I'LL TAKE IT, THE TREE SEEMS TO SAY
a new, slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm.
Strictly speaking – he smells the tea before he notices the man who is carrying it. The revelation of Andras is soon to follow, however. Septimus raises his head, and he tosses the warden a lopsided, closed-lip smile as he approaches, the wind stirring his dark curls. He doesn’t put down his notebook, however, or the quill floating precariously alongside it, dripping ink. (A dollop of it falls off the tip and lands like dew on the leaf of the plant below. Septimus quickly dips it back into the pot, and holds both suspended alongside him; no use in wasting ink. It’s rather expensive.)
He has barely had time to look up when Andras speaks. He probably should have noticed him sooner, but Septimus has always been quick to get engrossed in his work. (It was far less problematic when he still had his magic, but that is beside the point.) This is unexpected, Andras says, and he can’t help but agree. He doesn’t know him particularly well, and he hasn’t seen him in some time.
He knows that he is the warden, now. He knows that certain, awful things have happened in Delumine in his absence, though he is somewhat remiss on the details. (Something about poaching, which he was present for, and something about murders, which he was decidedly not.) He might feel bad about his absence, but Septimus is- so old that he stopped counting centuries (or, more likely, a millennium or two) ago. Mortal life is difficult, and stressful, and fleeting, and so much of significance can happen during what is to Septimus a blink.
“It is, isn’t it?” When he throws him a grin, this time, it is all sharp, canine teeth. “I feel like I haven’t spent nearly enough time in Delumine…” The Dawn Court is beautiful. It really is. Septimus has just been intent on finding his magic, and his immortality, all those fundamental bits of himself that were scattered like smoke on the wind when he arrived in Novus, so he hasn’t stayed in any one place for long, in spite of his loose affiliation with the kingdom of the rising sun. He does like it here, though. If he could stay still – and he knows that he can’t (the most that he has managed is a few centuries) -, he wouldn’t mind to settle somewhere like this.
That said – Septimus is not planning to settle any time soon. Andras takes another long drink of his tea, and then he tucks the mug into his wing in a way that strikes Septimus as precarious. (But, then, he always has his satchels; he has never had to use his wings for storage, and he would likely be clumsy if he tried.) Are you looking for anything in particular?
Septimus is quick – and eager – to answer. “Something like that. I’m trying to catalog all of the flora that grows in Delumine during the winter.” He inclines his head, the glass-blown trinkets strewn across his antlers clinking rhythmically – like chimes, almost – as he does. “Did anything in particular bring you out so early?”
He wonders. He really does. It is cold, this time of the morning, especially in the winter – inhospitable. He barely ever sees a soul.
He has been here two years, mostly rootless. He supposes that it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to get to know some of the other inhabitants a bit better – and the best way to do that is with questions.
@Andras || he's Old, actually: the post
"Speech!"
a new, slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm.
Strictly speaking – he smells the tea before he notices the man who is carrying it. The revelation of Andras is soon to follow, however. Septimus raises his head, and he tosses the warden a lopsided, closed-lip smile as he approaches, the wind stirring his dark curls. He doesn’t put down his notebook, however, or the quill floating precariously alongside it, dripping ink. (A dollop of it falls off the tip and lands like dew on the leaf of the plant below. Septimus quickly dips it back into the pot, and holds both suspended alongside him; no use in wasting ink. It’s rather expensive.)
He has barely had time to look up when Andras speaks. He probably should have noticed him sooner, but Septimus has always been quick to get engrossed in his work. (It was far less problematic when he still had his magic, but that is beside the point.) This is unexpected, Andras says, and he can’t help but agree. He doesn’t know him particularly well, and he hasn’t seen him in some time.
He knows that he is the warden, now. He knows that certain, awful things have happened in Delumine in his absence, though he is somewhat remiss on the details. (Something about poaching, which he was present for, and something about murders, which he was decidedly not.) He might feel bad about his absence, but Septimus is- so old that he stopped counting centuries (or, more likely, a millennium or two) ago. Mortal life is difficult, and stressful, and fleeting, and so much of significance can happen during what is to Septimus a blink.
“It is, isn’t it?” When he throws him a grin, this time, it is all sharp, canine teeth. “I feel like I haven’t spent nearly enough time in Delumine…” The Dawn Court is beautiful. It really is. Septimus has just been intent on finding his magic, and his immortality, all those fundamental bits of himself that were scattered like smoke on the wind when he arrived in Novus, so he hasn’t stayed in any one place for long, in spite of his loose affiliation with the kingdom of the rising sun. He does like it here, though. If he could stay still – and he knows that he can’t (the most that he has managed is a few centuries) -, he wouldn’t mind to settle somewhere like this.
That said – Septimus is not planning to settle any time soon. Andras takes another long drink of his tea, and then he tucks the mug into his wing in a way that strikes Septimus as precarious. (But, then, he always has his satchels; he has never had to use his wings for storage, and he would likely be clumsy if he tried.) Are you looking for anything in particular?
Septimus is quick – and eager – to answer. “Something like that. I’m trying to catalog all of the flora that grows in Delumine during the winter.” He inclines his head, the glass-blown trinkets strewn across his antlers clinking rhythmically – like chimes, almost – as he does. “Did anything in particular bring you out so early?”
He wonders. He really does. It is cold, this time of the morning, especially in the winter – inhospitable. He barely ever sees a soul.
He has been here two years, mostly rootless. He supposes that it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to get to know some of the other inhabitants a bit better – and the best way to do that is with questions.
@
"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
