#septimus
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Septimus literally forgor how to interact with people who aren’t ontologically evil. this is a thing that happened Extremely blatantly. he hands a normal* woman a ring made out of human** remains and is baffled when shes upset by this. he’s so on board w everything on the ship he’s half way to having the canonical xiii autism stare *normaler than him, which is alarming given shes a a navigator **astertes remains count as human for this purpose i think
E. H. Shepard (1879-1976) Racing the Cabs (1957) Source “This energetic illustration features in chapter 10 of Shepard’s memoir Drawn from Memory,1957, p.178. It depicts the artist as a young boy riding his beloved tricycle, Septimus , engaging in a race with a horse-drawn cab - a favourite past-time of his whilst at home from school on a Saturday morning.”
The color of septimus’s bionic eye: Soul Hunter: it’s purple Throne of lies: it’s red Blood Reaver: it’s blue MF WHICH IS IT??
@indeeperwater Continued from here . Lifting his head up a bit, he turned it, looking at Aric, quirking an eyebrow at the other males comment. Septimus let out a breath then, looking away from Aric once more. Thinking to himself on what was said. He sometimes played along with everything, just to keep the peace. But never did he buy too much into the politics of it all. His family was not the main branch. Just one of the branches, and he was even more of a branch. Perhaps just a twig, even. The son of Colden Murray, who was the once long lost brother of the newest head of the family. His uncle Drakon, with the help of his aunt Idunn. All triplets, who were certainly not identical. “Only when it benefits me.” He then answered bringing his cigarette back up to his lips, taking a drag off it, holding the smoke inside of him before slowly letting it out as he exhaled. Here lately there was no benefit in it. There was not advantage to take in playing the game. There was just pettiness and Septimus really had lost interest in the arguments going around. Turning then, he faced Aric, holding the cigarette out from over the porch, tapping the ash off. Grinning, he nodded his head “Oh, but Uncle Drakon is not a big fan of those that piss him off. He likes to atomize them, into little bits.” Which was a very terrifying ability to be in the presence of, especially when you turned into a dog spirit, in comparison. Septimus sighed, with a bit of a huff and glanced up “We all have our roles, you see. Uncle Drakon really wants us to follow and keep our family in good standing. My role, it’s to not be seen or heard. My twin brother, he’s asked to have no less of him. Basically, my uncle hates my dad, and is mad at my mom.” He wasn’t wanting to get into the taboo surrounding his birth, of course. As it was quite disgusting, and most people were not open minded or mature enough to be told these things. Not that he figured Aric wasn’t, but it was better to not go into detail about it, regardless. As Aric had spoke on, he lift his head up at the other then glanced away, grinning “Now that’s not at all what’s happening.” Pointing at the other he took a few steps forward “I’m just enjoying the view, on a relaxing day, right now.” Pausing, he held the grin on his lips, though his eyes narrowed “Okay. Some real food does sound better than enjoying this sweet tea in the summer of Louisiana vibe we got going. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
try smiling at them. see what happens.
“I’M KIND BECAUSE I CHOOSE TO BE” PROMPTS Septimus leaned back in a chair, kicking his feet up onto the porch rails, and sighed as he let out a puff of smoke slowly from between his lips. The sun was still a little ways off from setting, it was not quite hot enough out to be too warm. Still holding the chilling bite of winter, every so often throughout the days, “Huh.” Wondering what his other siblings were up to, the Murray’s were a large family. They had been a prominent family in a medical supply family for quite some time. His own father, Colden, was lost for a long time until he wasn’t. Now all he and his siblings did most of the day was be prospective nepo babies. Still considering the other words he lifted the can of soda he was drinking from and took a gulp out of it. Before swallowing “Why do I have to, though?” Leaning up then, he sets the can back down onto a table at his side, his feet no on the poor floor. Pushing himself up he walked toward the railing and leaned over, peaking around the vastness of his family estate, quirking an eyebrow “Why am I the one that has to do the work?” Looking back at them, he sighed “It’s fucking annoying, you know. Not every smile works as a cure-all. Sometimes a fuck just needs punched in the face, you know? Maybe that’ll correct his aura or whatever.” He had never been a very positive person. Growing up in abstract isolation while everyone around him was free to come and go as often and as able as they liked. Septimus was often confined to the house, because of his back and needing a wheelchair. Though he could walk, obviously, he had to do so on limited time. There was no walking across the open field of his family’s estate. He had to stay near the house. If they were out, he couldn’t walk around for hours on end and needed to stop to rest. Bringing the cigarette to his lips he narrowed his eyes “I’m not trying to impress people though. They want to be like that because they think they can control me, well, then fuck them.” Septimus muttered coldly with the cigarette between his lips.
Only the dead can speak In Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway , death functions as the ultimate act of communication in a realm of silence where spoken language has failed. Through Septimus Smith’s suicide, Woolf suggests death is the definitive form of language capable of breaking through the modernist crisis of human connection. In the early twentieth century, modernist literature was shaped by a profound crisis of intimacy and representation of the self. Especially in post-war London, the rapid and continuous shift in urban life created an emotional distance between people, who found themselves overwhelmed by the external and internal stimuli of their environment. As Baldev Prasad puts it, “modern life, with its rigid institutions, mechanization, and emphasis on productivity, further alienates individuals by suppressing emotional expression and individuality.” Within this context, and in response to the established modernist crisis of human connection, Virginia Woolf perfected a narrative technique that favoured inner thoughts and a subjective perception of life over external actions and circumstances. In one of her essays, Woolf says, “Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness.” As a result, she was able to describe the complexity of human relations and human consciousness in Mrs Dalloway . We can experience each character’s innermost thoughts and desires through her masterful use of the stream-of-consciousness technique, because otherwise the pages would be blank, as nobody seems to be in the mood for talking or having any kind of verbal interaction in this novel. This very technique evidences how language has failed society, resulting in isolated characters with deficient socialisation. Dialogue is extremely rare; in its place, we get silent musing, pondering, consideration, and reflection. We live inside the characters’ fragmented minds and get to see how little of it gets to be expressed. Richard fails to say “I love you” to Clarissa; Peter and Clarissa share a somewhat telepathic communication; Septimus cannot make himself understood; and both Dr Holmes and Dr Bradshaw miss every given opportunity to articulate Septimus’s condition. Language falls short in the act of communication, leading to the collapse of verbal exchange. Septimus serves as the personification of this fractured semiotics. As the novel progresses, our look into his mind is more and more tainted with a sense of anxiety and urgency. We, as readers, become silent witnesses to his mounting deterioration. Woolf not only makes us complicit but also impotent in this man’s demise. We do have the language Dr Holmes doesn’t. We can see what this so-called nonsense is, but are unable to name it for them. For obvious reasons, we cannot jump into the novel and diagnose Septimus ourselves, but the feeling this interaction evokes is the same feeling we get when we are watching a film and want to shout that the killer is behind the unsuspecting protagonist. Again, silence. Consequently, Septimus’s suicide emerges as his final linguistic act. He uses death as an expression, and his suicide speaks louder than words. His death acts both as an act of communication and as the representation of how the community failed to provide a viable language for his trauma. It is in this realm of not only fragmented characters, but also fragmented language, that death speaks the loudest. Every act of communication has a sender and a recipient, and the most overt recipient of this act is our very own Mrs Dalloway. She first has a physical reaction: “her dress flamed, her body burnt.” The woman, who has been on a quest to find her identity and feel less “invisible” in the midst of a semi-mute society, is shaken to her core by the death of a man she has never met. Plot reach? Maybe, but that is not on trial here. Clarissa puts her own life on trial and reflects on how it is cluttered with social performances, whereas Septimus has managed to keep something pure. Ultimately, she feels a deep bond with the stranger and finds a renewed appreciation for her life, albeit with not very ladylike thoughts (“She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. He made her feel the beauty; made her feel the fun.“) Maybe she should pay Dr Holmes a visit. On second thought, better not. From a linguistic perspective, there is communication beyond dialogue, and Clarissa is uniquely receptive because she herself experiences language as inadequate. She interprets this act and, unable to utter a response to a very dead Septimus, cages herself to have her much sought-after epiphany, perpetuating the isolated modernist individual trope in the process. Mrs Dalloway ’s world is filled with silence, with the rare exceptions we find in the scarce dialogue or the sound of Big Ben chiming. Unfortunately for Septimus, this lingering silence is pushed to its most extreme form: death. The novel suggests that in a fractured world, the deepest forms of understanding occur not through social verbal interaction, but through shared experiences of silence and existential vulnerability, making death the text’s most powerful form of discourse. Bibliography Tegaoua, K. (2023). Eugene O’Neill’s The Hairy Ape and Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway: A comparative study of the failure of communication and faith in silence . Al Àdab wa Llughat, 18 (2), 22–29. Pattison, J. (1987). Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (Macmillan Master Guides). Macmillan Education. Prasad, B. (2025). Modernism and alienation in the works of Virginia Woolf. International Journal of Research Publication and Reviews , 6 (12), 6217–6223. Danling, D. (205). The fragmented self and modernist experimentation in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. Zhejiang Gongshang University. Woolf, V. (1925) Modern Fiction. Essay collection The common reader. Woolf, V. (2022). Mrs Dalloway (Collins Classroom Classics). William Collins. Espeche, J; López, P.; Ortega, A.
it is a wonder that people could ever be surprised by a Night Lord, because you must smell them like 5 km ahead xD I would still touch them, though, bc what is life without a little danger haha Sounds like something Septimus would say. 😂
I am fine with being called Septimus. Dude was smart enough to survive many years with a bunch of deranged murder-bats 👍🏻🐼 And he was really valued by them, which is pretty hardcore.
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