FROM THE LANDSCAPE: A SENSE OF SCALE
from the dead: a sense of scale
The girl tells him, with a sort of bluntness that might have been insulting were she fully-grown (but is made charming by the fact that she is a child), that she might have rather liked him to be a deer instead; she asks, then if he wishes that he were a deer, with an inflection that suggests it is a perfectly normal question. He swallows down a laugh. “Do I wish I were a deer?” A smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “I rather like being what I am – we wouldn’t be talking if I were a deer, after all.” She goes on to tell him that she has never seen a deer before, only pictures of ones in her storybooks. (He finds the prospect of it almost depressing, but at least it means that the girl has books to read, and stories.) “You’ve never seen one?” Or, more likely, a few at a time, considering that the white-tails that he often spotted among the trees and the underbrush of the forest were herd animals. “They’re common here, even this time of year.” Not to mention easier to see, given the stark white of snow and loss of much of their protective cover.
When he twists his head, gemstones clinking, her eyes catch on the stones dangling from his antlers, and she remarks that they are pretty. “Would you like one?” He pulls one of the green gemstones off the hook of his antlers with practiced ease, and he offers it to her with a faint smile. “I have more than enough.” He certainly does (and is constantly forced to buy more, with how easily he loses them while working), and the only ones that really matter are the earrings.
The girl looks at his map, and she tells him promptly that it needs more paintings. “You might be right.” There are all kinds of maps that are prettier, after all – ones with ornate vines and metal leaves painted around their borders, with monsters poking their heads out of the waves and unscaled depictions of landmarks. His are hardly so creative; he is plenty good at more detailed drawings, after thousands of years of sketching on-the-go, but he’s never bothered to detail his maps. When she offers to paint for him, a grin twitches at the corners of his lips, and he says, “When I’m done with it, I think I’d rather like that. Perhaps you could paint a nice border?” He doesn’t know if she is any good at it, but he doesn’t think that matters; at any rate, it would certainly make his sketchy maps look a bit more formal.
She informs him, with the sort of self-assuredness that could only come from youthful naivete, that he supposes wrong; so she is out here alone. (What are her parents thinking?) She tilts her dainty head at him, blue-eyed gaze inquisitive, and asks him if he would like to go for a walk with her, proposing that he finish his maps while she looks for tulips in the snow. He thinks that it is likely still a bit early for tulips, but she might get lucky – and, even if she doesn’t, he has a feeling that he can find something else to interest her.
(It would, after all, be no good to leave her out in the woods alone in the midst of winter.)
“Alright,” Septimus says, though he is not so sure that he should be encouraging the easy way that she proposes a walk with a stranger. “Perhaps we’ll see a deer, while we walk.” He’d seen their cloven hoof-prints in the snow, earlier this morning, and he still remembers where they were; if he guides her that way, they might just happen to see them.
With that in mind, Septimus starts off towards the place where he saw the tracks, tucking his notebooks back into his satchel (he can pull them back out if he needs to mark anything); he keeps his strides slow and short, so that she can easily keep pace with him.
@Elliana || <3 <3 <3/br>
"Speech!"
from the dead: a sense of scale
The girl tells him, with a sort of bluntness that might have been insulting were she fully-grown (but is made charming by the fact that she is a child), that she might have rather liked him to be a deer instead; she asks, then if he wishes that he were a deer, with an inflection that suggests it is a perfectly normal question. He swallows down a laugh. “Do I wish I were a deer?” A smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “I rather like being what I am – we wouldn’t be talking if I were a deer, after all.” She goes on to tell him that she has never seen a deer before, only pictures of ones in her storybooks. (He finds the prospect of it almost depressing, but at least it means that the girl has books to read, and stories.) “You’ve never seen one?” Or, more likely, a few at a time, considering that the white-tails that he often spotted among the trees and the underbrush of the forest were herd animals. “They’re common here, even this time of year.” Not to mention easier to see, given the stark white of snow and loss of much of their protective cover.
When he twists his head, gemstones clinking, her eyes catch on the stones dangling from his antlers, and she remarks that they are pretty. “Would you like one?” He pulls one of the green gemstones off the hook of his antlers with practiced ease, and he offers it to her with a faint smile. “I have more than enough.” He certainly does (and is constantly forced to buy more, with how easily he loses them while working), and the only ones that really matter are the earrings.
The girl looks at his map, and she tells him promptly that it needs more paintings. “You might be right.” There are all kinds of maps that are prettier, after all – ones with ornate vines and metal leaves painted around their borders, with monsters poking their heads out of the waves and unscaled depictions of landmarks. His are hardly so creative; he is plenty good at more detailed drawings, after thousands of years of sketching on-the-go, but he’s never bothered to detail his maps. When she offers to paint for him, a grin twitches at the corners of his lips, and he says, “When I’m done with it, I think I’d rather like that. Perhaps you could paint a nice border?” He doesn’t know if she is any good at it, but he doesn’t think that matters; at any rate, it would certainly make his sketchy maps look a bit more formal.
She informs him, with the sort of self-assuredness that could only come from youthful naivete, that he supposes wrong; so she is out here alone. (What are her parents thinking?) She tilts her dainty head at him, blue-eyed gaze inquisitive, and asks him if he would like to go for a walk with her, proposing that he finish his maps while she looks for tulips in the snow. He thinks that it is likely still a bit early for tulips, but she might get lucky – and, even if she doesn’t, he has a feeling that he can find something else to interest her.
(It would, after all, be no good to leave her out in the woods alone in the midst of winter.)
“Alright,” Septimus says, though he is not so sure that he should be encouraging the easy way that she proposes a walk with a stranger. “Perhaps we’ll see a deer, while we walk.” He’d seen their cloven hoof-prints in the snow, earlier this morning, and he still remembers where they were; if he guides her that way, they might just happen to see them.
With that in mind, Septimus starts off towards the place where he saw the tracks, tucking his notebooks back into his satchel (he can pull them back out if he needs to mark anything); he keeps his strides slow and short, so that she can easily keep pace with him.
@
"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
