THIS MOUNTAIN'S POWER / LIES IN THE OPEN SECRET OF ITS REMOTE / APPARITION, SILVERY LOW-RELIEF / COMING AND GOING MOONLIKE AT THE HORIZON / ALWAYS LOFTIER, LONELIER THAN I EVER REMEMBER
❃
He drifts through the bonfire-strewn field, each long stride halfway thoughtless.
The sweet smell of burning wood and cinnamon is in his mouth – on his tongue just as much as it is up his nose. He slips between a blur of bright-burning fires and colorful smoke, navigating the festival without lingering on any one part of it for very long. Septimus pauses here and there to watch the embers and ash swirling into the smog-covered night sky, but never for long. He feels restless, somehow, and strangely discontent; more mortal than usual, so to speak. He catches sight of children darting between the trees, laughing like shadows, and something inside of him seems to knot in a way that he doesn’t anticipate.
(He wonders if this mortality of his isn’t beginning to have unintended consequences. He has never longed for company in quite the way that he seems to lately, never for connections, never to linger for more than a breath.)
Septimus is passing by a fire when he catches sight of a woman stirring to awareness in the grass. (He is more amazed that anything that she could sleep amidst all of the sound and the light.)
He thinks that he might have seen her before, in glances – a woman with tiger stripes and a twin pair of curved swords – like scimitars - for horns. He considers, for a moment, that he might leave her be, but then he thinks better of it. He has been meaning to get to know the Dawn Court and its denizens better, to not neglect his social life as terribly as he has for the past year, and, besides, a festival is as good a time as any to get to know other people. (In fact, it is practically blasphemous to spend the evening alone.) With that in mind, he readjusts his glasses on his brow, a gleam in his bright green eyes, and he drifts through the crowd until he settles a meter or so from where the mare, groggily, has stumbled up to her hooves.
As he draws close, he notes the silver spirals that tip each of her horns, and her earring full of stars; and, more than that, he notes the way that her eyes blink out from the dark of her as bright, sleep-muddled blue, as clear and deep as a quiet sea.
He offers a dip of his head, the green jewels dangling from his antlers clicking like a windchime. “Oh, hello there,” Septimus says, a friendly grin settling across his features. (He takes care not to pull his lips back far enough to show the sharp points of his canines; it is more polite that way.) “Enjoying the festival?”
(It’s as good of a way, he thinks, to break the ice as any.)
@Meira || same here <3 || denise levertov, "open secret"
Speech
❃
He drifts through the bonfire-strewn field, each long stride halfway thoughtless.
The sweet smell of burning wood and cinnamon is in his mouth – on his tongue just as much as it is up his nose. He slips between a blur of bright-burning fires and colorful smoke, navigating the festival without lingering on any one part of it for very long. Septimus pauses here and there to watch the embers and ash swirling into the smog-covered night sky, but never for long. He feels restless, somehow, and strangely discontent; more mortal than usual, so to speak. He catches sight of children darting between the trees, laughing like shadows, and something inside of him seems to knot in a way that he doesn’t anticipate.
(He wonders if this mortality of his isn’t beginning to have unintended consequences. He has never longed for company in quite the way that he seems to lately, never for connections, never to linger for more than a breath.)
Septimus is passing by a fire when he catches sight of a woman stirring to awareness in the grass. (He is more amazed that anything that she could sleep amidst all of the sound and the light.)
He thinks that he might have seen her before, in glances – a woman with tiger stripes and a twin pair of curved swords – like scimitars - for horns. He considers, for a moment, that he might leave her be, but then he thinks better of it. He has been meaning to get to know the Dawn Court and its denizens better, to not neglect his social life as terribly as he has for the past year, and, besides, a festival is as good a time as any to get to know other people. (In fact, it is practically blasphemous to spend the evening alone.) With that in mind, he readjusts his glasses on his brow, a gleam in his bright green eyes, and he drifts through the crowd until he settles a meter or so from where the mare, groggily, has stumbled up to her hooves.
As he draws close, he notes the silver spirals that tip each of her horns, and her earring full of stars; and, more than that, he notes the way that her eyes blink out from the dark of her as bright, sleep-muddled blue, as clear and deep as a quiet sea.
He offers a dip of his head, the green jewels dangling from his antlers clicking like a windchime. “Oh, hello there,” Septimus says, a friendly grin settling across his features. (He takes care not to pull his lips back far enough to show the sharp points of his canines; it is more polite that way.) “Enjoying the festival?”
(It’s as good of a way, he thinks, to break the ice as any.)
@Meira || same here <3 || denise levertov, "open secret"
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
