[ 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

[ APRIL ] zhongli, starwatcher spire

[dawnlord]

[ Would it be any wonder, for a Stargazer to find themselves at the Starwatcher's Spire? In the midst of the early days of the Blight, he takes time out from a busy schedule to continue his own exploits; even as people agonize in the streets, there are numerous Zenite Shard-bearers who examine their lives and liberty and choose to prioritize themselves. It is, after all, well-within the wisdom of their natures to do so. And so, Bondrewd attends the lingering lessons within the Starwatcher's Spire, while simultaneously monitoring the spread of the Blight. ]

There there, [ with his hands on the shoulders of one of the weeping scholars, he seems to be soothing them by the time Zhongli turns up. The hulking, dark figure of a creature, softly glowing in the shadowy corners with someone crying silently, clutching the material of his heavy coat: First Alenroux, they can be heard uttering, sorrowful and not sobbing unconsolably, now, the Blight comes to Highstorm! Meridian must be doing something to exacerbate the issue. ] There is no evidence of such a thing, Scholar Sain-Breq. While Meridian has made overtures that are aggressive, they are also plagued by the Blight — this is a matter both our cities must attend to, if we are to have any future at all.

[ He soon looks up, as the young scholar begins to recover, noticing the presence of another Shard-bearer in the vast room. With a light shrug, the gesture of his open palms in greeting and a slight 'what can you do' motion, he soon parts from the scholar in order to approach the other man. Armor rattling as he steps closer, tail swaying sinuous as he leans down to keep his voice hushed, polite in the hall of learning they currently inhabit. ]

Even the scholars here are concerned for the safety of their sanctuary. This Blight poses such a risk. Do you know what they study here? Aspects. The same as the ones we are marked by.

[sharethememory]

[ By all accounts, Zhongli probably should have been busy investigating the Blight directly and tending to those unfortunate citizens of Highstorm who found themselves within the now blooming flower's clutches. But he had dragged dozens back to the safer areas of the city and poured over countless tomes in between. He had even tried to listen to long complicated scientific explanations where the words seems to blend together until they practically lost all meaning (a strange role reversal from when he was the one who usually did the talking). And thus, he found his way to a part of the town that he did not visit as often as he should. To a place where he should have looked first for answers. The stars were the tapestry weaved by the hands of Fate, after all - if there was anywhere that would guide them to an answer or show that none was to be found, it was here.

The presence of another Shard-Bearer here is also no surprise. Zhongli recognizes the tail (drawn to such details as he was) from a similar silhouette as a group of them had made their way to Aetos lair more than a month ago. What is surprising is that the Bearer is still donning his full armor even within the walls of Highstorm. To each their own, Zhongli muses to himself. It did look quite insulated and cozy when considering how more frigid everything had become with the Blight.

He inclines his head in a returned greeting, eyes trailing after the distraught scholar before returning back to Bondrewd. ]

They probably have good reason to be concerned. The Blight spreads more each day with little understanding to what has caused its accelerated growth.

Though I am intrigued on the intersection of the study of the aspects to the concept of astrology. Stars have a particular meaning in my world that may not be common to others. There is a belief that each being is born under a constellation that divines their fate.

[ Zhongli takes a few steps farther into the sanctuary, approaching Bonedrewd with hands clasped behind his back. ]

Do the aspects have such a similar meaning, I wonder, gift as they are from some other power.

[dawnlord]

The Blight is my foremost concern, and I will not rest until we are able to attenuate or entirely arrest it. There can be no future for the people of Highstorm, or Springstar, if the Blight is not dealt with before all of the Oracles are located — that much, I am certain of.

[ Despite being armored from head to toe, he is a polite and well-spoken man. Authoritative without being overbearing, the calm of his voice echoes faintly from within the dark metal of his helm, the glow of it pulsing softly in the dim lighting of the building. He excuses himself from the Scholar's presence, to offer his hand to Zhongli in greeting. ]

The Blight was present in the former Oracle match, and during it, I have read that one Aspect was bolstered while the other was hindered — Iconoclast and Stargazer, of which I am the latter. I have heard that the Aspects can be divined with, and I wonder how we came to be part of the groupings that we are — why are we connected so intimately during Communion, incapable of blocking our fellow kin out — what are the meanings of the Aspects, how were they discovered?

[ He asks a lot of questions, and while none of them have answers, that does not seem to bother him at all. It is simply one more marvelous mystery to examine. ]

I wonder that, as well. What are the innate meanings of our Aspects, and why mark us? We are already Shard-bearers, was that not enough for this world?

[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. ]

[JUNE] closed, liem talbott

[redsoil]

[ After Set's no-good-bad-week, there comes an obnoxious banging coming from Liem's front door.

Incessant, rough. It carries on, seemingly without end because the individual on the other side of the door carries their discourtesy as a weapon, as the core of their person. Liem ought to know who it is by now: the war god who claimed him as friend, whom stands awaiting his presence. If Set gleans the change that has come over the wilting figure, it only seems to harden the set of his jaw; to elevate the cant of his throat, curl harder at the corners of his mouth. Most striking, however, is his relative state of — well, actual dress. The pattern of attire he wears is distinctively Springstar in nature, in a deep black that fades into a charcoal grey, a hemline of pale blue.

He wears only one earring tonight, the long gold line of it gleaming with delicate spokes. A sun? No, a long, liquid star. There is something etched upon it in delicate hieroglyph, and he makes no comment upon what it could mean. Black, gold, pale blue. There is a lack of jewelry upon him, speaking to a more somber appearance, perhaps something a little more ascetic in design, but his hair is brushed until gleaming, unbound around his shoulders, and his mouth is as rosy and full as ever. ]

Put on something nice, Liem Talbott. [ He declares, a battering ram of a man. ] I am taking you to the theatre at the Last Dance tonight, as my date.

[ There is no question in his words. There is only proof that the only person he had in mind for this venture was Liem himself; Set adorns himself in their Faction's ( their Faction's ) style, but the colors are the ones he has come to commonly associate with Liem. They are the ones chosen to match his typical attire, as if Set himself has gone to great lengths to ensure they will match handsomely. ]

However deeply your heart has broken, you are still to be my friend. I want you with me always.

liem.exe has stopped responding

[sterngaze]

[The hammering at his door is one that Liem could recognize anywhere, even had it caught him totally unawares and roused him from a dead sleep. He appears at his door promptly, well aware that his visitor will not cease until he is answered, still somehow concerned with his neighbours' opinions of him even though they must already have sunk all the way into the street gutters. Liem squints out into the relentless day, a frown of consternation already upon his pale face.

It is an expression that only deepens when Set confronts him with his demand.]

Now? [he asks, because it's the first question that breaks through his shock, and because he is under no illusions about the possibility of him not doing this thing. Set is already on his doorstep, dressed in—

Actually, he's more dressed than Liem can recall seeing him since the Scorching Isles. He looks resplendent, dressed to go somewhere nice. With Liem.

The second thing that breaks through his bewilderment is:]

The theatre?

[These are more manageable, bite-sized pieces of information than just about every other word out of Set's mouth, and right now they are evidently all he's equipped to grapple. (Perhaps his recent lack of sleep has something to do with that. The shadows beneath his eyes seem especially deep, today.)]

[redsoil]

The theatre, at my favorite venue. The Last Dance is putting on a show tonight that I think you will find most pleasing — it reminded me of the things we speak of together.

[ Of home. Perhaps of responsibility, and that undercurrent of love that all Shard-bearers feel, regardless of their side.

Liem's neighbors are probably beginning the phone tree already, to whisper about the presence of the red-headed harlot that shows up to his door and how tonight, he is remarkably dressed. Could Mister Talbott have finally bought him something nice and, ahem, respectable to wear? His feet are bare below the hemline of his robe? gown? neck tauntingly hidden from view. And without mercy, without pausing to allow Liem a moment's more to rest — he claps his hands together. Bright, commanding.

Perhaps he, too, wears his energy and enthusiasm as a shield against the despair Meridians feel right now. The despair Liem is spared from, unless it be his own. ]

I have our tickets already. Come come, must I pick out your clothes for you?

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?

[sterngaze]

[Whether the explanation of the outing satisfies him, or whether he simply doesn't wish to put on a show for his neighbours, Liem blinks levelly at his guest and steps back to allow him entrance, and respite from the light. (Not that the desert god seems bothered by the sun, but it is the principle of the thing. In any case, he's hardly going to make him wait out on his front stoop.)]

That won't be necessary, [he says mildly, regarding the god through the dimness of his abode. The outfit that Set has chosen for this visit is striking, and not least of all because of the colour scheme, which greets Liem every time he gazes into a mirror. He looks deliberately groomed, in a way that Liem appreciates and makes a habit of aspiring to, regardless of his weariness — but he still doesn't wish to have the god poking around his closet. Preparing for a… a date is surely meant to be a solo activity.

And, aside from that, Liem has some doubts about Set's ability to pick an outfit for him. Current attire notwithstanding, he doesn't necessarily have confidence in the fashion taste of a god who often just wears the same thing day after day.]

You might have given me some warning, at least. [So Liem could make excuses and flee the premises before his arrival? Surely not, surely not…] Now I'll have to make you wait.

[Isn't he already groomed and dressed handsomely by probably anyone's standards? Yes. Always. But he's not dressed to go out, which, as he retreats further into the house, evidently means he does indeed need to go redo his entire look, fop that he is.]

[redsoil]

[ Stepping into Liem's darkened home has become something he is at ease with. Familiar with, for they meet up with clockwork regularity most "evenings" in Springstar and take back those precious, frightening moments from the world that had summoned them to do battle. Even the approach he takes to batter down Liem's door, physically and mentally, is a strange and chaotic routine that he takes on unflinchingly.

He enters, when permitted.

Liem looks terrible, no doubt the result of all things that have come to him. A different tide washes at his shores, but to Set, like all tides — it will abate, and the same waters in different patterns will reach him. He does not wish to think about Liem, a Zenite, with him. Only Liem, a friend. To that end, as he enters — he slides an arm like liquid across the man's shoulders.

To clasp him to his side. ]

You think I am unwilling to wait for you? Hah! As if. You can run as far as you like in this existence, and will find me awaiting you wherever you go.

[ The one room in the house he probably has no clue about WOULD be Liem's personal quarters, and he's dying to see them! ]

Besides, you are meticulous where I am not, and I wish to watch you. Galaniel helped make my vision into this [ a little ruffle of the long robe,

the hint of a thigh-high slit,

and Set's feet are definitely still bare! He prances forth, deeper into Liem's home, to begin rattling at doors and their frames in search of the man's "elusive" quarters — and upon his bare, exposed back, twin lines of black follow the path of his spine. Nothing is upon it, just the thin gathering of dark material that hides the length of his throat from the eye, but leaves the space where Liem bites on display like a weapon brought lovingly to bear. ]

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. ]

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.

[sterngaze]

[How can one man be so completely impossible? Set hammers on Liem's door as he always does, demands his company and tells him to change his clothes without a second thought, and through it all wields intimacy like a weapon, denying Liem's doubts even the slightest purchase. He allows him no room to ponder why the god is here to sweep him off to the theatre, or to question that Set would remain so steadfast a companion even as Zenith maintains its grip on Liem's shard. Each time he comes close to wondering about these things, the brazen immediacy of the chaos god loose in his home slaps him full across the face.

Or clasps him in a one-armed embrace only to prowl off and start trying doors, as the case may be.]

When did I say you could watch?

[Dear gods, his back is still just as bare as ever — perhaps more, even, bare as it is of the heavy necklace that often rests upon Set's shoulders. Liem has an excellent view of the strange new marks upon it as he pursues his guest through the hall, catching up with him next to the stairs that lead to the uppermost level. That way lies Liem's bedroom and his study; despite the presence of a guest bedroom in one corner of the level, he has never yet had cause to bring anyone up there.

He cannot help but think now of what it would be like to let the other man watch him dress; something he had previously managed to avoid considering. It strikes him also that Set looks suspiciously tarted up for a friendly jaunt to a performance in the Below. Then:]

You had that ensemble put together just for this?

[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. ]

"SUSPICIOUSLY TARTED UP" DAMN

[redsoil]

Oh, all right. Twist my arm about it. I will not just watch, I will assist you.

[ Liem's path is one he soon follows, in pursuit of him with a vibrant, heedless glee that seeks nothing less than to utterly steamroll a man who would shut him out if given the opportunity. Who would try to take shelter in shadows that did not belong to Set. The distinct, mad possession he feels towards Liem burns hot and heady. No matter where he goes, he must be made to know that as Set's companion, he cannot flee his cruel graces anymore.

He takes the stairs, by two, darting up them with the gait of a predator that is attempting to close the gap between itself and prey. Except. His prey right now is Liem's bedroom, and after rattling at a few more doors — and leaving them all open as he goes — he finds the one he seeks. Whether Liem is behind him or before, he enters and moves directly to the center, to spin slowly and look at the things that the man surrounds himself with. ]

No, Liem. [ As he stills, his attention hones in upon Liem again. That otherworldly intensity that serves only to strike ruthlessly: ] I put this together for you.

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. ]

[sterngaze]

Wh—

[Set, that is not what he meant! Liem scowls after the god as he plunges up the stairs, too married to his dignity to quicken his pace and chase after the other man. He doubts that doing so would accomplish anything in any case; is he going to physically bar the Egyptian god of war from his bedroom? No. Nor does he bother objecting to Set’s offer of help in choosing an outfit (but just in choosing one, right Set? right…?); he feels much like the more he struggles against him, the more force the god exerts to keep him from refusing his advances.

(Perhaps, on some level, he enjoys the inconvenience. He is not used to being pursued so tenaciously, over his own gentle objections. And though he could be firmer, more resolute in his denials, he does not really want to see the day when Set gives up on seeing him, if such a day were to exist. Never once has he considered saying “I’m not interested,” or “I don’t have time for you.”

A poor excuse for communication, though, for a man who has sworn to help Set with that task.)

The bedroom he follows the god into is large, though only when considering the modest size of the home. It is richly appointed in cream and midnight tones, the floor plush with rugs and the bed neatly made. Though there is a nightstand and a dressing table, not so much as a stray earring lies out in plain view. A small bookshelf bears a modest collection of books, primarily poetry and religious collections, mixed with historical treatises and other non-fiction works.

By the sliver of light filtering in through the shut curtains, glimpses of a washroom and a walk-in closet can be seen through a pair of doorways leading from the space. The only other notable feature of the room is a small shrine to Abadar, tucked into a small alcove and set low to the floor, that it might be accessed by a kneeling person.

Liem meets Set’s intent look and sighs.]

Thank you.

[He does not say “you are a strange man, to do so,” although he thinks it. Would one not need to be strange, to put such deliberate thought into hunting him down and taking him on a date? A nice date, he assumes, because he has every reason to at this point. What a strange man, a strange god, Set is to seek meaning in the likes of him. Strange — or perhaps just broken.

In any case, he assumes the theatre will not wait.]

How much time do we have, before we must go?

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. ]

[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?

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.

[redsoil]

[ True to form, upon delivery of his utterly lunatic sentiments, Set gets into absolutely everything he can lay his hands upon. Liem's bed? Wrinkled by him bouncing onto it briefly. The rugs? Slightly off-kilter, as he darts across them and kicks up a corner or two in his wake, leaving them to overlap misshapenly. The nightstand is left alone, in favor of a brief pawing through books — gazing at their spines, looking for which ones have the most wear around the edges. The shrine, he does not approach.

Yet.

Instead, he goes for that sliver of light. Closet, found! ] A-ha!

[ The exclamation of victorious finding comes in the wake of Liem's small 'thank you', the soft flow of Set's hair ( trimmed up to his shoulderblades, from the knee-length sheet it had once been — for there was no salvaging it, after his skirmishes under the Tree ) drapes over his shoulder. It falls across his vision, half-obscuring the expression that creeps along his mouth and eyes, something that existed to be unclassified by mortal eyes. ]

I came early enough for this. Two hours, to prepare you and reach the venue before seating begins. If you select your clothes, I can do your hair. Galeniel picks my clothes, but this [ he touches his face, the dusky shadow and iconic, sharp angles of kohl around his eyes ] I do, myself.

[sterngaze]

[What a short time it takes, for this chaos god to rumple Liem's neurotically tidy bedroom into a more haphazardly lived-in state. He watches for a moment in tired bemusement as Set investigates whatever seems to catch his fancy, leaving disarray in his wake. Liem hates to think what kind of state his own home must be in — unless his retainer also serves as his maid.

When Set makes for the closet, Liem crosses to the wide, curtain-shrouded bedroom window and slides back the outermost layer of fabric, letting a profusion of soft light flood in through the translucent curtains that lie beneath. Even he prefers not to dress in the dark; it makes judging colours difficult.

Having progressed rapidly from shock to denial to arrive now at resignation, he turns around to regard the beautiful, unbearable man who has invaded his closet.]

It looks very handsome.

[Though Liem knows nothing about make-up, that much is obvious. Also, it's just polite to say so to one's date, which he has belatedly accepted that Set is.

Joining the other man in his closet, he begins looking through his (fairly substantial, at this point) wardrobe. Perhaps the reason Liem is always tired is because of all the hours he works to finance his shopping habits.]

Is this a venue where people go to be seen, or are the other patrons simply meant to burn with envy when we arrive?

[redsoil]

[ For all that he cavorts and enjoys himself at the expense of Liem's tidiness, it is when Liem joins him at the closet and says that to him, that he falters in his ruthless pursuits. One moment, he runs his eyes over the other man's expression, as if to await the mockery that follows, perhaps a just kidding or other rude barb that makes a compliment sound like something depraved and poisonous — only to find that it is not going to arrive. Maybe he will be made to wait again, for the other shoe to drop. ]

— well, it is the face I was made with. Most mortals are not allowed to look upon it.

[ After being parted from his divinity, he'd gone around in hood and veil — not just because he was, perhaps, the only true redhead in Egypt, but because something about him drove men insane. In terrible ways. At least in Kenos, there are women and other lovely people, as well as individuals with all sorts of tastes that are not beguiling redheaded war gods. Liem's compliment colors the high line of his cheekbones, the flush nearly indistinguishable at its origins because the stain upon his eyes is red, like all things about him.

He remains in the frame of the door, watching as Liem begins to sift through his wardrobe. ( There are so many clothes, how does he wear them all! ) It doesn't seem like he's going to look away, once his eyes return to the other's person. ]

The Last Dance is a bastion for artists and actors. They are all eclectic and know when to avert their eyes from private moments, but they will always appreciate a good showing. Provided you match me — which, I will ensure you do — we will be seen, envied and ultimately fade into the wholeness of the spectacle. Lest we do anything purposeful to draw it, the Last Dance is keen upon allowing its visitors to exist unmolested by attentions.

[ To him, it was a haven. And then he had hallucinated his own version of Liem's father in the dark, and now it was painful to go alone. ]

[sterngaze]

[The more he gets to know Set, the more of a puzzle the man seems. He is shameless, in showing his body and in initiating close contact; yet a simple compliment flusters him — and when he speaks of the Last Dance, it is to laud it as a place where one can escape the attentions of others. He is brash and even aggressive — and then, within a span of heartbeats, thoughtful. And although he grapples eagerly enough with the challenges of war, he cannot master the art of making other people understand him.

Isolation cloaks him like a burial shroud. Liem wonders if it is only because of Set's divinity that mortals of his land were not permitted to see his face.]

Then I should have visited there long before now. But I have been too busy to seek the pleasure of such places.

[It sounds like the sort of place he would have been pleased to visit, in his bleaker moments back home. He had often sought refuge among the bizarre fringe cultures in Oppara, the freaks and the deviants and the political artists: those who were already outcast and who would not turn away a strange, dark-eyed man looking to forget himself for a few hours.

For all that he owns more clothes then anyone rightly needs, it doesn't take him long to begin narrowing down his options. Liem pulls out jackets in various shades of blue and black, considering each and moving on from most. It is not a difficult process; his clothes are sorted by type and then by colour, so he has no need to go hunting.]

Have you a preference?

[So asking, he pulls two suits from their places, holding each potential prospect aloft by its hanger. One is pale, decorated by floral designs in dark blue; the other is dark and patterned with gold.]

[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?