[ PERMANENT. ] a (k)atch-all log for kenos

[dawnlord]

WHO: Set ( redsoil ), Bondrewd ( dawnlord ), Drizzt ( twohand ), et. al
WHAT: i actually can't stand month-by-month logs so i'm gonna crush my boys into one perma-log for anything outside of events
WHERE & WHEN: Listed in comment headers, or under the cut.
WARNINGS: General warnings for violence, vulgarity and unethical science. Will update/comment with warnings!


I struggle so hard w/ month-by-month logs, so y'all have to deal with my weird organization...

— [MARCH | SET] GOT NO SHAME, GOT NO PRIDE

Comments

[ APRIL ] zhongli, starwatcher spire

[dawnlord]

[ Would it be any wonder, for a Stargazer to find themselves at the Starwatcher's Spire? In the midst of the early days of the Blight, he takes time out from a busy schedule to continue his own exploits; even as people agonize in the streets, there are numerous Zenite Shard-bearers who examine their lives and liberty and choose to prioritize themselves. It is, after all, well-within the wisdom of their natures to do so. And so, Bondrewd attends the lingering lessons within the Starwatcher's Spire, while simultaneously monitoring the spread of the Blight. ]

There there, [ with his hands on the shoulders of one of the weeping scholars, he seems to be soothing them by the time Zhongli turns up. The hulking, dark figure of a creature, softly glowing in the shadowy corners with someone crying silently, clutching the material of his heavy coat: First Alenroux, they can be heard uttering, sorrowful and not sobbing unconsolably, now, the Blight comes to Highstorm! Meridian must be doing something to exacerbate the issue. ] There is no evidence of such a thing, Scholar Sain-Breq. While Meridian has made overtures that are aggressive, they are also plagued by the Blight — this is a matter both our cities must attend to, if we are to have any future at all.

[ He soon looks up, as the young scholar begins to recover, noticing the presence of another Shard-bearer in the vast room. With a light shrug, the gesture of his open palms in greeting and a slight 'what can you do' motion, he soon parts from the scholar in order to approach the other man. Armor rattling as he steps closer, tail swaying sinuous as he leans down to keep his voice hushed, polite in the hall of learning they currently inhabit. ]

Even the scholars here are concerned for the safety of their sanctuary. This Blight poses such a risk. Do you know what they study here? Aspects. The same as the ones we are marked by.

[sharethememory]

[ By all accounts, Zhongli probably should have been busy investigating the Blight directly and tending to those unfortunate citizens of Highstorm who found themselves within the now blooming flower's clutches. But he had dragged dozens back to the safer areas of the city and poured over countless tomes in between. He had even tried to listen to long complicated scientific explanations where the words seems to blend together until they practically lost all meaning (a strange role reversal from when he was the one who usually did the talking). And thus, he found his way to a part of the town that he did not visit as often as he should. To a place where he should have looked first for answers. The stars were the tapestry weaved by the hands of Fate, after all - if there was anywhere that would guide them to an answer or show that none was to be found, it was here.

The presence of another Shard-Bearer here is also no surprise. Zhongli recognizes the tail (drawn to such details as he was) from a similar silhouette as a group of them had made their way to Aetos lair more than a month ago. What is surprising is that the Bearer is still donning his full armor even within the walls of Highstorm. To each their own, Zhongli muses to himself. It did look quite insulated and cozy when considering how more frigid everything had become with the Blight.

He inclines his head in a returned greeting, eyes trailing after the distraught scholar before returning back to Bondrewd. ]

They probably have good reason to be concerned. The Blight spreads more each day with little understanding to what has caused its accelerated growth.

Though I am intrigued on the intersection of the study of the aspects to the concept of astrology. Stars have a particular meaning in my world that may not be common to others. There is a belief that each being is born under a constellation that divines their fate.

[ Zhongli takes a few steps farther into the sanctuary, approaching Bonedrewd with hands clasped behind his back. ]

Do the aspects have such a similar meaning, I wonder, gift as they are from some other power.

[dawnlord]

The Blight is my foremost concern, and I will not rest until we are able to attenuate or entirely arrest it. There can be no future for the people of Highstorm, or Springstar, if the Blight is not dealt with before all of the Oracles are located — that much, I am certain of.

[ Despite being armored from head to toe, he is a polite and well-spoken man. Authoritative without being overbearing, the calm of his voice echoes faintly from within the dark metal of his helm, the glow of it pulsing softly in the dim lighting of the building. He excuses himself from the Scholar's presence, to offer his hand to Zhongli in greeting. ]

The Blight was present in the former Oracle match, and during it, I have read that one Aspect was bolstered while the other was hindered — Iconoclast and Stargazer, of which I am the latter. I have heard that the Aspects can be divined with, and I wonder how we came to be part of the groupings that we are — why are we connected so intimately during Communion, incapable of blocking our fellow kin out — what are the meanings of the Aspects, how were they discovered?

[ He asks a lot of questions, and while none of them have answers, that does not seem to bother him at all. It is simply one more marvelous mystery to examine. ]

I wonder that, as well. What are the innate meanings of our Aspects, and why mark us? We are already Shard-bearers, was that not enough for this world?

[JUNE] open, neutral locations

[redsoil]

CWs — Delusions, hallucinations; terror; allusions to sexual assault; public displays of trauma. Osiris is featured in this one, and he's a Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss yandere. Pls check my content warnings!

[ Zenith has won the Oracle. Akin to their first 'victory', however robbed they were by the otter, the darkness blossoms and bleak things follow in their wake. He dreams of the cold, of creeping chills that wrack his fingertips and crawl along his spine like ghosts. The loss is acute, the delusions he had remembered from the first swelling of the other faction's power swim in droves within his mind. One battle is not the war, though. But, he has lost so many people - no matter how tightly he held them. And in that mindset, follows madness.

Hieropoios Natalia had called upon him, requesting him for his boundless divinity, his immortal nature, in the hopes of alleviating the Tree of Life's suffering. The dreams of the Factions seemed, to him, to hinge upon the use of the Tree; from the dirt below they came, and the Lady Yima had mentioned that even she had passed through the Tree, so in that — there was unity of need, between Meridian and Zenith. The contact he had made with the Tree to alleviate its Blight, to take the chill of the strange venom unto himself had not been a difficult process. The visions accompanying it esoteric, even for his vast consciousness. ( The Tree was neutral. The Tree was both. If so — if Meridian and Zenith alike resolved Discord and promoted purity, harmony, then why were the energies positioned at odds? Nephythys sings within him briefly, brilliant and pure — and for a moment, he exists in a state of serenity. Curiosity flickering. The puzzle gaining pieces, and he aches-yearns to begin to resolve it. )

The state of ataraxis does not last long. He manages an address, and retreats soon after.

( Osiris claws his way out of the ground as all Shard-Bearers are born, but someone is already there and waiting to take his hands. Yima. It is the Lady Yima. She would love him, she would not condemn him. It is horrifying. )

The acute terror he feels is crippling, in that moment. He seeks clarity, clarification — the impression of a potential future, abounds. In it, he further sees Osiris. His brother, the beloved god of life and king of man and god, gathering the same flower that blooms in his soul from the hands of Yima. What did it mean? What did the flower mean, apart from the vow he had shared with her — the stain upon him, he would need to shed and face, if ever he sought to deepen his connection with Meridian. The vision bothers up, but does not linger at the forefront of his mind for long — for the Oracle awakens soon after.

Yet, now. Now, it is the aftermath. Meridian has lost and he feels no different should the outcome had been the opposite; injuries attained have healed, he has attended to his hair and styled it back to the length it had been upon first arrival, before Discord had scalded him with vitality and growth. His Discord, he knows, he feels, is at an all time low; yet, he jumps at shadows, and Meridian's light, the twin suns in the sky, cannot burn away the image that comes for him when he is alone. ]

— THE LAST DANCE (SAD VER.).

[ In this place, where he has long sought to distract and numb his own vulnerabilities, it finds him.

Set's usual booth in the darkened, smoke-filled lounge that serves as waypoint for secrets, occultic allure and heady, mind-numbing hookah smoke, spills over with research. Tomes, parchment, battered journals and hasty, written notation in his foreign, pictographic language have scattered throughout the booth; outside, some of the regulars whisper between them, their expressions stricken and disoriented. The atmosphere is one of tension, swollen so ripe that it threatens to split at the seams. Among the scent of spicy and smoke, rests the scent of blood. The moment the regulars ( a sleek, owl-like individual, a pair of twins reminiscent of the waxing and waning moons, and a long-faced woman with red hair — a calm sunset, rather than the dash of crimson death that is Set's ) spot another Shard-bearer, they deign to approach.

We keep all secrets here, they warn, stern and reproachful. With the authority of the Below instilled upon them, the neutrality brokered between Meridian and Zenite alike. To trample on it, would be to mark oneself. Yours, ours, and his. Will you see to him? We have not the strength to get close to anyone like you.

In the booth, a storm of acute terror has come and gone. The air still smells of blood, it vibrates with distinct panic. And amidst it, the heap of a red-headed god with his outer arms sliced to ribbons by claws still outstretched, curling listless and habitual as he hunches over his own knees — voice faint, but crying in abject denial. ]

You are not here. Not here, you cannot come here. You are trapped, you are gone. What do I have to do to be rid of you, sn and have THEM back instead?

— ALENROUX (HOSTILE VER.).

You bastard, you wretched fucking bastard — !

[ The sound of fury, once fueled by love, strangles on the wind. In the middle of one of Alenroux's field, the pale, bowed figure of the war god hunches over a row of verdant life. His hands dirty, light fluttering between his fingertips as he tips vitality into the soils of the farmland and urges bounty to grow, he swears venomously the entire time he works. Though his brow is knit, the strain in his shoulders and jaw practically radiates stress — something plaguing him, haunting him. He digs deep into the wealth of Meridian's energy, and pounds it into the crops around him, beating a fist against the soil with another string of curses, this time in a foreign tongue.

Set spins in place, where he kneels in the soil, baring elongated eyeteeth like a hostile viper, a wild-eyed predator that is threatening and posturing. The look in his eyes is glassy, far-away; even if the Shard-bearer who comes upon him stands in the open, it is not to them that his gaze goes. It travels into some internal distance, crumpling in upon itself as he rages. It is only rage, that clearly keeps him from collapsing into raw terror, into a weak, pathetic heap. ]

See? See! I possess your power, in this place! I hold your authority and mine, is that not proof enough that I stand peerless among the Ennead? The god of Deshret grows life as the god of Kemet had. Finally — I create, without your permission.

[ And in a shuttered moment, his expression's ferocity gutters. As if Set has been slapped across the face, stricken and breathless. He carries a conversation meant for two, but no other stands before him. ]

So, go away. I can make you go away, because you are not here, because you are insane and will never have me —!

[ A gasp. A wrenching sound, somewhere between heartbreak and hatred.

Among the crops, red iris-like flowers blossom in the wake of Meridian spellwork, like bloodshed. Set stands, sudden and explosive and snarling at the one he has finally noticed. His fellow Shard-bearer, who has happened upon him in a state where he appears to be talking to no one but himself. Insane, crazy war god with tears hot in his eyes; pathetic, underwhelming, incapable of conquest. ( Even in Kenos, Osiris threatens to undermine everything he has built. To drive him away from others, to have them view him as pitiable and false. A long game, the longest one. Set will ruin himself, his credibility and his reputation, all on his own. ) ]

— what the FUCK do you want! The fight is over, and I am sick of your face!

[ This time, he screams foreign obscenity at the Shard-bearer, and not a ghost. ]

ALENROUX

[warmare]

[Hayame had left Springstar for Alenroux as soon as she could.

It wasn't like there was anything tying her to that city. Even the stable that had been her residence (not her home) had been destroyed by the Blight roots, and they had not returned back in time far enough to "save" it. At least she has purpose amongst their military. At least she has respect amongst their soldiers, even if she felt she had little from the actual shard-bearers she was supposed to consider her allies in their desperate, pathetic scrabbles at saving their worlds.

But she does not feel worthy of that respect now, in the wake of yet another humiliating loss. How it burns in her craw, how it rots in her hearts, to lose not once, but twice- ? She had known others would be too weak, and yet still she had not killed enough to compensate for their failures. She is not blameless in their defeat, and she turns her hatred on herself just as well as others. So let her be alone. Her heat is coming soon, whether she likes it or not (and she never did). She will ride it out in solitude amongst the forests of Alenroux, she will sate her anger on the mindless beasts that yet terrorize the night, and she-

Will follow the sounds of impotent rage to a field and a god covered in dirt.

Hayame does not bother to try and hail him. Not at first. He is engaged in a battle with a shade that she cannot see, not here in the world away from Communion, where their hearts betray them to the eyes of others. But as Set rages and screams at the invisible figure... she remembers a shape, a face, a presence that had made the hairs of her dun coat stand on end. She cannot be certain, because who knew how many enemies someone like him might have... but the flowers look the same. There is a moment when she is tempted to let spite rule her, to turn away from him in this pathetic display and let him yell at someone else, but-

When he finally notices that she is there, when he does turn his rage on her...]

I thought the only thing that could turn you away from me was mine own word.

[It is her turn to be the one who sounds calm. And when she steps forward towards him and into the field now teeming with life... she crushes a blood red flower beneath her hoof.]

Do you tire of our friendship already, Set?

[redsoil]

[ Even in the fit of madness, waging a solitary war with the image of a man who ought to be confined to the limbo of a world awaiting revival — Set manages to be utterly captivating in his ferocity. A god of the desert sands, of barren lands, grows tangled roots and woven vine underfoot; dark thorns, and blossoms that match the precise shade of his hair perfectly, writhe across the ground between them. ( He ought to break one of her legs, for using his words against him. For twisting every attempt at honesty and hope he has for her into something mocking and senseless, for asking for his blessing — only to dash it aside as imperfectly suited for her honor and focus on strength of arm alone. )

Send her away, the specter that haunts him sighs, as if Hayame is but an interloper between what is truly transpiring, waiting to call back Set's attention. You called her friend, Set. You keep making poor choices, and they will keep hurting you until you have nothing left but shame. And me. ]

Do I tire? Do I tire?! What do I have to tire about between us, Hayame?

[ He challenges her to name it, just name it already.

His fingers curl, dark claws extending like those of an overlarge cat, a beast. Across the crown of his head and the line of his eyes, the dark shape of his helm gathers; anything to hide his face, anything to hide the truth in his eyes. That begging, gasping thing that knows, in his heart, that no matter what he does to make inroads with her, no matter what words he speaks — no matter what he does, if it is anything less than her way... it is unworthy. ]

sad <3

[muchalucha]

[ The Below held little of interest for Quetzalcoatl, truthfully. It’s maybe a bit true to expectation or a bit on the nose for a stereotype, but she just didn’t feel all that comfortable descending down into the depths of Springstar and away from the sun. However, if there was a place that could call her interest enough to visit from time to time, it was The Last Dance. It was truly the furthermost boundary of where she would descend to, but its allure as a place to meet and just talk to people was reason enough for her to descend.

So, she’s a bit surprised when she enters today and catches the smell of blood on the air. Her bright smile of excitement to meet people falls, since of course that’s no good. It’s all the more surprising when she’s approached by some of its customers, but she agrees immediately and without question. Someone needs help, and she’ll do what she can. It’s as simple as that.

Though as soon as she’s led to the booth and is close enough to see the familiar color of Set’s hair, her mood changes completely. She’d help a stranger, of course, but— ]

Oh, Set…

[ Her voice is soft, almost enough to be missed, but her heart immediately breaks for him. There’s tension in the air, and this may be approaching a dangerous situation when his claws are still out, but she all but ignores it. Quetzalcoatl enters the booth and sits next to him as she extends a hand to rest on his shoulder. It’s a gentle touch, one that just says “I’m here” before she says a single word. ]

SAD!!! crycat

[redsoil]

[ The Last Dance has been a place of great relief to him, a favored haunt where he slips into the teeming crowds of stage actors, artists and artisans and becomes nothing more than another eccentric, lovely face in the crowd. To lose himself among them feels like a safety he has not known in centuries; to be unpursued, unmolested and secure among strangers who mind their own and refrain from uninvited contact is a balm he only otherwise has when biting into the lingering, dark blossom that blooms in his soul.

To have one of the only places he has allowed himself to feel safe be assailed by the memory ( of the Blight / crawling green vines, rampant growth that clawed at his legs and sought to suffocate him below it ) ( of his own Meridian-born power / a theft, a stolen thing that proves nothing about him, save for that he must pilfer the authority of a true god to accomplish anything ) ( of people, held in his hands as he sought to be enough for them to behold and believe in / alas, even mortals would instinctively know a false god, a god of no true might save for what he has been granted as reward ).

You are unreal to them, Osiris consoles him, in the place he thought he was safe, impossible in existence, but pitiable in your attempt to be enough for them. You are enough to me, you are everything I have dreamed of.

Quetzalcoatl's hand comes to him, the impression of her gentle, warm mind. He cannot help it, when he flinches from her with a strangled sound — the startled upswing of his claws catching at the front of her poncho, narrowly missing purchase across her chest. She is as warm as Osiris's hand upon him, for he was a child of dignity and warmth, easy to love, like her. ]

No, no. What did I do?

[ The Tree? The Oracle? Why is Osiris here?

I would find you in any life, in any world or hole you choose. You know what that dream meant, Set — you know, together we would be their new world. Deshret, Kemet. ]

Alenroux

[fishfearme]

[There was a vibrancy Byleth was unaccustomed to churning through his blood these past few days. The exhausted apathy from the merciless trials beneath the Tree had peeled away into something almost animalistic in its restlessness, making the populated clamour of Springstar as repulsive as it was tempting. He didn't belong here, some lucid part of his mind snarled, echoed by Sothis's opinion on the matter, so why are you getting comfortable here?

So, unsurprisingly, he fled to Alenroux.

The countryside - a mix of tamed and wild - was far more familiar to him. Even if an alien part of him felt uneasy at being so far from Springstar, he ruthlessly compartmentalised it and aimlessly wandered the breadbasket island in some sort of absent-minded daze. He could almost pretend he was back in Fódlan, travelling through the farmlands of Adrestia, scouting ahead while Jeralt's mercenaries followed behind, and he could even pretend he could hear his voice-

...or... not? Byleth paused, tilting his head when he heard a familiar voice howling on the gentle breeze. Like a moth to flame, he headed towards it, coming upon frantic, crazed Set, scrabbling in the earth and snarling like a rabid dog, eyes flashing and fangs bared. Byleth simply stood in the field with him and watched with blank eyes, as if he was witnessing something mildly interesting, rather than the obliteration of a man's sanity.

Even the gods weren't immune to mind-breaking despair, it seemed. Sothis always seemed so robust, so unfaltering even when faced with complete ruination. She cemented her rage into basalt, solid and unyielding, but concealing bubbling magma beneath, and didn't break beneath grief. She just got angrier. There had to be a point where her rage and obstinance plateaued, though, right? Where she broke like the more fragile Set had?

Byleth felt a rush of disdain from her, drowsy and like a swat on his flank. It was an admonishment for his idle thoughts, and he accepted it with a slight tilt of his head, his gaze heavy-lidded as Set finally acknowledged his blatant existence and screamed at him. Byleth let the words wash over him as water off a duck's back.]

I heard you from the road. You sounded distressed.

[Byleth's voice was, as usual, calm and flat, without a single inflection betraying his true mood or thoughts.]

Are you hallucinating? You were screaming at nothing.

hostile hostile hostile meow meow meow

[intervener]

[ coat red as the flowers Set invites to bloom among the crops stands Vash, one Plant among many. he's remained still during his friend's tirade, and like a man watching the tantrum of an overwhelmed child, waiting for them to tire - he is quiet and patient, bereft of judgment or accusation as glazed eyes see something else, someone else in Vash's place. even in the face of the vitriol finally levied his way in acknowledgment of his presence, Vash's small smile remains; it isn't that he's happy. he is far from it; how could anyone be happy to see someone driven to the edge of a mental precipice?

but in the face of pain and loss and grief, in the face of anger and fear and guilt, all he can do is this. smile, and offer what meager consolations he has to give. it isn't what Set wants - maybe it isn't even what Set needs.

but it's better than nothing, isn't it?

the god, coiled and angry, tense as a bowstring set to launch a fiery arrow across the placid fields of Alenroux's bounty, has found his feet in a spurt of energetic outburst. Vash is his opposite, sinking to sit among the soil and greenery, drawing his knees up and coiling his arms loosely around them in a comfortable gesture that suggests he intends to stay. he can't pretend he understands what ghosts haunt Set's shadow. he doesn't know what painful fingers have coiled around the other man's heart, but he can feel them squeezing. he can't fix it, probably can't even make it much better, if he's being honest.

he can sit with him, though. he can sit and make sure he isn't alone, make sure he doesn't go and do something stupid. he's pretty good at listening. he's pretty good at distracting, too. half-decent at a long list of things after that if Set wants any of them. he'll start here, for now. ]

[JUNE] closed, liem talbott

[redsoil]

[ After Set's no-good-bad-week, there comes an obnoxious banging coming from Liem's front door.

Incessant, rough. It carries on, seemingly without end because the individual on the other side of the door carries their discourtesy as a weapon, as the core of their person. Liem ought to know who it is by now: the war god who claimed him as friend, whom stands awaiting his presence. If Set gleans the change that has come over the wilting figure, it only seems to harden the set of his jaw; to elevate the cant of his throat, curl harder at the corners of his mouth. Most striking, however, is his relative state of — well, actual dress. The pattern of attire he wears is distinctively Springstar in nature, in a deep black that fades into a charcoal grey, a hemline of pale blue.

He wears only one earring tonight, the long gold line of it gleaming with delicate spokes. A sun? No, a long, liquid star. There is something etched upon it in delicate hieroglyph, and he makes no comment upon what it could mean. Black, gold, pale blue. There is a lack of jewelry upon him, speaking to a more somber appearance, perhaps something a little more ascetic in design, but his hair is brushed until gleaming, unbound around his shoulders, and his mouth is as rosy and full as ever. ]

Put on something nice, Liem Talbott. [ He declares, a battering ram of a man. ] I am taking you to the theatre at the Last Dance tonight, as my date.

[ There is no question in his words. There is only proof that the only person he had in mind for this venture was Liem himself; Set adorns himself in their Faction's ( their Faction's ) style, but the colors are the ones he has come to commonly associate with Liem. They are the ones chosen to match his typical attire, as if Set himself has gone to great lengths to ensure they will match handsomely. ]

However deeply your heart has broken, you are still to be my friend. I want you with me always.

liem.exe has stopped responding

[sterngaze]

[The hammering at his door is one that Liem could recognize anywhere, even had it caught him totally unawares and roused him from a dead sleep. He appears at his door promptly, well aware that his visitor will not cease until he is answered, still somehow concerned with his neighbours' opinions of him even though they must already have sunk all the way into the street gutters. Liem squints out into the relentless day, a frown of consternation already upon his pale face.

It is an expression that only deepens when Set confronts him with his demand.]

Now? [he asks, because it's the first question that breaks through his shock, and because he is under no illusions about the possibility of him not doing this thing. Set is already on his doorstep, dressed in—

Actually, he's more dressed than Liem can recall seeing him since the Scorching Isles. He looks resplendent, dressed to go somewhere nice. With Liem.

The second thing that breaks through his bewilderment is:]

The theatre?

[These are more manageable, bite-sized pieces of information than just about every other word out of Set's mouth, and right now they are evidently all he's equipped to grapple. (Perhaps his recent lack of sleep has something to do with that. The shadows beneath his eyes seem especially deep, today.)]

[JULY] open, primarily kowloon.

[dawnlord]

[ Though the suspicions cast upon him at the end of Erqu become truth, when Bondrewd finally takes his polite leave of Meridian's forces to formally return to Zenith, he does so without a scrap of guilt or secrecy. A force of neutral, brutal honesty and fact, that finds his time spent among Springstar's people and Meridian's Shardbearers well-spent and informative. His fondness for them is palpable, although it could be said that his "fondness" for Shardbearers as a whole is, too. It is a frighteningly profound thing to experience, especially now that he has felt what Meridian does to him, and found the force pleasing but ill-advised for a man of science such as himself.

To return to Zenith is less because he seeks their goal, and more to embed himself in the calmness of its force, to best suit his mind and need for hyperfocus and delicate work. Throughout the month of Warqu, he is invested in many things that largely require him ( thankfully!? ) remaining out of sight. ]

— THE BURNING GARDENS, KOWLOON.

[ The Burning Gardens remains the public-facing lab he works out of. A location scavenged from the mysterious figure Aetós, it had been transformed by a combined effort of Akua, Bondrewd and John Gaius into a lab within which they had explored the extent of the Blight — and kept the creatures called to the world, and experimented on, by Aetós that were impossible to release into the wilds. Bondrewd can be found in the depths of the Burning Gardens, within an area that could only be thought of as an arena, that has been steadily transformed into a massive terrarium — greenery has been imported into the environment, moss heavy and damp where it has grown upon the walls and ceilings and scattered debris; a deep pool has been built, jutting from the wall below an overhanging room with walls of gleaming, polished glass. An overseer's room.

Glowing fungi, native to Kowloon, grow throughout the room. The environment is stiflingly humid, dimly lit with glowing stone and carefully-positioned floodlight. Within the pool of clear water, glowing faintly, there is a strange creature swimming to and fro. Bondrewd himself appears to be standing within the pool, fully armored and drenched, with his hands reaching into the water from time to time to help elevate the creature's head and hold it steady as it kicks its legs abortively. ]

— there there, [ he murmurs to it. ] Take your time, you are still regaining your strength.

— AN "ABANDONED" WAREHOUSE, KOWLOON.

[ Bondrewd's personal lab is easy enough to find, by word of mouth.

Injured workers and residents of Kowloon have begun to find their way to the great, dark warehouse squatting in some distant, fungi-heavy corner of Kowloon. A battered door attached is attached to a heavily-decaying, abandoned factory. The native, neon-pink mushrooms have grown throughout it — through windows that once had glass panes, through the cracks in crumbling walls, through the ground and the foundation below, weaving together to form a braided, warmly-glowing structure that is perhaps the only reason the old, squat building even exists anymore. Sandwiched between other abandoned structures, it looms at a strange angle, as if the building itself had leaned forward, loomed over those who might come knocking on the door.

Whether anyone has come to investigate him ( he did, after all, get caught trying to steal sap with another Shardbearer ), or simply to divulge his whereabouts, they will hear the heavy tread of boots begin to grow louder, louder behind them. From outside the warehouse, Bondrewd arrives — the violet line aglow upon his helm and arms full of boxes and bags. Outside of his warehouse, there are more heaps of metal boxes, seemingly waiting to be brought inside. ]

— how wonderful. Would you help me bring all these in? I am busy finalizing some work, and would love an external opinion as well.

warehouse

[epiprocta]

[ It's not exactly like he's wanting to see Bondrewd? Or, well. Not just for the sake of meeting him.

It's instead something akin to a self-imposed scouting mission that has Gen skulking around that warehouse this evening -- he's always been pretty good with maps and locations, and he remembers making the deliveries to this warehouse before he quit that courier job -- wondering if the man is in. Wondering, most of all, what his relationship to Silco is. Because judging from their previous encounters, Bondrewd had hardly seemed the type to kick back with drinks at a seedy place like Draumahol. Probably.

He'd been staring quietly at the windows, looking for any sign of movement -- but reflexively stands up a touch straighter when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, his pointy canine ears automatically swiveling in their direction. Speak of the devil. ]

... y'know I quit that delivery job ages ago.

[ Bondrewd offers him no conventional greeting, so he sure as hell isn't going to offer one back. Gen instead cants his head to look Bondrewd over, then study the piles of boxes in his arms. He'd been wondering what all the boxes around the warehouse were. ]

What's in it for me. If I help you move this shit.

[JULY] early-month opens, various locations.

[redsoil]

[ — recovering from being dead is a chore, a hassle. The drift of his mind and dull aches in his body distract him from the bulk of activity, leaving him to rest and recover and reflect upon all the things he is doing. All the things he still has to do. Idle hands and an idle mind make for a difficult convalescence, leaving Set to do naught else but restore his health and contemplate his next moves. He remains in Springstar and the vicinity of it, drifting through the city and down into Kowloon from time to time — for what reason, apart from visiting his favorite haunt? Who knows.

If anything, his death has proven to some that Set plays more cards close to his chest than he lets on; that his bombastic personality is one of many masks he hides his true intentions behind. What other pies does he have his fingers in? What other machinations has he plotted behind others' back, and will it be too late to stop him, once he closes every trap he's begun to lay out? ]

— THE PAVILION ( AKUA'S HOME ), SPRINGSTAR.

[ While he doesn't have a true "home" to call his own, Set gravitates between the properties of several Shardbearers and other ( secret ) environments. Requiring very little sleep means that he always has more time than others to spare, to continue his reading and conniving and explorations unhindered by most — but, right now? He is stationary, bogged down by the recovery time he must take out of his active lifestyle to come out of the death he'd evoked upon himself. The work has to pause, for he needs to be hale and healthy to accomplish it without failure.

For a few days, he recovers in Akua Sahelian's home. Easy to spot from the street is a handsomely-decorated veranda jutting off the second floor of her home, heavily laden with greenery and light, airy curtains to block the bulk of hot or cool air. Amidst the green, the bright red of his hair stands out, as Set hovers along the rail — face pooled against his folded arms and expression drawn. He's elsewhere, but doesn't fail to find himself drawn to the presence of anyone stopping by — whether they're walking the street below, or entering his space.

The only furniture, apart from a few low-slung backless chairs tucked among the dense greenery he's surrounded his space with, is the sweeping chaise lounge he's coiled on. A piece of soft cotton and woven reed and polished wood, done in a more modern style than he'd like — but, close enough to what he's used to. Books litter the space around him, and heaps of notes peer out from the space below the lounge seating — a veritable treasure trove of records and observations. At least, the ones he's deigned to write down and not keep in his mind.

To someone inside, he says: ] If you have come to admonish me for my efforts, I would love to skip to more productive conversation.

[ But, to anyone outside on the streets, he offers a wave and beckons for their attention: ] Do you want to come up? I would not mind the company.

— THE CHURCH OF HELIOS, SPRINGSTAR.

[ Anyone visiting the Chuch of Helios, for any reason this month will find a well-known face among the flock of the more distinguished priests. Wearing ornate robes of white and gold, Set can be found with a small gathering of Meridian-faithful in conversation within the church, discussing services immediately available through the Church — such as the rite where one member will tap into the world shown in their sunbeam and open their minds to Communion, sharing in their memories and emotions together.

Meridian Shardbearers will primarily be approached further by him, with a markedly bright vibe — ]

What? Did you think I would remain apart from a place where I could invest my divinity forever? If you have any questions, I am present to answer them. My nature is a little different than what the Church offers, but my efforts are here to assist our fellows in reaching new heights and success.

[ However, any Zenite Shardbearers who still might find themselves able to enter the Church of Helios will immediately be accosted by him — smiling and sharp, as he guides them into an adjoining room and shuts the door behind them. ]

Pure curiosity is to be rewarded, I feel, but most of you have never shown any care or consideration to anything apart from your end goal. You are welcome to explain yourself, and maybe I will permit you to traipse around. With me, of course, as your escort.

[ The unharmonized are also stopped, but only so that he can beam — enthusiastic and on the verge of great violence at all times as he laughs: ] You are new, and must be informed — paranoia is rising, and your freedom as a neutral party extends only as far as public areas these days. I could accompany you, if you have questions, though!

— KOWLOON.

[ CW, VIOLENCE AGAINST CHILDREN. While they are children, the moment one of Kowloon's Meridian-heckling individuals lays a hand upon his person, there is a fluid rush of movement — and a child's wailing cry, following shortly after the sound of bone snapping. Someone clutches their hand, a single finger broken backwards without a hint of mercy from the redheaded wargod. Child or adult, they will meet the same fate for choosing to start anything with him! ]

Crimes against my being are to be met with crimes against yours. See to it you spread word among your fellows that I am to be avoided. I am not here for continued violence against you, I am here for someone else.

[ To which he taps the left side of his face, just under the eye. A sign that might be painstakingly easy to associate with a certain man with a burning eye, with the ever-seeking, watching eye of Draumah👁️l.

Apart from the burst of sudden violence against a child, Set can be found at the far outskirts of Kowloon — gazing off into the network of tunnels beyond the organized sprawl of the city of free, neutral peoples. In his hands he holds a sheet of paper, black marks upon it already — a rope held loose in between his fingers, with precisely knotted lengths, held up briefly as he gazes down the length of the tunnel and makes another mark.

He's making a map. And without bothering to hide his efforts? Wrapped in a light, white shawl made of gauzy linen, he seems drawn — unhealthy, but closer to fully mended at that point, and were he possessed of animal ears, they would be canted toward te sound of anyone's approach as he works. ]

I have enjoyed exploring the Beyond. Why not turn my attention to the Below, too?

the pavilion.

[diversionist]

[ does cassian sleep, these days?

snatches, here and there. he's never slept soundly in kenos; but then, he's never slept soundly anywhere. pure exhaustion has been the only thing to ever drive him to the brink; dark, dreamless nights when his mind was too tired to draw on anything at all. that and one other thing — soft hands against his face, warm arms around his middle, slow breathing to match with careful deliberation. but it's been days and nights (how many? well, who can say) since he last had that, and in the meantime, it's fitful snatches.

it's more than that. his shard in his hand is cold, grows colder since he killed dokja and came to springstar. he has to shade his eyes against the sunslight, even when the brightness ought to be more than bearable. the chill seems to settle skin-deep, deeper, no longer the distant comfort of zenith's cool waters in his veins. his layering is more pronounced, perhaps, than even the usual. or maybe that's not noticeable; maybe all that's noticeable is how he's alone, and how he doesn't return to highstorm even at nights, even after one-two-three-four-who can say? days.

that's fine though, the difficulties. nothing bad enough to hinder his work. nothing more than what he deserves. he's escaped that for so long, what he deserves, and even now —

he looks up to a familiar voice. ]

I'm not, [ he says, slow, without humor, ] good company.

[ the unadorned truth is such a rarity from cassian andor. he is not good company. he is grim purpose in the skin of a man; he is a weapon in the hands of a cause. anything else was little more than a delusion. what a relief to finally shed it. ]

church

[wolfish]

[ Amidst his discussions, Set might or might not notice someone drift past the entrance of the church multiple times throughout the unending day. His dark cape billows out behind him as he goes, quick strides ensuring that he's never sighted for very long before vanishing again.

Eventually, when the crowd has thinned considerably, Yuri at last makes his way into the church. He casts a furtive glance around, as though he has some sort of nefarious design in mind, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he assesses his surroundings. Eventually, he finds a quiet place among the pews in the back, quite possibly the one shadowed area he can find.

Yuri takes his seat with the fluid, practiced grace of one accustomed to being observed. He evidently thinks he's escaped notice, however, as he bows his head and closes his eyes. With the pews obscuring his hands, only someone close by would ever know his hands are folded in silent prayer. ]

[JULY] closed, liem talbott.

[redsoil]

[ He takes a week to lay some groundwork, despite his need to rest and recover from his strange, self-inflicted demise. Whatever he had done on behalf of John Gaius had resulted in his death, and to awaken from his pod to find both Quetzalcoatl and Liem present — watching over him — had definitely left its mark upon him. Whether for the betterment of himself, or the diligent worsening, would remain to be seen. The week is spent working in the Church, observing and working Alenroux, discussing certain matters with certain other Shardbearers and — most importantly, waiting for Liem Talbott to be concluded with his responsibility as one of the representatives of the new Ambassador program. His retainer will be left behind to keep him abreast of any pertinent activities among the Shardbearers, and his new aide in the Church will continue to ensure his presence there is not invisible.

Which leaves him free to finally, finally, chase down something he has been eager to since months prior. Since before the Iconoclast Oracle had awoken, perhaps since the moment he had assisted the explorers in locating a particular plant in the Beyond, only to come across an abandoned shrine and begin to wonder — who were the gods of Kenos? Who was worshipped here, and where had they gone? Asking Yima for her guidance had been a calculated effort, to remind her of his potential in her eyes and to glean the measure of her. Where would she point him, and why?

Liem is the only other individual he asks with him, on the adventure. There had been other considerations, of course — any of the individuals they had traveled with into the Beyond initially, Hayame or Ruby, even Jonathan Sims, who had expressed his empathy toward the creatures of Alenroux and the Beyond, and the desire to know of the past, the lost generations of Shardbearers, and the history hidden behind a veil of unknowability to them. It is Liem he asks to go with him. Because Liem is cutting and insightful, and will not stray from difficulty. Because, some part of him knows now, he can likely trust Liem — he can tether himself to their friendship, and resolve himself to let Liem know what he does, where he goes. The dealings he has.

They're already a few days into their journey, when Set finally confesses to him — not like that — while hovering near to the lake that Liem had found on his half of the exploration. They have a while to go yet, but Set is conversing with plants all the way, in search of the temple. They're heading in the right direction. ]

For my work with the Mnemosyno Gathering, Hieropoios Natalia gave me a boon. I asked her to strengthen my relationship with the Church. Knowing what we know about it, there is a high likelihood that it is poised to take drastic measures to ensure Meridian's victory. The sale of shards, the gathering of shadows that John Gaius told me of. Hieropoios Natalia knows she was present for the previous Oracle war, but her memories — and perhaps those of anyone else involved in it that is still alive — are muddled. I think having an in within the Church is vital and,

[ He pauses his clambering, hefting a rock as if preparing to skip it across the lake. ]

I would rather uncover whatever they're up to before any Zenites do, and ruin us. What do you think?

[sterngaze]

[As is his wont, Liem is busy in the days leading up to their expedition. He continues to be active in Alenroux, spending time among the locals there in anticipation of the ambassador talks to take place later on. When he is not among the locals, he is exploring the woods or training with the military. And somehow, even after the ambassador meeting has taken place, his schedule does not become any less busy.

But he makes time for this. Because it is a mystery, and he does not think the current generation of shard-bearers will be able to succeed where their forebears failed unless they discover the secrets of this world's past. And because it is important to Set, who he knows will not rest without answers.

As on their previous excursion into the Beyond, Liem comes armed with his brass-and-darkwood crossbow and a long, dark-bladed dagger. Unlike before, however, the serviceable leathers he'd bought in Springstar are traded out for robes of charcoal-grey trimmed with gold. The fabric falls in stiff lines and heavy folds, suggesting sturdy functionality despite its ceremonial appearance. He navigates them without difficulty as he accompanies Set along the rocky shore of the lake.]

It is worrying that those poised to tell us more of this war we have been summoned into do not remember any of the details one might expect them to know.

[He is reminded of Manon, who had also expressed that his memories seemed muddled and unreliable when he was being questioned about his flight from Zenith. Just who is getting their hands on these people and affecting them in this way? And for that matter — why?]

You speak sense, though, about investigating the Church. Those of Zenith who might uncover its secrets would, at best, reveal what they had learned without care for how it would destabilize Meridian. At worst, it would be an opportunity for them to cripple us from within our own ranks. This is something we must deal with ourselves; any dangerous elements within it must be ferreted out.

[JULY] closed, kaeya alberich.

[redsoil]

[ Early in Warqu, Set finds himself back in Highstorm. With the master gardeners of the Greenwood Yards seeking aid with the restoration of the terrain, and the planting of rare seeds and sprouts, he knows he is able and ready to lend a hand. The promise of restoring his access to the Yards is of vital importance to him, for reasons ultimately unknown, but perhaps relating to the diligence in which he utilizes Meridian's native energy in spellwork that has supercharged the yield crops of Alenroux for all. It is at the doors that he waits, the card holding his assigned section and the name of the plants he will be handling between his fingers, for the partner he will be working with. ]

Veil Shroud.

[ He murmurs the name aloud, before wiggling the card in anticipation.

He'll go for as long as he can, with his partner. It's only fair to give them his all, especially as a Meridian-aligned individual seeking access. What has not escaped his eye is the fact that all the other pairs are definitely Zenites, or at least Highstorm citizens. Already, he knows he'll be on the back foot. Worsened, in fact, by the fact that

well

he is who he is. Maybe that is why, the moment he sees Kaeya in his vicinity, he says: ] I am here to follow your lead. I have familiarity with planting and agriculture now, since I work the fields of Alenroux.

[ Since, you know. Kaeya will be able to keep an eye on him like that??? ]

[subsist]

[ Helping out at the Greenwood Yards is a no-brainer. Kaeya has been giving them his aid for as long as the Blight had swept across Highstorm, but he doesn't quite expect the idea of working with pairs — even more so when he's assigned to a Meridian.

What's worse, they've been given their assignment: Veil Shroud. Excellent. Perhaps it is the one that Kaeya wanted to work with the least, but it is what it is at this point.

Regardless of his own feelings on the matter, he offers an affable smile. ]

Oh? Then wouldn't it make more sense for me to follow your lead? You're far more knowledgeable than I am.

[ Taking the blue flowers from World's Edge is as far as his experience with planting goes, after all.

He sweeps his hand forward as a gesture for Set to go ahead. ]

After you.

[JULY] closed, sebastian michaelis.

[dawnlord]

[ While Bondrewd is possessed of verbal manners and the genteel aura of someone who is quite used to greasing elbows and interacting socially, for him to arrive at Sebastian's door with a fresh cravat around his throat is the sign that he is tidied up to the best of his ability. Everything else remains intact upon his person; Third Works still installed directly into his spine with its hypnotic sway carrying his strong gait from side to side, his glowing helm casting a soft, violet light among the darkened streets of Highstorm, and his large, leather coat fastened over the multiple other layers of metal and protective gear.

Perhaps he is unused to shedding the layers. Perhaps he is just unused to not having a greeting body to transfer his mind into, and the functionality of his combat form has become a bit of a familiar home for his consciousness to linger within. At Sebastian's door, he knocks — a thundering sound offset only by the fact that it does not last long. Clutched under one arm, he carries a battered canvas-and-leather bag, absolutely stuffed full of what appears to be books, documents and perhaps a few tidily-packed cases full of instruments. All the things he will need for a preliminary assessment of Sebastian's skill, and perhaps a few instructive sessions.

He loves having an apt, adept pupil to teach after all.

Within moments of spotting the demon, Bondrewd presses a heavy, metal hand to his chest and intones: ] Hello, Mister Michaelis. I feel I am a little early to dinner, but I could not contain myself much longer. The lingering memory of Meridian's vigor has me a little excitable, but no worries — I will return to equilibrium now that I have returned.

[ To Zenith, he means. ]

[cutlery]

[ There are little pleasures that Sebastian has taken to in Kenos, and while it wasn’t the most surprising of them, opening up peoples’ palates was surely among his favorites. Cooking an excellent meal really was the perfect combination of things he loved. There’s the detail-oriented, meticulous nature of preparation, the intellectually stimulating parts of research, and of course, he is a gourmand, though his diet was considerably lighter. Naturally he’d find great satisfaction in providing someone an expertly crafted meal, even if it wasn’t to his own taste.

Plus, he just liked being praised for a job excellently done. He’s simple, in that way.

So, when Sebastian opens the door, Bondrewd is first greeted with an elegant smile by Sebastian, but also the aroma of something delicious. Right away, it’s clear that Sebastian takes his food quite seriously, but also that it would be quite the treat. ]

Ah, no worries at all, Mr. Bondrewd.

[ Sebastian welcomes Bondrewd inside (and at least one cat definitely peeks out curious to see who the fuck this large creature is), and he’ll go through the motions of taking his coat to hang it, but that’s as easy and automatic as if Sebastian had only just left his job as a butler yesterday. ]

There is still just a bit more I need to do in the kitchen, but as this is an informal affair, please, feel free to join me.

[ He takes a look at the bag and smiles wryly before he starts to lead the way towards the back of the house. ]

You have quite the collection with you already, I see.

[OCTOBER] closed, liem talbott

[twohand]

[ Already, he had clambered from the soil. Already, he had set upon the cities and found their shape and form; a handful of memories of Kenos subsisted within him, even as he found himself alighting from the dark caverns beyond Kowloon — mildly dazed, and without any idea of what he might have witnessed out there in the darkness. To find himself belowground in any capacity, let alone bereft of the knowledge of how he'd gotten there was alarming enough. A numb chill in his fingers, a lingering whisper in the back of his mind, the understanding of his abject powerlessness as an "Unharmonized" Shard-bearer... they follow him.

Dirt is under his nails. In the dim light of Kowloon's neon-bright fungal forest and the city lights, his eyes catch and reflect — luminous as a pale, lavender moon. Flashing in the dark like some eerie cryptid come shambling out into the real world. ]

Ah.

[ He croaks, and then clears his throat. Upon his brow, the pale four-point star catches the light as well. A shard of soft blue, the bottom point trailing down between his white brows. ]

I promise, I mean you no harm.

[sterngaze]

[Very often, these days, when Liem ventures Below to wander Kowloon’s claustrophobic, labyrinthine corridors, he goes anonymously: cloaked and hooded, with his face hidden and his voice and body language magically altered. Kowloon is not kind to those aligned with Meridian these days, and in that dark, seedy underworld, a masked and hooded face is not so strange a thing. For a man who simply wishes to do his business and be on his way, anonymity is the simplest solution.

On this particular occasion, he does not bother. He is not here to explore the shops and the markets; there will be no one to attempt to swindle him, and if any ruffians grow overbold with his person, he has arms and magic to rely on to convince them of their error. So he is bare-faced and garbed in his inquisitor’s robes as he wanders the strange city’s outskirts, familiarizing himself with the tunnels and caverns branching off from this one. Contemplating the idea of arranging an expedition deeper in, weighing the potential costs and benefits.

He spies the dark-skinned elf easily in the plentiful glow illuminating the cavern: soft to human eyes perhaps, but not so to his. The dark elf’s features are written plainly in the neon light, and it takes only a brief moment to confirm that the small man is someone Liem hasn’t met before; another moment to spy the shard and discern, with a short Look, that it is wholly unharmonized.

His gaze follows the elf watchfully as he draws closer.]

Are you lost? [The man’s unwashed appearance and complete lack of weapons are rather conspicuous for someone in this setting, especially given his unharmonized state.] This is not a good place to wander unarmed.