[ ( Yes, they do. Meridian deserves a proper god, someone real, not an imposter masquerading among them; they deserve someone like Isis, plagued by her own temper but adoring of others. A woman who would break her own world for vengeance with one hand, and be bastion and blade to defend the vulnerable and weak without mercy for their oppressors. Meridian deserves Horus, calculating and calm, who would take them by hand and lead with youthful vigor, bridging gaps and distances between so many hearts. Instead, they have Set. )
He finds Vash among the sands, so easily. Like they call to one another across realms, despite the opposition of their Aspects, they feel — fated? in a sense. Is he drawn to Vash because of the scent of sand on him, the burning heat of the sun scalding the back of his head and his shoulders, stooped low under some invisible weight? Is it because he is paranoid, perhaps? Because he cannot parse anything from Vash, not sentiment or emotion, but he still speaks so kindly as if he feels all that is around him.
In their minds, he tucks Vash into the oasis. ( — a memory blossoms; the haggard stumbling of someone lost, tongue dry in their mouth, throat closed, unable to cry or do anything more than slowly, painfully wither in the heat; the thundering of feet and hooves in the sand, of wheels turning and churning, the animal-cry of great chimeras that rush across the land; the snagging of their arm, by the brutal hand of a man in the mask of some unknown animal, wind in their hair and world thrust beyond that which their mind can comprehend; to be dropped into a small realm of green, of warm waters they can drink their fill of, the chariot and its god vanishing just as quickly into the horizon. )
In Alenroux, he looks between them and folds his mind back into itself. He leaves Vash with the oasis, though. And remains folded against him, his brow leaning into the Plant's own. ]
— keep it, [ the thing between them in the dirt, some errant crop he's encouraged to grow — eggplant, maybe? ]
I decided my path long before I came here, so. Do not fret too hard.
no subject
He finds Vash among the sands, so easily. Like they call to one another across realms, despite the opposition of their Aspects, they feel — fated? in a sense. Is he drawn to Vash because of the scent of sand on him, the burning heat of the sun scalding the back of his head and his shoulders, stooped low under some invisible weight? Is it because he is paranoid, perhaps? Because he cannot parse anything from Vash, not sentiment or emotion, but he still speaks so kindly as if he feels all that is around him.
In their minds, he tucks Vash into the oasis. ( — a memory blossoms; the haggard stumbling of someone lost, tongue dry in their mouth, throat closed, unable to cry or do anything more than slowly, painfully wither in the heat; the thundering of feet and hooves in the sand, of wheels turning and churning, the animal-cry of great chimeras that rush across the land; the snagging of their arm, by the brutal hand of a man in the mask of some unknown animal, wind in their hair and world thrust beyond that which their mind can comprehend; to be dropped into a small realm of green, of warm waters they can drink their fill of, the chariot and its god vanishing just as quickly into the horizon. )
In Alenroux, he looks between them and folds his mind back into itself. He leaves Vash with the oasis, though. And remains folded against him, his brow leaning into the Plant's own. ]
— keep it, [ the thing between them in the dirt, some errant crop he's encouraged to grow — eggplant, maybe? ]
I decided my path long before I came here, so. Do not fret too hard.