[ 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

[warmare]

[To her, it is as natural as breathing, as existing. But she supposed that if she were suddenly to find herself on two legs, that she would stumble and struggle, her entire sense of body, balance, and weight thrown off by the shift. So she is mindful, she is, bordering up to but definitively not crossing the line to pity, clipping her stride until he finds his, but once he does-

Once he does, she tightens her hold on his hand and urges him to race her and leave the shade of his world behind. She has things she's ready to temporarily leave behind as well.

How long has it been since she has run beside someone who could keep up? Not just that, no, but hearing the sound of multiple hoofbeats churning dirt and grass beneath them as the scenery around them blurs? The wind whips through her long mane and tail, creating ribbons of ebony streaming out behind her as powerful muscles bunch and release, long legs making short work of furlong after furlong, mile after mile. Eventually sweat begins to froth along her flanks and her barrel-chest lungs do begin to labor, but she is a field jinba with stamina, and she carries on as the fields become meadows, as the meadows become forest paths, her hand never breaking from his and reveling in the double heartbeat she can feel pulsing in their hold, guiding further (farther away)-

Until they finally come upon the place she has intended for them. Somewhere secret and private that she has come to frequent since she began primarily living on Alenroux, a clearing in the shade of the woods where a river became a waterfall into a crystalline, moss-lined pool. As they approach she begins to slow their pace from the dead gallop back to canter, to trot... and only then does she let go of his hand, prancing around the transformed god of war with her tail high and her fetlocks kicking, an expression on her face that isn't quite a smile, but almost... almost could be, buoyed by the wind and the fleeting sense of freedom that their run had provided.

She reaches for his hands again- this time, to try and draw him from the earth into the water.]

[redsoil]

[ 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. ]

[warmare]

[This was the body of a jinba. This was what jinba were when they were as they were meant to be- free and wild, as powerful as the mountain and as fast as the wind. The things she had never been allowed to be- not fully, even though she'd been "allowed" to keep her arms and raised to think she was somehow better than the other members of her kind, the best possible of the options a jinba had in a world ruled by humans. This is what Matsukaze had been trying to teach her, when she had been made prisoner in that village in the mountains.

In his absence, far removed from the world she had committed herself to die for... This is what Set would have her be. This is what she would force him to share and know alongside her. She can't be the only one capable of being free.

Unlike the transformed god, Hayame has layers of robes- but she doesn't care. The only thing she shucks before pulling him into the water is her pelt wrap and the belt holding her weapons, her waist pouches, and then she is splashing into the water, pulling him in, away from the soil where that foul god's flowers and thorns can grow and into a place such plants should have no roots, no grasp. The pool is deep in the center, the water is clear and cool, they go from hooves on mossy stone and silt to hooves cleaving through the water, to crimson and ebony tails and manes trailing the surface like ribbons of ink, and then he is gone beneath the surface-

But he comes back, and he-]

Pfftp-

[He spits water in her face and laughs. On instinct she splutters, releasing him to wipe her face and shake the drops from her hair, but instead of being angry... Her lips curl into something like a smirk, challenge rising in her breasts.]

That is how you are going to use that body, Set? To attack the only woman who can teach you all there is to being a jinba?

[She seems to draw her arm back, to prepare to splash water back in his direction, without realizing that she had for once just referred to herself as a woman without any negativity attached. (Not positivity, either, but-)]

Two can play at that game, friend!

[In the wake of the water she slaps in his direction as a distraction... she finds just enough footing on her back hooves to surge forward and tackle him, forelegs scrambling for purchase on his withers and trying to wrestle him into a dunk beneath the surface of the water.

In that moment... It felt like she would do anything to keep him there with her. Even learn to play.]

[redsoil]

[ As he tumbles into the water, he feels the point of contact and the instinctual knowledge that in that small, minuscule moment, he is most vulnerable. Once submerged below the water, he is capable. Above the water, he is capable. But, with his sand saturated and heavy, breaching the surface in either direction would cripple him — yet, with Hayame, he plunges into the waters mindlessly. Blindly seeking a place where he knows the vines and flowers cannot find him, if he floats in a place where Duat does not connect to. If he were to hesitate on the bank, she might recognize a weakness in him, where he must continue to portray himself as almighty, untouchable.

Swimming with his body is a difficult thing. Treading water takes a little more energy than he has in the moment, but eventually he learns to tap his hooves off jutting rock to elevate himself a little more, and to keep the length of his spine parallel to the surface of the water. His arms circling gently to maintain the lazy drift he accomplishes after he remerges to taunt her playfully, his teeth bared winsomely in her direction. ]

Of course! I have always learned best in battle!

[ His 'attack' on her is pure childishness, as is his shriek of laughter as she blinds him with a burst of water before heaping her weight upon him, shoving him below the water.

Set tucks under her body, hands shoving up to find purchase along her ribs — tickling her uninjured side with clever fingers, holding his breath all the while. He has to wriggle to the side to find purchase with his hooves, to shove himself up onto his hind legs and tangle his forelegs in hers. Wrestling her, forcing her back into deeper waters. To play with her in the water, until they are cool and exhausted and can scatter themselves upon the ground — heaving for breath, letting the breeze dry them.

No matter how long it takes them to get to that point, he eventually will lift his head from where he has pooled it on his crossed wrists. To find her with his eyes and murmur: ] I want you to have more days like this, from now on.

[warmare]

[Hayame had never played, and she had never had the luxury of being able to be childish. But in insisting he let go, in trying to drag him into distraction and the freedom to be the man and god that he is without those thorns and those accursed red flowers... she almost achieves it herself. She wrestles him into the water and dunks him, she readies herself for his counterattack...

And then suddenly, laughter bursts out of her. She didn't even expect it, she's never- No one has ever tickled her, she did not even know she was ticklish? It is short and clipped, almost frightening her with a sound she thought she'd never hear, but-

Then Set bursts back out of the water and they are grappling, forelegs tangling, water splashing, the quiet of the shady forest and it's dappled sunbeams filled with the sounds of their "battle". She forgets to remember that it is only the second time in her life that she has ever laughed in anything but derision or mockery. That she didn't even recognize the sound of her own voice when it happened. Instead they clash, they fall apart, they chase, they roll, they grapple... and she forgets other things along the way, too.

Later, lying on the mossy water's edge, her dun coat cooling and her wet tail occasionally swishing across the rocks... the things she had forgotten threaten to come creeping back. But as long as they stay there... they are not as dark, not as immediate, not as suffocating. She almost feels... peaceful, listening to the sound of the birds in the treetops and the wind rustling the leaves. When Set finds what's left of her gaze, the one stormy grey eye that looks back at his crimson pair... She listens.

The part of her that is cold and cynical, that has always had to be that way, almost asks why he would try and curse her with days filled with those who professed to be her friend lashing out at her, haunted and unwilling to be guided even as they try to guide her, demanding while brushing off her demands... But she doesn't say that. She knows what he means, and it isn't that. It's the rest of it, the wind and the taste of freedom and the warmth of his body and the not being alone.]

... I want the same for you.

[With her hair still damp and clinging in bedraggled strands down her shoulders and back, it is easier to see the scarlet line of his blessing amongst the inky black. Maybe she would not admit that to him, if he was still just a war god to her, and she merely an adherent seeking his favor in a place where conflict was a given. But he... he was the one who'd changed it. Who'd called them friends in the first place. And if that was true...

She stares back at him from the scant inches that separate them, both chests rising and falling in slow rhythm. Would she seriously hold her own happiness hostage in an attempt to force him to pursue his own? Were those days he wants for her even possible if he was still trapped by the shades of his own mind? In the silence... the implication sits heavy and quiet.

And in between, she slowly pulls a hand from serving as a pillow for her cheek to reach out, tucking his mane into place until she can brush her fingertips over the strand of ebony hidden in the crimson.]