TO ASK YOU TO TELL ME A STORY
about the sweet grass you planted - and tell it again / or again -
Septimus is sketching.
He’d noticed the bison before, of course, and there is technically nothing that distinguishes them from bison elsewhere (insofar as he has noticed, anyways), but, after finishing his map of Viride at the crack of Dawn this morning, he stretched out his wings and made for the Plains as quickly as possible. He needed a break, he thought, from minutia. He’d dedicated months to small things – plants and brown-feathered winter birds and every small detail of the forest landscape, or the riverbed, or the flowerless winter fields – and, as much as he enjoyed studying them, picking them apart, carefully attempting to determine species (and he’d found several cryptid species, which were a nightmare)… he felt like observing something larger for a while.
It hadn’t taken long to find a herd of bison. He’d settled down in a patch of grass when the morning air was still cold and crisp, tucked his wings in at his sides, and fluffed out their feathers like a blanket; and then he’d pulled out one of his emptier notebooks and a bit of charcoal, and he’d begun to sketch. Fortunately, the bison did not seem especially active today, so he was able to remain in place for several hours, carefully outlining each spiraling curl of their fur with elaborate detail.
Hours later – when it is finally afternoon – he is still there. It is still winter, and therefore cold, but, with the sun high in the sky, the temperature has grown far more tolerable. (Flying from Delumine to the plains, he was fairly sure that he’d gotten ice in his coat.) Septimus finishes a sketch, and, abruptly, decides to stretch, and perhaps look for another vantage point to study his subjects. He stands, wings outstretching, and shakes his head, sending the jewels on his antlers clacking against the bone.
With that, he starts to move towards the one other interesting thing in plain view of him – one great, old tree, sticking up from the prairie. As he moves closer and closer, moving quickly to heat himself up. He isn’t quite expecting to run into someone else on the Plains, not during this time of winter, but, as he approaches the tree, he realizes abruptly that he is not alone.
The man who is sheltered alongside the tree is, he judges, just a bit shorter than him, disregarding the antlers and the wings. His eyes are a bright, crisp shade of blue, and his coat is a mingling of snow white and seal brown; his lean frame hints at an active lifestyle. Septimus flashes him a grin, though he takes care not to let his lips curl up high enough to reveal his wolfish teeth. He’s been alive long enough to know that they tend to unsettle people.
“Oh,” Septimus says, his tone as chipper as ever, “hello there.”
(He’s rather grateful for the break that company provides.)
@Brenn || <3 || natalie diaz, "from the desire field"
"Speech!"
about the sweet grass you planted - and tell it again / or again -
Septimus is sketching.
He’d noticed the bison before, of course, and there is technically nothing that distinguishes them from bison elsewhere (insofar as he has noticed, anyways), but, after finishing his map of Viride at the crack of Dawn this morning, he stretched out his wings and made for the Plains as quickly as possible. He needed a break, he thought, from minutia. He’d dedicated months to small things – plants and brown-feathered winter birds and every small detail of the forest landscape, or the riverbed, or the flowerless winter fields – and, as much as he enjoyed studying them, picking them apart, carefully attempting to determine species (and he’d found several cryptid species, which were a nightmare)… he felt like observing something larger for a while.
It hadn’t taken long to find a herd of bison. He’d settled down in a patch of grass when the morning air was still cold and crisp, tucked his wings in at his sides, and fluffed out their feathers like a blanket; and then he’d pulled out one of his emptier notebooks and a bit of charcoal, and he’d begun to sketch. Fortunately, the bison did not seem especially active today, so he was able to remain in place for several hours, carefully outlining each spiraling curl of their fur with elaborate detail.
Hours later – when it is finally afternoon – he is still there. It is still winter, and therefore cold, but, with the sun high in the sky, the temperature has grown far more tolerable. (Flying from Delumine to the plains, he was fairly sure that he’d gotten ice in his coat.) Septimus finishes a sketch, and, abruptly, decides to stretch, and perhaps look for another vantage point to study his subjects. He stands, wings outstretching, and shakes his head, sending the jewels on his antlers clacking against the bone.
With that, he starts to move towards the one other interesting thing in plain view of him – one great, old tree, sticking up from the prairie. As he moves closer and closer, moving quickly to heat himself up. He isn’t quite expecting to run into someone else on the Plains, not during this time of winter, but, as he approaches the tree, he realizes abruptly that he is not alone.
The man who is sheltered alongside the tree is, he judges, just a bit shorter than him, disregarding the antlers and the wings. His eyes are a bright, crisp shade of blue, and his coat is a mingling of snow white and seal brown; his lean frame hints at an active lifestyle. Septimus flashes him a grin, though he takes care not to let his lips curl up high enough to reveal his wolfish teeth. He’s been alive long enough to know that they tend to unsettle people.
“Oh,” Septimus says, his tone as chipper as ever, “hello there.”
(He’s rather grateful for the break that company provides.)
@
"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
