[Liem, who has spent much of his life travelling in the company of no one at all, who has long considered the wretched realities of difficult service something that exists only between him and his patron god, is not in the habit of seeking aid — especially from those who might regard him as friend. He is slow to heed the suggestion that he should do so, even after Set's past admonishments, and those of others. By his reckoning, he is not so feeble that he must trouble others with such things.]

I have no more need than anyone else of such assistance.

[He speaks this with conviction, despite the blooms of livid, dusky grey that show starkly against the fatigued white of his face. The sun has burned him cruelly, dizzied and fatigued him — but the shadows it casts are long, and he still retains enough of his power to summon shade of his own, for some brief stretches when he must travel beneath its unshielded glare. He is not helpless against it, despite the weakness in his blood.

Besides; he can plainly see the toll this apocalyptic land has taken on Set as well. The ruddy shadows of the church's vine-clothed interior cannot hide such things from him.

Liem sits in a carven alcove, scorning the rickety, time-worn pews in favour of a lip of stone at the foot of the wall. But when the slash of sanguine light is choked by Set's withered vines, he emerges to step into it. Friends, the god says. He would not have assumed such a thing — even now mistrusts it, like a wild creature eyeing bait dangled before its nose.]

Perhaps I did not call because I believed your aid would be better directed elsewhere. You must be very busy.