FROM THE LANDSCAPE: A SENSE OF SCALE
from the dead: a sense of scale
If anything, it is the soft and sunny hesitance of her smile that assures him the girl is very much a mortal child. Fae children, or otherlings, or whatever you like to call him (he’s heard his siblings called every which thing, in his travel) are never hesitant about anything at all. They spring through life with all the wild-eyed thoughtlessness of wolves and bears, carnivore teeth and claws bared. I suppose not, she says, and he can’t help but smile back, amused, as it were, by her supposing.
(He wonders what sort of parents she must have, to have developed such a manner of speech.)
The girl settles alongside him, and she looks up with him with large, expectant blue eyes and asks why some deer have antlers and some don’t. “Well,” Septimus says, considering her (he knows the importance of answering questions for children, and treating them very seriously), “Male deer – bucks – grow antlers, but they shed them during certain parts of the year. Female deer – does – almost never grow them at all.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, however, he thinks to issue a correction. “Of course, that can be different in different places. Magic can do all sorts of things to deer, and to almost anything else.” He pauses for a moment, a grin settling across his lips, and adds, “It was very clever of you to notice. Perhaps you have the making of a biologist yourself.”
All science, after all, begins with an observation.
At his offering, she takes the gemstone, tucking it away between her soft, silver-blonde locks of hair. Her eyes dart over the map thoughtfully, and she responds with something like delight to his proposition, asking for reaffirmation and then – the quintessential question of a child, he thinks – what his favorite color is.
“Of course,” he says, resisting the urge to let out a laugh at her enthusiasm, lest she think it mocking. Septimus can appreciate art, and it doesn’t much matter if hers is good or bad – she seems so happy that he’s sure she’ll do a wonderful job with the border of his maps, if he only gives her the chance. “I think that it’s probably green, like early spring. Have you seen a spring yet?” His head tilts, and his eyes dart the length of her frame. She looks too young for it, too small.
(He thinks that she will find her first spring delightful. How often does he wish that he could experience something again, for the very first time? But Septimus is old, far older than he looks, and very few things are new to him any longer. He is trying to teach himself to be content with that.)
He is a bit amused at how easily – and immediately – she begins to give orders. “I will,” he agrees – he intended to regardless. She introduces herself as Elliana, and he responds in kind, “I’m Septimus. It’s nice to meet you, Elliana.” She asks him how they know where to look for deer, which he finds to be a fine question. “Well, we can look for their tracks. Deer leave hoof-prints in the soil, but their hooves aren’t shaped like most horse’s.” He has met a few with cloven hooves, though, mostly unicorns – so he doesn’t want to say that all of them have different types of hooves. Septimus pulls one of his notebooks from his satchel with an easy flourish, and, flipping open the pages to find a drawing of the track of one, deer-cloven hoof, he suspends it in the air in front of her. “If you see anything in the dirt that looks like this, it might lead to a deer – they have cloven hooves. They also paw at the ground, sometimes, so you might see scratches in the dirt, and sometimes they make a sound a bit like…” He trails off, thoughtfully, and finally decides to attempt a mimicry. “…this.” He gives a soft, deerish huff, finding it rather fortunate that he’s had ample time to practice making calls.
(Hopefully they’ll find a few deer – he doesn’t want to disappoint her.)
@Elliana || <3 <3 <3/br>
"Speech!"
from the dead: a sense of scale
If anything, it is the soft and sunny hesitance of her smile that assures him the girl is very much a mortal child. Fae children, or otherlings, or whatever you like to call him (he’s heard his siblings called every which thing, in his travel) are never hesitant about anything at all. They spring through life with all the wild-eyed thoughtlessness of wolves and bears, carnivore teeth and claws bared. I suppose not, she says, and he can’t help but smile back, amused, as it were, by her supposing.
(He wonders what sort of parents she must have, to have developed such a manner of speech.)
The girl settles alongside him, and she looks up with him with large, expectant blue eyes and asks why some deer have antlers and some don’t. “Well,” Septimus says, considering her (he knows the importance of answering questions for children, and treating them very seriously), “Male deer – bucks – grow antlers, but they shed them during certain parts of the year. Female deer – does – almost never grow them at all.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, however, he thinks to issue a correction. “Of course, that can be different in different places. Magic can do all sorts of things to deer, and to almost anything else.” He pauses for a moment, a grin settling across his lips, and adds, “It was very clever of you to notice. Perhaps you have the making of a biologist yourself.”
All science, after all, begins with an observation.
At his offering, she takes the gemstone, tucking it away between her soft, silver-blonde locks of hair. Her eyes dart over the map thoughtfully, and she responds with something like delight to his proposition, asking for reaffirmation and then – the quintessential question of a child, he thinks – what his favorite color is.
“Of course,” he says, resisting the urge to let out a laugh at her enthusiasm, lest she think it mocking. Septimus can appreciate art, and it doesn’t much matter if hers is good or bad – she seems so happy that he’s sure she’ll do a wonderful job with the border of his maps, if he only gives her the chance. “I think that it’s probably green, like early spring. Have you seen a spring yet?” His head tilts, and his eyes dart the length of her frame. She looks too young for it, too small.
(He thinks that she will find her first spring delightful. How often does he wish that he could experience something again, for the very first time? But Septimus is old, far older than he looks, and very few things are new to him any longer. He is trying to teach himself to be content with that.)
He is a bit amused at how easily – and immediately – she begins to give orders. “I will,” he agrees – he intended to regardless. She introduces herself as Elliana, and he responds in kind, “I’m Septimus. It’s nice to meet you, Elliana.” She asks him how they know where to look for deer, which he finds to be a fine question. “Well, we can look for their tracks. Deer leave hoof-prints in the soil, but their hooves aren’t shaped like most horse’s.” He has met a few with cloven hooves, though, mostly unicorns – so he doesn’t want to say that all of them have different types of hooves. Septimus pulls one of his notebooks from his satchel with an easy flourish, and, flipping open the pages to find a drawing of the track of one, deer-cloven hoof, he suspends it in the air in front of her. “If you see anything in the dirt that looks like this, it might lead to a deer – they have cloven hooves. They also paw at the ground, sometimes, so you might see scratches in the dirt, and sometimes they make a sound a bit like…” He trails off, thoughtfully, and finally decides to attempt a mimicry. “…this.” He gives a soft, deerish huff, finding it rather fortunate that he’s had ample time to practice making calls.
(Hopefully they’ll find a few deer – he doesn’t want to disappoint her.)
@
"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
