[ He finds his legs in time, chasing the power of her form and the elegance of her design headlong across the land of Alenroux; Set is not unfamiliar with the beasts that also resemble a jinba, the chimeric entities he has made of sand to draw his chariots, the horses that he has ridden that have the same strength — but, are not the same. This is the body of a jinba, not a half-human, half-centaurine being. Hayame is a whole person, not pieces cobbled together.
And for a while, neither is he. Chasing her across the land reminds him of chariots in the desert, of endless sand tucked against the horizon and the wind brushing along his throat as he lifted his face to look up to the beautiful, blue skies of Egypt. He had ridden the vehicle drawn by beasts there, and here, he is the one that drives himself forth. Cropland to field, to the untended brush that rakes across his legs and the underside of his belly as he charges alongside her, to the denser undergrowth of the forest where he finally begins to slow.
All thought, save for the enamored feeling he has for this form, purged from his mind. He slows to a manic prance, hands pressed low on his heaving upper ribcage, too sensitized to be immediately still but unable to move quickly now that he has run himself into a blissful frenzy. When he lifts his eyes to hers, he can see — her, as she is. The way her expression sits upon her face, a better vow than any she could give him about her potential. She is not a monolith, however hard she tries to adhere to what she knows, and only that.
Hayame has a future, it only needs to be nurtured. This time, he takes her hands and follows her into the water with the most dignified, albeit worn, flop. His red hair, the flag of his own tail sinking wet into the water as he seeks the bottom of the pool and drops himself below the surface for a moment. When he surfaces, he breathes again. Like her, he is far too stern of expression to truly smile, but there is relief in his bearing and brow.
And then he spits a mouthful of water into her face with a laugh. ]
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And for a while, neither is he. Chasing her across the land reminds him of chariots in the desert, of endless sand tucked against the horizon and the wind brushing along his throat as he lifted his face to look up to the beautiful, blue skies of Egypt. He had ridden the vehicle drawn by beasts there, and here, he is the one that drives himself forth. Cropland to field, to the untended brush that rakes across his legs and the underside of his belly as he charges alongside her, to the denser undergrowth of the forest where he finally begins to slow.
All thought, save for the enamored feeling he has for this form, purged from his mind. He slows to a manic prance, hands pressed low on his heaving upper ribcage, too sensitized to be immediately still but unable to move quickly now that he has run himself into a blissful frenzy. When he lifts his eyes to hers, he can see — her, as she is. The way her expression sits upon her face, a better vow than any she could give him about her potential. She is not a monolith, however hard she tries to adhere to what she knows, and only that.
Hayame has a future, it only needs to be nurtured. This time, he takes her hands and follows her into the water with the most dignified, albeit worn, flop. His red hair, the flag of his own tail sinking wet into the water as he seeks the bottom of the pool and drops himself below the surface for a moment. When he surfaces, he breathes again. Like her, he is far too stern of expression to truly smile, but there is relief in his bearing and brow.
And then he spits a mouthful of water into her face with a laugh. ]