[ Even depowered, Set is a tactical nightmare. He is athletic, battle-learned. he knows hundreds of forms of combat, all of which he wishes he could bring to bear in this moment, against this man. He brings Jonathan Sims down, in a dark corner — far enough away, confined within the imprisoning roots, that it will take a moment for anyone to get to them, but not far enough away that they can be alone. Set holds him underneath the weight of his body, knees shoved bruise-brutal along the line of the man's ribs ( finding the strange give, the space where ribs ought to be, and digging his weight in there — ) and hands holding his forearms.
Red hair streams around them, ribbons of crimson that obscure their expressions like a veil, a velvet curtain upon this stage now built for two. An onlooker might think the war god has come to claim a tithe of blood once more, from Zenith's scribe, but John will see it — the expression on his face, twisted in bleak misery. Heartbreak, and anger all in one moment. It is paralyzing, lovely upon him. In the obscenity of mass Communion, the red flowers that blossom in his soul seem to shiver, to indulge. To seek the sorrow within Set as if it were the sun, with sentiments of adoration, obsession.
( There is Fear, among them. Rooted so deep within him. )
He shakes John, just a little. Voice catching on his own state, Zenith energy building dark within him. ]
— we were even. We were even, Jonathan Sims.
[ Hollow, and haunting. There is a burning, shining brand in the center of his throat — dark vines cradle the line of his neck like a controlling collar, a noose, and dead in the center is a single 'gem', the proof of his murder: an eye, unblinking, looking upon Jonathan Sims. ]
You took something of value from Meridian, I took something of value from Zenith, [ the discrepancy between knowledge and knowledge-seeker is inconsequential to a god, after all. ] Why did you take her from me? Why did you have to do that to us? Rudbeckia de Borgia was mine.
JOHN ARCHIVIST.
Red hair streams around them, ribbons of crimson that obscure their expressions like a veil, a velvet curtain upon this stage now built for two. An onlooker might think the war god has come to claim a tithe of blood once more, from Zenith's scribe, but John will see it — the expression on his face, twisted in bleak misery. Heartbreak, and anger all in one moment. It is paralyzing, lovely upon him. In the obscenity of mass Communion, the red flowers that blossom in his soul seem to shiver, to indulge. To seek the sorrow within Set as if it were the sun, with sentiments of adoration, obsession.
( There is Fear, among them. Rooted so deep within him. )
He shakes John, just a little. Voice catching on his own state, Zenith energy building dark within him. ]
— we were even. We were even, Jonathan Sims.
[ Hollow, and haunting. There is a burning, shining brand in the center of his throat — dark vines cradle the line of his neck like a controlling collar, a noose, and dead in the center is a single 'gem', the proof of his murder: an eye, unblinking, looking upon Jonathan Sims. ]
You took something of value from Meridian, I took something of value from Zenith, [ the discrepancy between knowledge and knowledge-seeker is inconsequential to a god, after all. ] Why did you take her from me? Why did you have to do that to us? Rudbeckia de Borgia was mine.