[ 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

[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.]