FROM THE LANDSCAPE: A SENSE OF SCALE
from the dead: a sense of scale
When the girl emerges from the trees, she emerges with a faint rustling of underbrush and a crunching of snow; he turns, slowly, to look at her, and he finds her much smaller and much younger than whatever he imagined might appear from the woods in mid-winter. He can’t quite place her age, though he suspects that she can’t be more than a few months old, and he wonders, abruptly, where her parents are. Surely she shouldn’t be wandering about unsupervised at such a tender age.
She is bronze-brown-coated and white-haired, with brilliant blue eyes and a golden crescent moon on her shoulder. One of her legs is dipped in a coat of white, sharp as the remaining snowdrifts.
You are not a deer.
The observation is so stark that he could laugh. He doesn’t, though. He holds it in. It is better to encourage children than to make them feel foolish, better to humor them than to shush them.
“No,” Septimus says, rather surprised by her sudden appearance, “I’m not.” It’s such a childish thing to say; it reminds him of his younger sisters (though they were stranger than this child by far), with a bit of a pang. Still, he smiles at her, the sharp tips of his canines just visible below the dark umber curl of his lips. “I don’t even shed these in the winter,” he says, with a soft chuckle, and a bow of his head to point the antlers a bit closer to her; the jewels dangling from their points clink and clink, like his earrings.
What are you doing? She moves closer, closer – closer than a child probably should move to a stranger. He notes it without pushing her away. Can I help? She is too young to know caution, or danger. She is too young, and too earnest.
He wonders where her parents are. Surely, they must be close…perhaps she just wandered off. She strikes him as the type for it.
“I’m making a detailed map of Delumine.” Septimus flips his notebook around to face her, smiling. He isn’t sure that the cartographic marks and symbols will make much sense to her, but he thinks that she might like the way that he has adorned the edges of the map with flowering vines and roses. “I’m a naturalist, you see – it’s part of my project for this winter.” Which is collecting a register of Delumine’s winter flora and fauna (and where they are located), but that is beside the point. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think that I have much work left to do.” It’s true – he is nearly done fiddling with this section of the map, now that he has marked down the impromptu bridge.
He looks down at her, bending his head, and he stays smiling, green eyes as bright as spring leaves even against the wintery landscape. “And what are you doing, miss?” He looks past her, as though expecting her parents – or some sort of guardian – to emerge from the skeletal trees behind her at any moment. “I don’t suppose you’re out here alone?”
He hopes not. Winter can be cold, and it can be cruel – and so can people. (It was not, he thinks, so very long when Delumine, soft and scholarly though it may be, was struck by a series of murders, but, of course, he does not tell the girl that.)
Perhaps, he thinks, she is simply lost. He is sure that he can help her find her way, if she is.
@Elliana || she is.........the Cutest.
"Speech!"
from the dead: a sense of scale
When the girl emerges from the trees, she emerges with a faint rustling of underbrush and a crunching of snow; he turns, slowly, to look at her, and he finds her much smaller and much younger than whatever he imagined might appear from the woods in mid-winter. He can’t quite place her age, though he suspects that she can’t be more than a few months old, and he wonders, abruptly, where her parents are. Surely she shouldn’t be wandering about unsupervised at such a tender age.
She is bronze-brown-coated and white-haired, with brilliant blue eyes and a golden crescent moon on her shoulder. One of her legs is dipped in a coat of white, sharp as the remaining snowdrifts.
You are not a deer.
The observation is so stark that he could laugh. He doesn’t, though. He holds it in. It is better to encourage children than to make them feel foolish, better to humor them than to shush them.
“No,” Septimus says, rather surprised by her sudden appearance, “I’m not.” It’s such a childish thing to say; it reminds him of his younger sisters (though they were stranger than this child by far), with a bit of a pang. Still, he smiles at her, the sharp tips of his canines just visible below the dark umber curl of his lips. “I don’t even shed these in the winter,” he says, with a soft chuckle, and a bow of his head to point the antlers a bit closer to her; the jewels dangling from their points clink and clink, like his earrings.
What are you doing? She moves closer, closer – closer than a child probably should move to a stranger. He notes it without pushing her away. Can I help? She is too young to know caution, or danger. She is too young, and too earnest.
He wonders where her parents are. Surely, they must be close…perhaps she just wandered off. She strikes him as the type for it.
“I’m making a detailed map of Delumine.” Septimus flips his notebook around to face her, smiling. He isn’t sure that the cartographic marks and symbols will make much sense to her, but he thinks that she might like the way that he has adorned the edges of the map with flowering vines and roses. “I’m a naturalist, you see – it’s part of my project for this winter.” Which is collecting a register of Delumine’s winter flora and fauna (and where they are located), but that is beside the point. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think that I have much work left to do.” It’s true – he is nearly done fiddling with this section of the map, now that he has marked down the impromptu bridge.
He looks down at her, bending his head, and he stays smiling, green eyes as bright as spring leaves even against the wintery landscape. “And what are you doing, miss?” He looks past her, as though expecting her parents – or some sort of guardian – to emerge from the skeletal trees behind her at any moment. “I don’t suppose you’re out here alone?”
He hopes not. Winter can be cold, and it can be cruel – and so can people. (It was not, he thinks, so very long when Delumine, soft and scholarly though it may be, was struck by a series of murders, but, of course, he does not tell the girl that.)
Perhaps, he thinks, she is simply lost. He is sure that he can help her find her way, if she is.
@
"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
