NOW RUSHED INTO THIS BRIGHTNESS
as if by a shutter / that, once opened, can never be closed
If the man is irritated by his sudden appearance, Septimus does not appear to notice, though he makes note of the fact that his response is more lukewarm than anything else. Everything, he says, and he gives a short laugh that is delighted, rather than mocking. He does not say anything else for an inordinately long moment, and Septimus readjusts his glasses on his nose with one chocolate-brown wing, the gesture somewhat awkward, space-filling.
(It doesn’t once cross his mind to leave, however.)
“A rather tall order,” he remarks, finally, more than a hint of amusement coloring his jovial tone. He isn’t sure if the man’s next works it’s the result of his remark or the uncomfortable silence weighing on the him, too, but, at his question, Septimus’s expression turns rather thoughtful. A section he prefers? How could he? Novus is full of new knowledge and strange magic, regardless of whether or not this is the largest (or most developed) library he has ever encountered. (Septimus has stumbled across lands with electronics and buildings that he doubts most people in Novus could ever imagine – but that, he supposes, is far from the point.) In that regard, the sections dedicated to the folktales and history of the continent are the most interesting to him, the tomes of never-before-seen philosophy and religion, the works of fiction and poetry that he’s never seen before in any other land. Those are the newest, and, in that way, they are certainly the most appealing to him. However, this land is full of other, strange things too. Most of the plants and animals are familiar, but others are certainly not, and the magic, in certain places, is incredibly unusual and volatile. He still remembers his utter fascination with the island, the first time he encountered it. In the years that have followed, it has not stopped surprising him.
And – if it comes to things that Septimus simply likes the most, he’d lean towards the natural world, rather than literature and art, much as he likes knowledge in most any form. He tilts his head at the man, considering, and then says, “I’m…something of an ecologist. I think that I enjoy the sections dedicated to biology, and botany, and sometimes even geology the most – oh, and the maps of Novus, and the books on magic...I specialize in environments that are heavily enchanted.” After all, they are what he is the most familiar with; he is an enchanted creature from an enchanted wood, and, though he cannot quite connect with that half of himself like he feels that he should, he has dedicated most all of his life to trying to understand it regardless. The alternative, he supposes, would have been focusing his energy on his more mortal half, and he has no particular desire to do that. (His father was mortal, but he was no real family; in fact, before he left his home, he had never even met another mortal creature.) Without his magic and his immortality, he certainly feels mortal, but he also feels that something inside of him lies dormant, like flowers buried beneath a carpet of winter snow. The sensation is more unpleasant – itching, he might say – than anything, a sense of wrongness like a scab begging to be picked off.
He appreciates the mundane for what it is, for what it is worth. It just doesn’t enchant him like the enchanted - he doesn’t long for it in the same way that he longs for that part of him. (His interest in wholeness has never fallen on his mortal half, as much time as he has spent around mortals; perhaps it has always been an issue of time. Lately, as he watches his own form age, as he watches the season pass and finds that they mean something to him, personally, and not just in the abstract – he has been inquisitive enough about the melancholy of it to humor his own mortality. Never enough to let it take him entirely, however.)
But he is here, in the library – and there is the man. He has very little time to contemplate his own interests if he’d like to keep their conversation moving.
“And you,” he says, tilting his head in a gesture of practiced, polite curiosity, “do you have a section that you prefer?” Beyond everything, he nearly says, but holds the urge in.
@Ceylon || <3 <3 <3
"Speech!"
as if by a shutter / that, once opened, can never be closed
If the man is irritated by his sudden appearance, Septimus does not appear to notice, though he makes note of the fact that his response is more lukewarm than anything else. Everything, he says, and he gives a short laugh that is delighted, rather than mocking. He does not say anything else for an inordinately long moment, and Septimus readjusts his glasses on his nose with one chocolate-brown wing, the gesture somewhat awkward, space-filling.
(It doesn’t once cross his mind to leave, however.)
“A rather tall order,” he remarks, finally, more than a hint of amusement coloring his jovial tone. He isn’t sure if the man’s next works it’s the result of his remark or the uncomfortable silence weighing on the him, too, but, at his question, Septimus’s expression turns rather thoughtful. A section he prefers? How could he? Novus is full of new knowledge and strange magic, regardless of whether or not this is the largest (or most developed) library he has ever encountered. (Septimus has stumbled across lands with electronics and buildings that he doubts most people in Novus could ever imagine – but that, he supposes, is far from the point.) In that regard, the sections dedicated to the folktales and history of the continent are the most interesting to him, the tomes of never-before-seen philosophy and religion, the works of fiction and poetry that he’s never seen before in any other land. Those are the newest, and, in that way, they are certainly the most appealing to him. However, this land is full of other, strange things too. Most of the plants and animals are familiar, but others are certainly not, and the magic, in certain places, is incredibly unusual and volatile. He still remembers his utter fascination with the island, the first time he encountered it. In the years that have followed, it has not stopped surprising him.
And – if it comes to things that Septimus simply likes the most, he’d lean towards the natural world, rather than literature and art, much as he likes knowledge in most any form. He tilts his head at the man, considering, and then says, “I’m…something of an ecologist. I think that I enjoy the sections dedicated to biology, and botany, and sometimes even geology the most – oh, and the maps of Novus, and the books on magic...I specialize in environments that are heavily enchanted.” After all, they are what he is the most familiar with; he is an enchanted creature from an enchanted wood, and, though he cannot quite connect with that half of himself like he feels that he should, he has dedicated most all of his life to trying to understand it regardless. The alternative, he supposes, would have been focusing his energy on his more mortal half, and he has no particular desire to do that. (His father was mortal, but he was no real family; in fact, before he left his home, he had never even met another mortal creature.) Without his magic and his immortality, he certainly feels mortal, but he also feels that something inside of him lies dormant, like flowers buried beneath a carpet of winter snow. The sensation is more unpleasant – itching, he might say – than anything, a sense of wrongness like a scab begging to be picked off.
He appreciates the mundane for what it is, for what it is worth. It just doesn’t enchant him like the enchanted - he doesn’t long for it in the same way that he longs for that part of him. (His interest in wholeness has never fallen on his mortal half, as much time as he has spent around mortals; perhaps it has always been an issue of time. Lately, as he watches his own form age, as he watches the season pass and finds that they mean something to him, personally, and not just in the abstract – he has been inquisitive enough about the melancholy of it to humor his own mortality. Never enough to let it take him entirely, however.)
But he is here, in the library – and there is the man. He has very little time to contemplate his own interests if he’d like to keep their conversation moving.
“And you,” he says, tilting his head in a gesture of practiced, polite curiosity, “do you have a section that you prefer?” Beyond everything, he nearly says, but holds the urge in.
@Ceylon || <3 <3 <3
"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
