YOUR LIPS ARE THIN BUT MINE ARE OPEN-
When something passes through the curtain of hanging moss, Septimus half-expects a wildcat or a monster, or at least some stranger. God only knows how many people live on Novus, even if most of them didn’t make it to the island – and he hasn’t been here nearly long enough for the thought of encountering a familiar face to so much as cross his mind.
But there he is.
Elchanan is still striking, with his pale golden coat and bluebird wings, and those deep, dark eyes, like murky forest pools or dead autumn leaves – both descriptors flattery, coming from Septimus. Cast against the dark, greying green of the moss carpet, his pallor is even more striking than usual, a sharp and metallic contrast to the rich, earthy tones of the woods. Somehow, though he didn’t take the delicate man for the outdoorsy type, this island seems to suit him, and, in spite of his unreadable expression (Is that indignation? Anger? He hadn’t lingered long enough to discover Elchanan’s reaction to his stolen kiss.), Septimus can’t shake the feeling that this place, with its wild magic and indeterminate nature, suits him.
Septimus.
The sound of his name sends a delightful chill running up his spine. He had said they’d meet again, hadn’t he? (He didn’t imagine that it would be under these circumstances.)
He lingers, stock-still in place on the bank, making no effort to bridge the distance between them. It isn’t much, but he notes that it is enough to avoid any kind of touch, and he isn’t entirely sure what to do with that revelation. It doesn’t linger; he shakes the thought like a tree shakes its leaves in the chill of autumn, dismissing observation in the name of conversation. “Elchanan,” he says, unable to resist the faint smile that stretches across his lips when he says his name. It still feels strange on his tongue, though not unpleasant. (He wonders, still, where he is from, but he does not think that he will tell him – not now, not yet, and maybe not ever.) “Fancy meeting you here. Are you searching for the relic, too?” Or the god, he thinks, which honestly interests Septimus more than any relic, but he doesn’t say it – he has no way of knowing what Elchanan believes, and he isn’t sure if he believes in Novus’s gods yet himself.
Even when he has finished speaking, his eyes – piercing and vivid green, sharp as the verdant canopy of leaves that hangs heavy as a veil above their heads – remain trained on Elchanan’s, something ambiguous in their emerald depths – save for the intensity of his stare.
@Elchanan || <3
"Speech!"
When something passes through the curtain of hanging moss, Septimus half-expects a wildcat or a monster, or at least some stranger. God only knows how many people live on Novus, even if most of them didn’t make it to the island – and he hasn’t been here nearly long enough for the thought of encountering a familiar face to so much as cross his mind.
But there he is.
Elchanan is still striking, with his pale golden coat and bluebird wings, and those deep, dark eyes, like murky forest pools or dead autumn leaves – both descriptors flattery, coming from Septimus. Cast against the dark, greying green of the moss carpet, his pallor is even more striking than usual, a sharp and metallic contrast to the rich, earthy tones of the woods. Somehow, though he didn’t take the delicate man for the outdoorsy type, this island seems to suit him, and, in spite of his unreadable expression (Is that indignation? Anger? He hadn’t lingered long enough to discover Elchanan’s reaction to his stolen kiss.), Septimus can’t shake the feeling that this place, with its wild magic and indeterminate nature, suits him.
Septimus.
The sound of his name sends a delightful chill running up his spine. He had said they’d meet again, hadn’t he? (He didn’t imagine that it would be under these circumstances.)
He lingers, stock-still in place on the bank, making no effort to bridge the distance between them. It isn’t much, but he notes that it is enough to avoid any kind of touch, and he isn’t entirely sure what to do with that revelation. It doesn’t linger; he shakes the thought like a tree shakes its leaves in the chill of autumn, dismissing observation in the name of conversation. “Elchanan,” he says, unable to resist the faint smile that stretches across his lips when he says his name. It still feels strange on his tongue, though not unpleasant. (He wonders, still, where he is from, but he does not think that he will tell him – not now, not yet, and maybe not ever.) “Fancy meeting you here. Are you searching for the relic, too?” Or the god, he thinks, which honestly interests Septimus more than any relic, but he doesn’t say it – he has no way of knowing what Elchanan believes, and he isn’t sure if he believes in Novus’s gods yet himself.
Even when he has finished speaking, his eyes – piercing and vivid green, sharp as the verdant canopy of leaves that hangs heavy as a veil above their heads – remain trained on Elchanan’s, something ambiguous in their emerald depths – save for the intensity of his stare.
@Elchanan || <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
