Flatterer, [ Set laughs, wild and, well. Flattered. ] If you want me so badly, come and take me.
[ To fight, is to dance.
To dance, is to yield to something passionate, something crisp and clear as a kestrel calling — unseen in the sky. The rush of wind whipping through the reeds along the Nile River, the sudden thrust of a scaled body lunging into the waters while sediment stirs in its wake, the purity of an untouched oasis that looms into view after a long, difficult journey under the brutal, harsh heat of the sun. To fight is the most wonderful thing for him, and he traditionally pours his time into the Coliseum, into Ryad's dangers. Into Shard-bearers, Meridian and Zenith alike, in the throes of battle for something that will make victors of one faction and failures of the other.
He has been waiting, to clash with this young man. Zenith does not know the splendor of him. It seeks to quiet and calm him, when he should be burning dark with passion and fever. With the force of that promise, trailing in his wake, Set turns his eyes upon Childe and rushes forth. They are powerless, but he has never truly needed a weapon. He is the weapon, every inch of him perfect and deadly, honed in centuries of battle and tactic. To move first is to allow the other to perceive and prepare for what comes, so Set makes his first attack as direct and forceful as possible.
He rushes in fast, but his gait reduces as he narrows the distance between them: a leap, a skip, a small bounce. Set feints, with the lift of his right knee, as if aiming to drive his weight through his thigh and into Childe's solar plexus. Instead, he converts his momentum by stepping in, dropping that knee in order to pivot on his toes and aim with his left leg. A high kick that, if he were fully divine, could literally rip the head off a man. Here, it'll just hurt bad if it connects. ]
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[ To fight, is to dance.
To dance, is to yield to something passionate, something crisp and clear as a kestrel calling — unseen in the sky. The rush of wind whipping through the reeds along the Nile River, the sudden thrust of a scaled body lunging into the waters while sediment stirs in its wake, the purity of an untouched oasis that looms into view after a long, difficult journey under the brutal, harsh heat of the sun. To fight is the most wonderful thing for him, and he traditionally pours his time into the Coliseum, into Ryad's dangers. Into Shard-bearers, Meridian and Zenith alike, in the throes of battle for something that will make victors of one faction and failures of the other.
He has been waiting, to clash with this young man. Zenith does not know the splendor of him. It seeks to quiet and calm him, when he should be burning dark with passion and fever. With the force of that promise, trailing in his wake, Set turns his eyes upon Childe and rushes forth. They are powerless, but he has never truly needed a weapon. He is the weapon, every inch of him perfect and deadly, honed in centuries of battle and tactic. To move first is to allow the other to perceive and prepare for what comes, so Set makes his first attack as direct and forceful as possible.
He rushes in fast, but his gait reduces as he narrows the distance between them: a leap, a skip, a small bounce. Set feints, with the lift of his right knee, as if aiming to drive his weight through his thigh and into Childe's solar plexus. Instead, he converts his momentum by stepping in, dropping that knee in order to pivot on his toes and aim with his left leg. A high kick that, if he were fully divine, could literally rip the head off a man. Here, it'll just hurt bad if it connects. ]