He has seen wonderous things, and he has seen them often – but that has mostly given him appreciation for things that are smaller and plainer, the oft-ordinary foundations to the marvelous sights and structures and creatures that he has encountered. A forest of great trees cannot grow without the little things squirming in the soil, or the underbrush.) At any rate – the man, in his wandering, catches Septimus’s eye.
(Perhaps it is merely because he remembers being a stranger, here, too.)
The library in Delumine is not the largest that he has encountered, in his many, many years of travelling – it isn’t even in the same caliber. Still, it is large enough to be daunting, particularly to those unfamiliar with the system, or the small helpers that inhabit the arboreal shelves. He strides forward, and forward, and forward until he has bridged much of the distance between himself and the man, and then he tilts his head, a gentle smile curving across his dark lips. “Looking for something?”
@Ceylon || hi Ilu
"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
