[ 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

[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. ]

[warmare]

["My face?" She almost throws his half-mad words back in his face when he demands to know what between them might be tiring, her lips twisting with pent-up frustration. Another step forward, another, and she crushes a second bloody flower underhoof, despising the sickly fragrance that it gives off and not knowing exactly why. What does he have to tire of between them?]

Of fighting.

[Like she had fought him in Communion not a day or so past, like he is so obviously trying to fight her (anyone) now, like he fights something unseen to her eyes separate from the world of Communion. Hayame had never known what it was to be a friend, she has never had anyone in her world call her by that name, and those very, very few who had used the word with her here... She has assumed they were lying or being flippant. What did she know about how to be a friend? She had told him that much when he'd put that word upon her.

But she thinks they are not supposed to fight like they do. Yet instead of simply ending it-

Another step, another flower trampled. (She could easily step on the dirt and avoid them, but there's something sick in them she wants to crush, to destroy, to rip out of him-)]

Do not hide your face from me, Set!

[She might have seemed calm in contrast when she first approached... but there is snap and fire in her voice again already, tension in her large, powerful frame and where her knuckles tighten and her fingers curl into her palms.]

Have I not already seen you? Do you think that mask will erase your eyes from my mind?

8) !!

[redsoil]

Of fighting? No, perish the thought! I could do this into oblivion itself!

[ He both can, and cannot, tire of fighting. The embodiment of war itself will always be spurred into battle-action, into grappling with a direct opponent or tearing into some opposing structure, some psychological frame of reference to send rival armies crying to their homes. He loves to fight. He comes alive, when he fights. Even in the root-caverns below, he was at his best when fighting — with his fists, with his Meridian-bright glory, even in quiet corners where he had fought so very, very hard to prove he could be a way back for newly-minted Zenites.

He could be a home. ( A home requires a foundation. Four walls, a roof. A capable protector, the ghost murmurs to him, they could not find it in you, but I would help you show them. ) He will always FIGHT. But, with them. With himself and Hayame? He admits, it is hard. Every day it is hard, with her. ]

Do you think I regret fighting with you, Hayame?

[ He does not regret, but he does tire. He does, and he does not. Above all else, if they must fight, he would like it to be in a new way. Not the same terrain, the same words, the same arguments. Perhaps, that is why — ( he feels hands upon his wrists that are not there / the dark string of his weapon flowing between his fingers, growing in length as the sands of his own body begin to coalesce into a long, twining bow / he nocks immediately ) — he calls to her: ] I told you, I really am not in the mood —

[ Blood-red flowers blossom along the seams of his fingers, petals raking across his forearms and arrows as he draws, as fluid as her despite the discrepancy in their size. His mouth snarls, frustrated. She will have seen his gaze, of course; she will know his wrath is a desperate, pained thing. So, he must be strong and terrible before her, lest she abandon him. ]

But, my dear friend, if you insist — I will drive you out of here!

[ And he fires upon her. ]

[warmare]

[Maybe gods can fight forever, until every mortal life is extinguished and only they remain, uselessly waging war for no one and nothing. But Hayame does not care if he tires of fighting in general. Perhaps she is selfish. She cares only in this moment if he tires of fighting with her.

Perhaps she is not wise, either. A god of war is coalescing a bow from the sand of his body and preparing to aim it at her, a mortal... and she does not retreat an inch. He is not in the mood? Did he think she was? Her lips pull back in a snarl of her own even as she reaches for the bow grip hanging on her waist belt, one of the few magical items she suffered to touch.]

You will regret fighting with me today, Set!

[A flick of her wrist and the bow grip extends into the sort of tremendous, six foot long bow that she was used to wielding, but before she can pull an arrow from her quiver he has fired.

Reacting in an instant she rears up with a kick of deadly forelegs, twisting in a whip of inky black mane and tail and seemingly attempting to dodge around the path of the arrow with a circular dance upon her hind legs. The arrow is lost in the burst of movement, there is a second where it isn't even clear if she'd been hit or avoided it when she returns to all fours, kicking earth into the air as she digs her hooves in-

And the arrow comes back into sight in her hand, flipped nimbly between her fingers and its trajectory reversed before she notches it on her own bow, pulls the string back...

Then fires right back at him.]

[redsoil]

[ What is the worst, is that he feels nothing to see her perform such a feat. Not irritation that his arrow has not found purchase, not delight that she is as majestic as he is — there is a deep numb thing within his core, rooted among the flowers that continue to blossom in his wake, step by step. She looses his own arrow upon him, and he tips his body underneath its path to avoid it — thrusting his hand behind him to call the sands back from the shaft, peeling the projectile away into grains and dust.

( He wants to cry out in fervor for her, wants to choke on a wild laugh at her wrath and loveliness, but the dance he is in — it feels, like he is standing outside of himself. Watching himself act, while his hands are forced to hold fast to his own mouth and throat, silencing and strangling himself and what he truly wishes to say. )

As the sand bleeds back into his form, he immediately abandons the idea of trading projectiles with her — twisting his wrist to lay the long line of his bow parallel to the ground, before seizing it at the center with both hands. When he drags them apart, the weapon transforms at will; two halves of bow become the subtle, elegant curve of the black khopesh, and he gives one a mocking little spin through fingers and across palm. ]

— get lost already. I have things to do, without you watching me like the fucking voyeur you are.

[ He snarls it, sudden and without restraint; calling the words not to her, but to the side of his own form. The snap of his voice like the lash of a whip, one blade brought to bear against some invisible vision he sees. ( The patient, calm eyes of his brother; awaiting him tiring, awaiting Hayame's fury and stubbornness to finally drive Set from her, or her from Set. Convinced, that it is the only reality that could exist. ) ]

Hey, Hayame.

[ His attention returns to her. The earth below his feet begins to crack, to cave in below the sudden dip of pressure; the strength in his thigh bunching, as he buckles down in preparation to lunge — ]

You're so fucking aggravating, [ in the comic, his season one affect was so much more thuggish rizu so enjoy. ] I ask you to consider some other life for yourself, and you tell me off like it's some stupid fucking thing you're incapable of. Every damn time, your refusal tells me you'd rather go rot in your bitter little hole where you get to be a dead-end warrior than someone who wants to even be alive — !

[ He can drive her out with words, if he has to.

And he lunges, blades diving at her as if to land lacerating blows along any section of flesh he can score a hit on. ]

Why would I want a warrior who's only goal is to die!

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. ]

jesse screaming

[muchalucha]

[ As soon as Set flinches, she pulls her hand away, but it’s not quick enough to avoid the swing of his claws. Maybe intentionally. The fabric catches and tears as she breathes out a startled little oh, but it’s naturally nothing she’s so concerned about as Set himself. Even if his claws had found her, that would be true.

She doesn’t respond right away. She both listens to his words and looks at him, trying to catch his gaze, but… She sees how his gaze is elsewhere, not to her. His question doesn’t feel like it’s directed towards her either. She places her hand on the seat in the space between them, simply there if he wants it, but she doesn’t move closer again now that he’d responded so sharply. ]

I’m here, Set. Quetzalcoatl— Tu amiga, your friend.

[ Her voice is firmer, not quite as soft, like she can use it as a cudgel to break through— Well, she doesn’t know what. But whatever Set is experiencing is deeply painful to him. Every time they’ve spoken or just exchanged blows in the Coliseum in lieu of words, he’s been all confidence to the point of (foolhardy) arrogance. Even when she had first scolded him and he had snapped and given her a little guess that he too had shadows he was fighting off… It was nothing like this. Whatever this is, she wants to beat it back for him. So, she just keeps speaking. ]

Just focus on me if you can, okay? I’m here with you, and I’ll stay with you.

8) you knew i'd go ham,

[redsoil]

[ If only the blossoming, red iris-like flowers within his soul would wither and wilt. If only he could do the same, and just fade away as fast as he can. Already, he knows — Cassian may have to die, Cassian had probably seen him at the end of their Communion under the tree. Cassian has to die, before he really interrogates the image of a battered man and knows it for what it is; or, tells someone else. Surely, he'll tell all of Zenith. They'll all know, and he will become prey again.

( It will happen to you again, sighed. ) Or, or. He will have to die, first. But, he cannot. If he dies, he will be unable to hold true to his promise to Anubis. Osiris will not let him die, unless he is drawn down into the river, until he flows into his arms in Duat. The terror that grips him is violent, paralyzing. Blood rushes in his ears, nearly eclipsing Quetzalcoatl's voice. I'm here with you, she says, and he is nearly able to lift his head.

Another god of life, the one in his head, twists her voice within his ears. Her words are spoken in that deep, patient intonation he has done his best not to think about: And I'll stay with you. ]

— s, shut up. Both of you, I cannot —

[ Think. Speak. Bear being looked at.

His fingers slip into his hair, digging at the roots upon the crown of it, twisting them into a curtain he can hide behind, elbows drawing in along his cheeks as he hunches, hollowing himself. Trying to wither away. His mind cannot find her, cannot fathom movement beyond what he must do to protect himself. But, subconsciously, every existential flower within him ( save for one, the dark one, the one he wants to swallow down — one last petal, one more ) straining toward the god of the Azteca. ]

Tell me, that it is just us here?

[ Does he ask Osiris, or her? ]

waugh

[muchalucha]

[ Both of you, he says, and Quetzalcoatl’s expression falls. So he is seeing someone else, but… Not someone he wants to see, clearly. She’s briefly at a loss as Set digs his hands into his hair, because how do you fight a phantom that only Set can see? Whoever it is, Quetzalcoatl wishes they were just here in person, and she’d gladly cut them down for Set’s sake.

Her hand in between them balls up into a fist as the tiniest sign of the frustration she feels at not being able to do more. So, when he speaks and asks a question, she’s quick to answer. She leans just a little bit closer as well, almost subconsciously. Clearly, Set doesn’t want to be touched, but it feels like by being here, he might be able to see past the illusion. Maybe. ]

It’s just you and I, yes.

[ …Well. And the patrons that are keeping their distance at this point but looking on worriedly. But Quetzalcoatl is ignoring them at this point, so her answer isn’t intentional dishonesty. ]

Whoever else you’re seeing, they’re not.

[ She pauses, uncertain again, because comforting words come to mind… But it is based on an assumption. Still… The way Set is acting, it’s one that feels more likely to be true than not. If she’s wrong, she’ll just apologize. ]

They can’t hurt you, Set.

[redsoil]

[ quetzalcoatl v. osiris, what a freaking match up

Because he asks a desperate question, he receives a patient answer. It has to be enough for him to find purchase in; his ribs expand, for though he does not need as much oxygen as a mortal, it is still something he draws on. Akin to breathing in scent, breathing in the fabric of the world itself, instead of just the air of his grandfather. That is how he can find the hint of her, the sunny scent of Quetzalcoatl's divinity; like a warm fruit, the incendiary heat that follows the breaking of a bone, her voice and scent manage to fill him enough. He lifts his head, peering through the curtain of his own hair, dark pupils blown wide as a black mirror, mouth bitten to shred by his own teeth. ]

Yes, he can. No matter where I go, he made sure of it.

[ There is nothing but the utmost faith in that statement, born of repetition and the steady erosion of his will below another's. Even if Osiris's image is but a ghost now, he could become real and present any time. He could crawl out from the roots of the Tree of Life, he could be the Tree of Life itself — the unbidden image of his brother, corpse-green and made of roots and dark-eyed, his eyebrows creased in heartsickness, his hands holding to Set's torn body. I have only ever lived for you, he had said. It springs between the two of them, Savant to Stargazer.

( Zenith would readily call to a man like that, and Set can only think — if he were not the one here, he would be the prize that Osiris would ask for. )

He has to lunge for Quetzalcoatl, because if he does not, he will have to ( hear / feel / think ) again of the warning. Instead of meeting her with claws and teeth, he plunges himself into her warm arms, threads his fingers into her golden hair and hides against her without a sound. Maybe, if he buries himself in her, he will not be found. ]

Quetzalcoatl. [ He breathes her name into the crook of her neck. ] I cannot stay like this —

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.

[redsoil]

[ It takes a moment, for his vision to clarify the one who stands before him.

Byleth, immovable and placid upon his surface, hiding an array of unnourished sprouts below that. A man that he cannot sink his claws into and rattle around, because there was nothing to find purchase in; it is not often, that Set compares people to those of his homeland, but Byleth is different because he is Sothis's descendent. He holds her heart alongside his, and that makes him something divine in some capacity. Thus, more palatable to Set than any stray human might be.

Especially now.

He is quick, once he spots Byleth, to draw black sands over his face with a clawing motion of his fingers. To settle himself into the hostility of his nature, and prepare to battle everyone, anyone, who stumbles upon him. ( It is not, perhaps, because he wants to hide his expressive face, his eyes and what they might betray, and everything that could give him away for a pathetic madman, instead of just a madman. ]

I told you, [ he utters, baring his teeth below the dark line of his mask.

( The borzoi mask, as Byleth referred to it. ) ] Of all things, I am sick of your faces right now, and cannot escape them even in my private moments.

[ The thin veneer of his hostility fractures, even as he says it. The trailing presence of the one who haunts him, who crawled out of the Tree, commands his gaze. Even as he snaps at Byleth, the narrow nose of his mask follows something unseen — the walking path of his hallucination, half-circling Byleth in study. ( He can see Osiris's cold, black gaze upon Byleth. He can practically hear his 'thoughts', about Byleth's divine core, about Sothis. To Osiris, Byleth's friendship would be a threat, competition. Something to be snuffed out, or used as a collar and leash upon Set. )

So, he snaps ( if he is mean, byleth will be spared and safe ): ] Do you not have better things to do? Like make a mockery of me in your novels?

[fishfearme]

I don't mock. I write the happy endings I hope you'll have.

[Wasn't that the beauty of the written word, that you could manifest impossible scenarios like that? Byleth had found some solace through it at least, that though he was powerless here, in some fantastical, made up world he would go home and meet Jeralt again, or Hayame would learn to love life, or he would somehow befriend Claude in his world as well or- yes, writing Set happy endings, since the man seemed determined to pull the thorny cloak of pessimistic destiny tight around him, no matter how much it seemed to draw blood.

And Set seemed to be metaphorically haemorrhaging. With the borzoi mask firmly in place, Byleth couldn't help but be reminded of the mangy, half-starved dogs that slinked in the shadows of marching armies, starving and vicious, snapping at any extended hand, be it friendly or malicious. Set's teeth were bared, body taut, trembling, ready to fight, ready to bite, and Byleth, as always when presented with a hurting, cornered animal, felt a deep, incredible empathy.

He held out his hand, slowly. It's okay if he bit, he thought, much like it was fine when the starving dogs bit when snatching food from his hand. They only did so out of fear, and Byleth had a high pain threshold.]

There's just me and you here, Set. Do you want me to show you?

[Because he could see the dip and angle of the borzoi mask, tracking something unseen. Byleth sensed nothing. Sothis, when he mentally elbowed her awake, sensed nothing (and she elbowed him back twice as hard). That didn't mean it didn't exist, but physically it had no influence over them. At the very least, he could try to show him this.]

[redsoil]

[ It is Byleth's turn, to aim words at him that strike so sincerely that he feels the wind knocked out of him. Sometimes, people manage it. They manage to cut through the layers of pain, of wrath he drags around himself like a shield and the bleak line of insanity that echoes like misery in his soul. Happy endings? Happy endings! Byleth wants him to have happy endings? ]

— you think, there is a happy ending for me?

[ The ghost that haunts him looks upon Byleth coldly, and skillfully twists the tender thing that he offers Set into his own weapon: Of course there is a happy ending. I offered it to you, so long ago, with me. No fantasy could ever compete. ( Set does not want him near Byleth, does not want to know what he could do to the fragile thing that co-exists alongside Sothis's heart. Even though Osiris is naught but a memory, he is so tangible and real a fiction that — that maybe, even Byleth's fiction could be true? )

Sleek as a ribbon in the breeze, he closes the gap between the two of them. Claws and curled fingers that bite into Byleth's hand and higher, against his forearm. Inelegant, but still lovely in the way that he is akin to a wild animal, a predator that mildly recognizes something familiar in someone that approaches out, but must still bite that offered hand because that is what it does. ]

He is there, [ he tells Byleth sharply, ] not truly, but he is always there. Show me the happy endings, instead. Make me believe in your fiction.

[fishfearme]

[Set's grip was harsh yet desperate, a drowning man at sea. In the back of Byleth's mind Sothis hissed in warning, but he nudged her aside. He wasn't oblivious to the dangers gods brought with them.]

I'll try my best. [Byleth was always one to manage expectations.] If you're willing to put your faith in me, then it's...

[Byleth turned his hand slightly in Set's unyielding, painful grip, returning it in a far gentler way.]

...something we can do, together. What happy ending do you want, Set? I'll try my best to replicate it and craft a world where such things are possible.

[He had only written what he assumed were Set's happy endings, but he didn't truly know the god's heart - much like he didn't know Claude's, or Sothis's, or Hayame's. He could press his own concept upon Set, but would it truly make him happy? Would it just be forcing him to accept Byleth's ideal of a happy ending? Better to hear the man's wish from his own lips, even if he would have to wait an eternity to hear it honestly verbalised.]

[redsoil]

Things made for the pursuit of wickedness do not get to want happy endings. We stand in the way of them.

[ An evil god can only languish in the delusion of happiness for so long, before their true nature is drawn to the surface. He had been happy, once. Distant as he had always felt, his wife had been happy when he returned home to her. His son had always heeded him, always sought him out. His sister was his best friend, his brother a fair and generous king who took his counsel. And that happiness had been a lie, so what was happiness — if not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The only "happy" ending he knows, is to suffer his atonement, return to Heliopolis, and serve to eternity aboard Ra's barque. Isolated, alone. ]

— I no longer have the imagination, for such things. My happy ending died long before I was thrust from my world to arrive here, where there is a "Heliopolis" that is not my Heliopolis.

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. ]

hissy cat hissy cat

[redsoil]

[ What he expects is words. Words, words, words. He has had his fill of words, between the perverse competition below the tree — tearing into one another's' weakened wills, usurping their conviction and demanding they renew it for — for what? some silent Oracle's unknowable pleasure? Even as he rages, Set speaks in feral poetry, skipping between the common tongue of Kenos and a language that is dead to so many who hail from his world, or some iteration of it. He argues with the shade of his own kin, whom is so very,

very good, with words.

And when he clarifies upon the man in his red, red coat, he is utterly jarred from his tirade by the silence. By the unhappy smile upon his face, looking upon a one-man show with what? What? He could not place what Vash felt in Communion, could not glean much from him that was not muted, hidden away behind gently-closed doors and some veil of old, old exhaustion. ]

Do you think I want you around? Someone who cannot bring his emotions to bear among us, and instead withholds? Do you feel anything?

[ All he can do is be cruel, defensive as he brings clawing words and actual claws to bear.

This man sought Horus with him. Allow him to reach the image of his nephew, to hear him speak — and drew him away from one delusion. But, he is still so fresh from beating upon Amos Burton with his fists, as if punching his way into the man's head would force him to feel something, feel human. Be and act with emotion, instead of pretending he wanted to be. He does not want to know Vash is just another one like that. ( You are a spectacle, his brother sighs, always such a mess to behold. This is the second time he has come to observe you, in such a similar situation as before. One might think he enjoys it. ) ]

[intervener]

[ the tongue-lashing hits a mark Set couldn't have known to aim for. nothing in Vash's expression changes; the smile that doesn't touch his eyes doesn't waver, and aside from a mild shift of his posture where he's seated, he doesn't make any moves to betray his elusive feelings.

but what he does do is pat the spot next to him among the soil and grass, among the earthy scent of crops and life and greenery. ]

You wanna take a load off? I can't make you, but you look tired.

[ it's a statement rather than a question. Set is tired. he's been run aground, so to speak; he is no longer treading water, but the place he's been washed up on the shore isn't where he had wanted to go when he struck out on his journey. somehow, he'd gotten lost along the way. ]

[redsoil]

[ get wrecked vash!!! ]

— how can I?

[ Take a load off, that is. He does not require sleep, his existence is a vast and endless thing that Meridian needs. He must be both proof of their ideal, that it is real and attainable because if he did not exist, how could his world? He must be the shelter for those who yielded to Zenith, to refocus their minds and hearts in a different direction, in case ever they needed to lean back and close their eyes to the cold. Even to pretend.

( The ghost in his head calls to him, urging him to stop and slow. Not to go. ) In his lost thoughts, he has lumbered closer to Vash. Fingers curling, claws hooked and ready to be brought to bear against him. But. Vash has seen Horus, and Set could not hide the begrudging things he had felt for the other god. The stirrings of trust, of respect, of disorienting sentiment at his endless, earnest, patient resolve to be there for him. ]

If I do not keep going, he will catch me. He will take everything from me and replace it with himself, and I will —

[ Slowly, he hooks his fingers, his claws, into the red collar of Vash's coat.

It is such a lovely shade. It does not match Set's eyes or hair, which also match the blanket of flowers. ]

My brother was always easier to love. Kenos would love him, too.

[intervener]

[ he and Set are not of the same Aspect. there is no heightened Communion between them, no fathomable reason why Set's pain should feel so visceral, as palpable as if it were Vash's own. maybe it's the sheer force of something kept repressed and held back, finally bubbling to the surface, a sickness being bled forcefully from the skin when the pressure grows too much to contain it.

Vash doesn't understand the full picture, of course; the snippets he gleans from Set's ramblings - mention of a brother; of being caught. replaced. a kinder, more charming sibling, maybe. someone Set is at odds with, and yet--

and yet...

Vash understands the complicated bonds of family. he is the last person to judge someone else in those shoes, much as he wishes Set weren't wearing them. the pain that bond is causing a man who tries and tries and tries to do the right thing - it isn't a burden Vash wants him to bear. isn't he shouldering enough already?

so when clawed fingers curl into the fabric of his coat, he doesn't make any moves to remove them. this is a gesture of desperation - like a cry for help, he thinks. it's heartbreaking. it's unfair. but it's necessary, because bottling it all up again will only make all of this worse. each footstep Set tries to take will continue to sink deeper in the sand for that oppressive weight until the day it simply buries him. he needs to lighten the load.

Vash stretches a gloved hand, reaching for Set like one might a cornered, wild animal who may be skittish and unsure what to do with such kindness. it seems an apt comparison, somehow, sad as that may be; he settles his hand gently at Set's upper arm, close to the curve of his shoulder. something about this - despite the grandiose notion of this... being, this veritable force of nature holding the title of godlihood... Set well and truly feels far more like a child, right now. ]

But you are here, and he's not. He can't take anything from you that you don't give him.

[ slender fingers softly squeeze in an attempt to root the other man here - to the present, to the physicality of the two of them, sat here among the natural beauty of Alenroux, a departure from both the homes they're used to. ]

And we wouldn't let him, anyway. You came first. I kinda already like you.

[redsoil]

[ Everyone is someone's child.

Even a god, who ought not to fixated upon human bonds — for they do not hold natural sway over the interactions of divinity. Technically, the moment that he ascended he was ungoverned by heritage, untethered from parents and siblings, perfectly independent and equal among all the gods of Egypt. Yet, he still felt isolated. Alone. They ought to have no concept of alone, among the collective — but, he did. Some small need, unmet, has left him injured for years.

He sinks. Folding slowly to his knees before Vash, elegant even while caught in the undertow of punchy shock and hostile misery. There is no other way to be. His hands trail up from the place he had grabbed, following the line of Vash's shoulder, his arm, until he can fold one over the place he has been touched. ]

I cannot trust that. [ Protection will always be conditional, when offered to him. Or, it will be a mocking thing. A god? Needing protection? Hah! ]

It is too late, anyways. What he wanted, he had from me. Now, all he must do is wait — either I will go to him, in despair, or he will destroy everything in his way to get to me.

[ sound familiar vash???

Still, despite the futility in Set's words, he holds fast to that hand. Even as he pries it from his bare skin, feeling the coil of skin-sickness within his belly, he holds it between his own. Idly examining his fingers, the glove, the feeling of it. ]

— how can you be like this? [ And he flicks Communion toward Vash. The ghostly impression of Set's acute sense of smell, which can pick up the uniqueness of divinity itself, treasure below earth, blood spilled in the far corners of Egypt's lands — and the pain, in Vash. ] Gentle, but so far away.