Toxic Love: The Exalt Oracle

[beleos]

NOTHING GOES OFF WITHOUT A HITCH

You feel it, the moment that the Exalt oracle opens its eyes, like something that rips through your body from head to toe, something that feel like fire, wild. It sears into your veins, like acid and fire, something that triggers something that makes you want to run, or perhaps turn and face something head on. Before you can find what sets you off – if you could find it. Bearers know what this sensation is, it is different but the same at its core. The emotions, the feelings it sparks are different – but in the end, you know it for what it is: An Oracle.

Kenos groans from the awakening, like a part of a whole sparks to life, and though you do not know what it is that they want yet, you understand and know their existence down to your core. That feeling to attack or defend, perhaps even flee, does not leave you, but instead it fills your veins, you feel it thrumming, pulsing, like the beat of a heart – if one has one. With the sense of awakening, bearers know the shape of what comes next, they will be asked to act, to do. You do not know how it will happen, or what the Exalt will ask of you, but the knowledge that it will happen is borne from experience, not from the Oracle itself.

As you begin to move, to… look, you are not long for this day, it clouds your mind, a hazy, drowsy feeling takes over, the encroaching dark that threatens to swarm, crowding from the sides, taking over your vision – until… it fully takes over, and Bearers are put into a deep slumber.

---

When bearers awaken, it’s difficult to make sense of what your sleepy eyes see. Structures begin to swim into view, and they like tall figures looking down upon you. It’s difficult to tell what they are at first, but as you wake up, you begin to see, they are not people, or creatures, but long spore-like stalks. Some have ribbed overgrowths that you can see, and some end in growths that ripple and hang over, but have no “cap”. They tower over the bearers, like towering spires and buildings, on all sides, as if they were trapped in a ring of them. As bearers look around them they will notice tall green spires around them as well, and it takes a moment for things to really settle in. Mushrooms. Blades of grass. The springy moss about them is almost as tall as they are, low to the ground. There are pebbles that appear as boulders, and the thunderous steps nearby indicate an insect or arachnid walking by, far larger than you. There is a stillness to this space, like a held breath, and as the bearers awake, and regard one another, and then to the center of the circle is – a small effigy in the center.

It is here, the Exalt Oracle, and you feel compelled to regard it, before you are given a pang down to your core. It compels you – pleads, asks, begs, and demands, all in one – for what it wishes for. Precious mementos and precious items that they are missing. They have been lost, and they are somewhere within the Liosachán. It beseeches the bearers to return its items, and begs they be returned here to the circle. There are no words, but there is a pleading sensation, a feeling that these items are treasured by this Oracle.

You feel at your sides, your pockets, and find one item on your person, a weapon, a companion, whatever it is you would bring with you to the conflict, shrunk down to a tiny size with you.

Stay steadfast, bearers, and capture the flag Oracle!

SURVIVAL OF THE SMALLEST ( DAYS 1 - 5 )

Unlike the still, stale apocalypse that had been the setting of the Iconoclast Oracle, the greenhouse is lush and vibrant with activity.

The Effigy present within yearns to be reunited with what belongs to it, fixated upon the five items lost within the greenhouse. The swell of its longing fills all Shardbearers, urging them to take action, claim the items and present all five to it to attain victory for that Faction.

Over a period of ten days, Shardbearers of both factions will have to navigate environmental dangers, and the normal procession of time, as the greenhouse is going about its daily routine. Workers plod around like towering goliaths, weeding and watering and pruning the greenhouse's contents. The Liosachán's native population of fae begin to take notice of the newcomers in their midst, emerging from grassy mounds hidden in the natural landscape to spy and pry about the newness surrounding them.

Naturally curious, and equally dangerous, the fae of the Liosachán are Highstorm natives. They range in cool coloration, from soft violet-greys to deep stormy blues, and wear clothes fashioned from of goods pilfered from the pockets of workers, dropped on the ground or handcrafted from the environment itself. Wielding bits of copper tightly wound into blades and spears, they are a ferocious and cunning little people who seek to trick, trap and toy with Shardbearers. Direct violence is anathema to them, but violence that happens as a result of falling to one of their ploys is a badge of honor.

DAY ONE - THREE. The Effigy initially urges Shardbearers to build bases of operation for defense and practicality, as surviving ten days without supporting one another is a surefire way to meet a grisly, tiny little end. Resources must be gathered: gather food and water, prepare shelter, establish unity and organization and prepare to set off into the wilds soon.

For Shardbearers demonstrating particular selflessness, favoring the protection and defense of another, the Effigy responds warmly from the third day onward — rewarding them with a sign of their dutiful nature towards others in the form of fairy wings, the form of which are unique to the Shardbearer themselves.

DAY FOUR. The sudden thunderous sound of a storm begins. No, not a storm, the tumble and crash of water pouring down upon the greenhouse — the workers of the Liosachán perform their routines faithfully, after all. In watering the garden, the danger of the environment threatens to overtake Shardbearers and their work alike. Drops of water fall, their size equal or larger than even the tallest of characters, and trickles of water muddy the ground in the form of raging rapids.

The security of Meridian and Zenith's camps is even called into question, because as simple as the act of watering a garden is, it is a nightmarish situation for such itty bitty Bearers to be in!

DAY FIVE. By day five, the fae of the Liosachán no longer lurk and linger in the corner of one's eye. They make themselves known, having prepared a banquet below one of the mushrooms, within sight of the Effigy. A table draped in spider-silk lace awaits any Bearer who comes near enough, the sagging piece of driftwood polished to a gleam with golden sap, leaving it waterproofed and pretty to behold. A handful of corks serve as seating, with most of the fae draping themselves across scraps of cotton as though they are simply at a picnic.

They invitingly wave to Shardbearers, chattering brightly in their foreign, lilting tongue, waving tiny sandwiches and little clay pots full of jams and honeys, brandishing sugared berries that they bite into with gusto, staining their arms and faces in swathes of blue and red. They clearly are welcoming to whomever comes upon them, urging them to avail themselves to the bounty they have prepared. Perhaps some characters know better than to eat the food of the fae, recalling legends and lore about the mystical properties and implicit bargains made in becoming a guest. Perhaps some have no idea, and are simply hungry enough to dig in!

UNWILLING TEN-ANTS ( DAYS SIX - EIGHT )

The scuttling, scrabbling feet of ants crawling over surfaces, winding their way through this grassy playground, has become normal. Their feet thunder as they go about their business, and it seems to be a normal cadence to life here in the underbrush, in the greenhouse. It is normal, and it is has become nothing to really concern oneself with. They are ants, after all, what do they do, but work? Endlessly, continuously.

That is, until the heavy, loud sounds of their feet draw closer to whatever place that the bearers have found to camp in. Whether solitary or as a group, these workers are no longer content to simply ignore the bearers, but they are a curiosity, perhaps even a bother. You have disrupted their lifestyle. The sleepy pattern of obtain food, return ot the hive, and back out again now has obstacles. Now there are not simply the fairies, who live their own lives and existences, a part of the ecosystem, but now there are these tiny bearers. Fighting, working together, arguing and disagreeing.

You are disruptive to their way of life.

The ants have come to collect on this due, and some bearers that are vulnerable, or perhaps merely caught, are taken away, your weight so light compared to the rest of their burdens that they carry. The strength of these ants is overwhelming, incredible at this size, and try as you might, if you are caught in their strong mandibles, you cannot escape. An ant, after all, carries 1000 times their weight with those powerful jaws. You, bearer, are nothing to them.

They squirrel away the bearers within their hill, a complicated network of tunnels, junctions, and large spaces. Down within, where the air becomes stifling, and stale. The ants guard their pray, and you get the distinct sense that they see you not as people, not even as enemies, but as prey. You will be food – perhaps to the eggs that are gathered within this room, where you can see the stirring of new life, just beneath the surface. You may not have very long to live, if these little larvae get their mouths on you.

Or perhaps, your friends will save you? Once it is discovered that bearers are missing, the trail of ant prints on the ground is apparent – they are not stealthy creatures – and the feet lead from the locations of several kidnapped bearers toward the grainy ant hill that lies not far away. The hill itself swarms with life, with worker ants all over the surface, scuttling about, looking for the next meal for te colony. Or perhaps for more bearers to bring back for their young.

It will be dangerous, bearers, to save your friends. Should you choose to do so, you will be kicking the anthill, and the ants will protect what is theirs. Even if they just took it. Those bearers belong to them, now! Rescuers will find not only your average worker ant, ready to defend, but winged male ants will attack from above, and deeper, within the nest, near where the bearers are kept, lies the strongest ant in the colony: The Queen. Staggeringly large, strong, and vicious, when her subjects begin dying. She will do everything in her power to protect her colony, and that includes killing bearers, if need be. Or trying, at least.

Good luck rescuing your friends, bearers!

IN SMALL PACKAGES ( DAYS NINE - TEN )

The day after the ant-pocalypse brings with it the brush of recognition — the Effigy has foreseen the likely victors, and calls to them to approach it once they have suitably recovered. It judges them the ones whom are most devoted to what binds them, loyal to memory and remembrance, and begins to clamor for them to restore to it what belongs rightfully. Thus begins a full day of resting, locating last-minute items, shoring up defenses and preparing for the sprint to the finish line.

Certainly your rivals will not allow you to simply walk to the Effigy unassailed and unchallenged.

Eat, rest, ensure your fellows are close and bolstered, for tomorrow begins the final rally.

On the morning of the tenth day, Meridian Shardbearers approach the Effigy with its five items in hand. In the midst of the mushroom ring, the Effigy stands as it had in the beginning — arms outstretched and back bowed skyward, gnarled fingers seeking contact with that which has been lost to it. It awaits, it strains, and even as it does, it requires one last test of ability. From the shadows of the towering mushrooms, the rasp of scale and soft hiss of a great beast descends upon the fae ring.

A gleaming garden snake, with glossy black and green stripes, blocks the way between approaching Shardbearers and the Effigy.

Between its bright eyes, pressed upon its brow is a scattering of brighter scales that appear to be in the shape of a delicate, three-leafed plant with spiraling patterns for leaves. It braces itself against the approach, and there is no doubt that to claim victory, the serpent must be subdued. Though Meridian approaches with victory in hand, they have not yet attained it — their rival faction and this beast remain in their way.

MISSING LINKS ( THROUGHOUT )

As the Effigy desires to be reunited with what belongs to it, the swell of its longing stirs something more within all present Shardbearers.

With that foreign longing arrives knowledge: beyond the five items prized by the Effigy itself, there are other lost things within the greenhouse. Like a compass, each Shardbearer's mind points them in direction after direction, urging them to seek and explore. Implicitly, the thrum of comprehension fills your mind: these are things that do not belong to you, per se, but seek to have your hands ferry them home.

Amidst tangled brush, hidden under doffed acorn cap, tucked away in the belly of a fae's glittering den, lost in the depths of a puddle of spilled water that seems an insurmountable lake now, folded secretly into the petals of a towering, skyscraper-like flower, there are three additional items hidden within the tumultuous landscape that each Shardbearer feels a draw towards. Things that belong to someone else, eager to be reunited with them, but subject to whim.

Upon locating and retrieving one, the Shardbearer is filled with a sense of information — they know who this item belongs to, and they will know that they have a choice. Bonds are fragile things after all, and they exist to be enforced or abused, in order to advance a goal or to deepen a connection. How will you treat someone's precious bond? How will they treat yours?

NOTES

Here are some prompts to set the scene and foundation of the Exalt Oracle! — The theme of this Oracle is a loose edition of capture the flag, where the Effigy's items can pass through multiple hands within the ten day allotment.

— For additional ideas and fun, it is known that several Shardbearers have concluded their efforts to fulfill the Greenwood Yards' sidequest request.

— All details of the Exalt Oracle can be found here, and questions for the mods can be submitted here.

CODING

Comments

[hauntedking]

[ Dimitri, at least, has been blissfully unaware of their being stalked. This whole 'forest' is full of creatures and so the odd rustle in the undergrowth is distracting. He's on alert. Waiting and watching, but quietly pleased with the outcome so far - and not expecting an attack from below, at least. There's a moment where he starts in alarm, his honed reflexes beginning to react-

It's not quite fast enough. Gen is past them in his leap and he utters a cry of dismay as he realizes that the prism is gone from their grasp. But he also doesn't let that slow him down. Instead he turns to give chase. He has strength and endurance to spare and he isn't about to let them get away without a fight. ]

There-!

[ He yells, more for Hayame's benefit than his as he begins to take his stride - and finds that his body feels heavy, even for him. He grunts, fighting through it with the near superhuman strength he possesess - but it slows him down. And maybe that's enough. ]

[warmare]

[The last time Amos had seen Hayame there was a bone shard sticking out of her leg. Now, she strides purposefully and quickly through the forest (the garden weeds), over the hilly fields (a furrow in the soil) beside the one who had healed her and helped her find and take a new object to attempt and erase her failure to capture the bell… and she has no idea that there is something moving beneath her feet.

How would she? She is a hunter who relies on sight against something that she cannot see, on smell against something hidden by the scent of dirt, on hearing against something magically passing silent through soil. There is no predicting the sudden burst of earth in front of them, no time to finish a reaction to the snatch of prism from Dimitri’s hold. She gets her bow out, the arrow notched-

But then their assailant laughs… and without a single moment of hesitation Hayame snarls and fires. She sights with the cackle, the call for help…

Then an all too familiar pressure hits and nearly brings her to her knees. A stumble, she catches herself, forces her legs to support her and move forward, but twisted by the weight she cannot raise her bow high enough or long enough—

But she can scream after them even as she tries to wrap her head around what just happened?!]

Come back here, you cowards!!!

[epiprocta]

[ God, but it feels good when a plan actually works out.

Just as planned, Amos comes swooping into view, and Gen forms a foothold underground, using the momentum of his glide to launch himself out at as high a trajectory as he can manage. Maybe it's a little risky dropping his invisibility as he does so, ensuring an easier catch for Amos -- also making himself an easy target for any retaliation -- but he also has faith in Amos's promise that his gravity powers would immobilize Hayame and Dimitri. And sure enough, even when he flings himself into the air and lands in the (soft, fluffy, bearish) grasp of Amos' arms, that single fired arrow misses wide, sent sadly plunking into the dirt thanks to its own increased weight.

It isn't even deliberate this time when Gen laughs again -- it's an earnest response to the exuberant thrill that rips down his spine, an expression of the vicious, manic satisfaction that comes from getting a win over these two haughty, stuck-up, self-important pricks in particular. At least it's also accompanied by a wide swipe of the arm that makes the ground below them unstable and crumbly, sinking them down to their ankles and leaving them floundering for balance. One last fuck-you, one last touch to ensure they won't be giving chase any time soon, as Amos takes them away. ]

Did you see the looks on their faces?!

[ Under different circumstances, he'd probably be more embarrassed about having another guy carrying him like some damsel in distress. But in this moment, he truly doesn't care. It's probably just about the happiest Amos has seen him, certainly in recent times, when Gen laughs again and practically hugs Amos to anchor himself more firmly in the other's grasp. ]

Fucking dumbasses couldn't do shit! Serves'em right! Always hated those two!

[ At least as he does so, Gen carefully checks on their precious catch -- holding up the prism just long enough for Amos to also see that it's theirs now -- before stowing it safely away in the depths of one of the leather pouches at his belt, held close to his body. It'll be easy sailing now, getting the prism safely squirreled away in the Zenith camp. ... right? ]

[baltimores]

[ He can't help but smile at Gen's laugh, because yeah, while he's pleased with how this all worked out — perfectly, the two of them executed this perfectly, and it brings them one step closer towards their goal, one step closer towards something better — it's just good to see him like this. Proud, and accomplished, and happy. Like a kid should be. Like Gen deserves to be.

He huffs a soft laugh of his own in turn, carefully shifting his grip on Gen to make sure that it's solid. (To make sure that he doesn't actually scratch him with his new claws, the fur definitely the better end of the deal right now.) ]

I did not. Was more focused on getting ahold of you. [ But there's still good humour in his voice as his gaze shifts to the prism, his own pride and accomplishment and happiness mixing together with Gen's. Yeah, this is a good win, but fuck, is there something that little bit more special about teaming up with him for it. This. This is the way it's supposed to be.

And, because he's older and far less manic in this moment, Amos' voice stays soft. A pleased little rumble. ] Feels fucking good getting one over on 'em, huh.

[ Meridian, rather than Hayame and Dimitri specifically — Amos isn't exactly one to carry grudges, even in the heat of a moment.

Truly, it'd be a shame for him to run into someone he does hate, as he continues flying in the general direction of Zenith's camp with Gen still in his furry, bizarrely (to him, still) bear-like arms. ]

time to larp mommy

[redsoil]

[ No, it is not someone that Amos hates. ( It is, but shh. )

En route to Zenith's camp, there is a lovely pool. A spill of water from the day that has yet to been fully absorbed by the earth, the cool night reflected in it — violet-soft sky and silvery moonlight dancing across it. A figure stands nearby it, draped in the familiar robes of her station. And from below, her mind calls to theirs. ]

Amos, Gen, [ the calm, cool voice calls up to them. In must be because of their triumph that Yima's tone carries her warmth, her fondness for those who have chosen Zenith, for those who bring them one step closer. It ought to be a familiar tone to the two of them, who have risen and returned and become that much more intimate with the tranquility lain before them.

As if from a dream, Yima's image stands before them in the grasses. Her dark robes fluttering in the breeze that carries her scent to them, her face turned upwards toward the two of them, hands clasped together. Her expression — fathomlessly proud. She is present, for the moment. The grasses around her brush against her robes, folding to them and fluttering along the edges of her train. ]

I can steal but a moment to look in upon the two of you. I wanted to hear your joy, and see what brought it to you.

[epiprocta]

[ 'We should walk the rest of the way,' he'd told Amos. Foolish in retrospect. Something he'd regret in retrospect. But that's the thing they say about hindsight, isn't it?

Maybe if they'd simply glided into Zenith camp on Amos' wings the whole way, it really would have been easy sailing. But because Gen had eventually wanted to be put back down on his own two feet, once the euphoria of their victory faded just enough to give way to typical teenage pride and embarrassment, and because he'd also figured that preserving a bit of Amos' strength might be the sensible choice in the long term, he'd suggested that they land once they just had to cover a stretch of flat(-ish) land to reach where the Zenith campsite was squirreled away. Nothing could go wrong during that short trek, he'd figured.

His skin crawls the moment they spot that familiar figure, as if she's just been waiting for them to show up. ]

The hell're you doing here.

[ Gen's response is, of course, immediately aggressive. But that alone is no sign of suspicion. (Yet.) It's simply that Gen can't bring himself to drop his guard around Yima. Everything about her -- the kindness in his words, the gentle aura she exudes, the softness of her gaze -- reminds him too much of her. (Breaths in his ear. Warmth against his back, arms laced over his shoulders. A soft gaze boring into him.) Though Gen does slow his steps to regard her, he maintains a firm distance between himself and where she stands, shoulders squared and brow lowered into an intimidating scowl. ]

Thought you never actually bothered stepping outside for this shit. Made us do all the dirty work for you. What, did you think you needed to show up and babysit us?

[ He finishes off that statement with a haughty exhale, then looks towards Amos to see what his companion has to say. After their sweeping victory, it's not like they particularly want or need any guidance from someone like her, right? With the way she always sits back with her hands kept squeaky clean, making her pawns do all her work for her, she's not like them. They can just get this conversation done with quick and get going again real quick, right? ]

[baltimores]

[ And, hey, if Gen wanted to take the slightly longer way back and stretch his legs amid their victory, who would Amos be to deny him? It'd seemed like a good idea at the time.

Amos' eyes train on Yima the second he hears her voice. His walk slows, stops as he takes in her every word as though it's air itself, necessary for life. He inhales it. Feels at peace with it.

So, Gen's reaction earns an immediate look, because what the fuck? It's Yima. She isn't the kind of person who... she doesn't send them on dirty work, doesn't ask anything special of them, anything she wouldn't do herself if she could. They're in a certain position, as this generation of Shard-Bearers. It's different.

(It's different, but she still reminds him of her. Breaths in his ear; bodies warm, together. The entire reason he's made it as far as he has. His first moral compass, and now, surely, his last.)

He looks at Gen, bafflement written across his face, before turning back to Yima. Warm, and soft, and entirely hers. ]

Thank you. [ And though he doesn't entirely recognize it — that is love in his voice. ] You're just here to check in, right? See how well things are going; see how we're one step closer to winning this whole thing. Because we are.

[ Appreciation for Yima; a desire to smooth over Gen's words. It's not... They can talk about it later. He can try to help him reach an understanding later. Get them in a better place than before, because once they secure the prism at Zenith's base then they really will be one step closer to a better future — for all of them, Amos and Gen and Yima and everyone else alike. ]

[redsoil]

[ Her expression softens further, in the face of Gen's accusations. As if she foresaw them coming. As if she minds not, and loves him all the same. That enigmatic expression of calm fondness, which only turns upon Amos. Amos, who rises to her defense. ( It keeps the lurking trickster from having to twist her image more, to take the conversations he has held with her and extrapolate personality and mannerisms from them. The less said, the better. ) ]

Yes, Amos. It is as you say.

[ She gestures, between them both. ]

Show me.

[ The spoils of victory, the thing that brings them joy.

( Beyond Yima's starlit form, something coils in the deep shadows. The grasses beyond the water-flattened area are dense thickets, and move softly in the evening breeze. Scores of sharp, pointed legs begin to tighten, under the silent command of the figure that flows like water along the ground, rivulets of sand that dart between the tightly-packed blades of grass to take flanking position behind where Amos and Gen have come to a halt.

The image of Yima does not waver, stood like a bastion against their advance. Anything to give them pause, as the redheaded wargod finalizes his ambush with unwavering focus. He just needs to know which one has the prism on their person. That, and he gets to learn a few things about them. Were he in any other mood, he'd love to drive a wedge between these boys. Maybe another time. ) ]

[epiprocta]

[ Ugh. Somehow, he can't feel that surprised that Amos seems to have been fully drawn into Yima's allure. It's hardly subtle when Gen shoots Amos a sideways stare back, brow furrowed as he gives a quick little click of the tongue. (Somewhere at the very, very back of his mind, an old memory flickers. The details are foggy, but he feels like he's caught a glimpse of something from Amos that reminds him very much of Yima. At the same time, the short hairs at the back of his neck rise. He wonders why.)

Whatever. He'll talk about this with Amos later. For now, he just wants this conversation over and done with.

Yima gestures between them, and Gen stiffens ever so slightly, lower eyelid tensing in a wary squint as he regards the hand held their way. Like a feral dog distrusting of a kind offer of food. ]

There's no real point in showin' it to you, is there?

[ It's subtle, but does Set spot it? The way Gen shifts stance to rest a hand at his belt, seemingly in a display of stand-of fish aggression -- but his fingers brush over the opening to that pouch, as if to ensure that it's still firmly fastened and hasn't been touched. He knows that the effigy's object is safely squirreled in there, but he can't help wanting to double-check that it hasn't been hampered with. ]

We're takin' it back to camp until we can take'em all where they belong at once. Best to get it there as quick as we can, to keep it safe. [ He glances once more towards Amos with that last bit, tilting his head towards the path that they'd been headed down. Even if Amos is caught deep in Yima's spiderweb, he should at least understand the gravity of the task that awaits them, right? ] So we're gonna get going, yeah?

[baltimores]

[ The warmth with which he looks at Yima is disrupted by his own sidelong glance towards Gen — one of confusion and mild exasperation, both for his attitude towards her, and...

... The fact that he's right.

As pleasant as it always is to see Yima — as much as he'd love to spend more time with her, even in the midst of an Oracle battle — Gen's right. She doesn't need to see the prism on their person; it's not like it even means anything outside of being one among five tools for victory. It's just a stupid tiny speck. And they'll have to hold on to it for days longer yet before they actually win anything, anyway.

Something is off, he can tell. But it's his first instinct to assume he's the problem, because he knows that where he has none, most people tend to have sentiment. He's the outlier. So why shouldn't the prism be important for Yima to see, anyway?

There's an uncertainty to his body language, now, Amos caught between desire and logic, an uncommon experience for him. He freezes before slowly bringing a paw up to Gen's shoulder, gently resting his claws there in show of support as he turns his gaze to face Yima once again. ]

We probably should get going. It's dangerous out here when you're this small. [ His voice is soft, apologetic. He really would like to stay longer, to show her, to show her everything, but the logic in Gen's harshly-worded demands can't be ignored. ] We can celebrate once we have the Oracle after, right?

[ And he's still enraptured enough to not notice anything else amiss, earnest in his readiness to do a good job, to win. ]

[redsoil]

I see. [ Calmly, the image of Yima is made to say such gentle things. ] I understand that I still must earn your faith in me above all else, my children.

[ She addresses both of them. Her tone a light thing, meant to instill the simple fact: Gen does not trust her, and Amos is choosing Gen's mistrust over her. She bows her head, her shoulders; an elegant and implacably kind acceptance of the facts before her. The soft scent of her being flows through the air, as if part of the night and the garden, her robes falling soft along her frame. It is the final lure, this act of gracious acceptance that her image is twisted to do. ( For Set does see Gen's hand go to the pouch, and he decides in the next moment to do something about it. )

As Yima's image inclines her head, the eruption of motion behind her is swift and violent. One might think it the sudden explosion of a spring, the unyielding speed of a runaway train — but, it is a horrific creature that lunges over Yima's head. A copper-toned arthropod, massive compared to the shrunken Shardbearers, with its mandibles splayed wide and multitudes of legs propelling it forward. It aims for Amos, aiming to collide with him and drive him to the ground, limbs hooking around his own to keep him from being able to move — and pincers positioned high on his throat, threatening to bite deep. Centipedes, especially this breed, are extremely venomous, and the threat ( hopefully ) will be enough.

The second half of the ambush comes from behind, simultaneously. The sound of a blade cutting through the air, and the dark path of the khopesh that sinks into the pouch that Gen had so helpfully marked, the prism falling from the split material and into the palm of the war god's hand. He carries forth, diving and rolling to a halt alongside the image of Yima, rising without any expression on his face. Just the mask, and the steady line of his mouth. ]

I was unsure if you were serious about asking me to do this, but it is as you said. Gen really does seem to be trying to disabuse Amos's faith in you. And Amos... well, somewhere in there, he must prefer 'her' to you, if he'd allow that.

[epiprocta]

[ Everything changes too fast.

Yima's words just about roll off his back; Gen ignores the tiniest prickle of guilt that stabs at the back of his throat like a swallowed fishbone, willing himself not to think about how much that reminds him of her. He needs to focus for now, and that means getting the object to Zenith's camp. Everything else can come after. And so he's fully prepared to continue making that trek -- when the sudden explosion of movement reduces those plans to so much rubble. ]

Amos!

[ He can barely even make sense of what it is that's barreled into Amos -- something that's all spindly legs and enormous mandibles, long antennae whipping behind it -- but Gen still whirls on his feet, stance lowered as he prepares to attack. Which, unfortunately, leaves him wide open for the assault from behind. The slice at his pouch has him stumbling, and Gen whips around with animal speed as his hand gropes at the torn leather. The prism, of course, is gone. And the culprit -- ]

You! [ The alarm in Gen's voice is promptly replaced by rage and indignity, and he promptly bristles at Set, teeth bared and gaze flashing bright with anger. ] You've got a lotta fucking nerve starting shit with me, given what I have! You want'em back in fucking splinters, do you?!

[ It's partly a bluff. The jars are hidden in a spot a little too far to destroy from here. But the fact remains that those objects are at his mercy. He'll destroy them as soon as this scuffle is over, and if Set has the balls to kill him, then those jars will be lost forever unless Set wants to dig up the whole garden by himself. ]

Give it back now and I'll consider leaving'em whole.

[ Amos can handle himself, right? And besides, he's sure that Amos, too, would want to prioritize that object -- victory for Zenith at any cost. So Gen doesn't hesitate before starting to stalk closer to where Set stands beside 'Yima,' the very earth roiling and shifting beneath his feet as he anger continues to froth. ]

[baltimores]

[ At first, there's the sharp pang that comes from being struck, words cutting deep at the idea that Yima would think he doesn't have faith in her. It's a different kind of pain from physical; in theory it should be less detrimental, but it does leave him hurt—

And then there's no time to think about that, because a monstrosity is lunging for him, and before Amos can so much as lift an arm in defence he is tackled, bowled over, pinned. His wings flutter uselessly on the ground as he attempts to raise his claws, is immediately stopped by the arthropod's own limbs. By the way it stops just short of biting through his throat.

He stops breathing, staring up at this thing, his entire world narrowed down to this creature that has him at its complete mercy. Through their shared aspect Gen might be able to feel the terror prickling at the back of Amos' mind, restricted and unable to so much as move his body.

And then Set speaks, and for a second the world goes red, Amos straining to rear up, furious and ready to tear this thing limb from limb, tear Set limb from limb, for stealing the prism for working with Yima for invoking Lydia—

His neck brushes against the edge of the mandibles and he unceremoniously drops his head back against the ground, chest heaving with fear and the effort it takes him to keep his anger in check, because if he doesn't he's going to get himself killed for fucking nothing.

At least Gen is safe, he reminds himself. That's what's important here. So. ]

Do it. [ His voice is hoarse, a strained croak as he continues staring up at the arthropod that holds his life in its... whatever it is it has. ] Whatever it is of his you have. Pulverize it.

[ Because he doubts that Set is going to just hand the prism back over. They'll almost certainly have to figure out another way to get it back.

But whatever fucking game it is going on right now — whatever it is that Set is doing with Yima — he'll have to come to terms with Yima's part in it later. But there's no bartering with someone like Set, so if Gen really does have something important to him... he should lose it, and he should suffer, knowing that if he hadn't done this he'd still be able to get it back instead of it being gone forever. ]

[redsoil]

[ At Yima's side, the long, dark maw of Set's mask slides from where it looks to Gen, toward Amos — because of course Amos would stand on the side of "destroy it". Because whatever it is, it belongs to Set. Nary a smile nor smirk develops on his face though, as he tugs the mask off and coolly regards Amos for a long, long moment. And then, he smiles too — enigmatic, assessing. It's the same smile Yima wears, from time to time. Maybe he's learned it from observing her. Wearing her mask helps steady him, in this frightening, horrible moment.

And his attention turns to Gen, in full. Gen, who he can reach into the heart of. ]

Go on, then. I will take whatever you are choosing to sacrifice, in exchange.

[ Not a crease appears between his brows, and the smile smooths off his face. At his side, he ensures Yima's image remains animate and watchful, her gaze looking from one Shardbearer to another — as if weighing the three of them against one another. Waiting for their choices. ]

You chose Reiji for what is mine. Will you offer him up to me for Amos, or for Zenith's progress? You cannot stretch the worth of what you hold further than what you are willing to lose, my Gen, for an ultimatum only works once. Make sure you've thoroughly considered what you want, and what you can accept being without if you choose to make good on your threat.

[ His words are quiet, but his gaze severe. Set turns on his heel, his hand 'touching' Yima's shoulder as if to assure them that she is really there, that he is really in communication with her. And really, the best lies are built on truths. ( His mouth his dry, his heart hammering, his instincts screaming not to bluff like this with his child on the line. Not before Amos, who will urge Gen to destroy the item simply because it is Set's. Heedless of any bargain between himself and Gen. ) See you soon, Lady Yima, he murmurs to her, to maintain the final stages of his ruse. The nod of her head and a final pass of her gaze across Gen's combative stance and Amos's vulnerable position carries, like she is deciding somethings. Her smile soft and beatific and proud: It was good to observe those who would carry our future, she says, before fading into shadow and starlight.

As he walks away, he throws one last thing to Gen. Ignoring Amos for the moment, as if his existence is an empty, pitiable thing unworthy of his attention or time. There is something simmering, straining in him, one more little slap in the face he wants to deliver to the man — but, first things are first. He pushes into Gen's mind the memory of their limbs entwined, in the roots and in bed, the precious glow of their promise together. The way he whispered that he would adore him for his rot, embrace him for who he was. ]

— I said I wanted you, Gen. That means nothing else in your life matters to me.

[epiprocta]

[ Again, too much is happening. His pulse echoes in his ears as Gen looks frantically from Set's (now hated shape) standing by Yima's side, to the hulking silhouette of that centipede, to Amos where he lies cornered, and back to Set. And maybe Amos can feel some tiny flicker of guilt and apology and betrayal flickering from Gen, through their Aspect-burned connection, because he first thought is, 'This is fucking unfair.'

Not the fact that he has to give up Reiji to keep Amos safe, because that isn't even within his scope of consideration. He's incapable of giving that option any proper thought. Rather, this is unfair because why can't he have them both? Why is it always like this? Why does he have to give up on everything else to keep Reiji by his side -- why is he always in danger of losing Reiji even then? Why is he allowed so little? Why are things so unfair?

Why -- how dare Set do this to him?

At least Amos must find some small comfort in the fact that that little pinprick of guilt is soon drowned out by a deluge of wrath -- even if that anger is laced through by hurt and confusion. (Set doesn't understand. After all this, Set doesn't understand if he really thinks that Reiji doesn't matter -- Gen knows his own life, his own being have no meaning or worth without Reiji, without the one person who remembers him as he used to be, before his dignity was torn to shreds.) ]

Fuck you. [ Gen's voice emerges strained and quiet between ragged gasps; his heart's racing, the pulse of adrenaline in his veins pushing him to near-panic. ] All you had to do was stay out of my way.

[ But he can't dally any longer. If he hesitates too long, he'll lose everything. He has to make a choice, so --

The ground before Gen explodes in the next moment, kicking up a cloud of dirt and dust. It's just a distraction meant to obscure what's going on and draw him a few precious moments of time -- and to prevent the centipeded from reacting quickly enough to the chunks of rocks (pebbles) hurtling towards its face.

Though if Set assumes that Gen has chosen to protect Amos over the prism, that isn't quite it, either. Gen's greedy, after all. Desperate, clutching, clawing, wanting to maintain his grasp on everything he's claimed as his own. So while he hopes that sudden attack will draw enough time that Amos can extricate himself from the insect's mandibles, that's not all he does. He's also hidden himself from sight by the time that cloud of dust settles -- sunk underground, surging forth with all the liquid speed of a shark surging through still waters, aiming to hurl himself out of it at a blistering lunge, tackling at Set's midriff from behind to bring him down. Because how dare he think that he can just walk away from this situation? Gen might not have the jars immediately on hand to shatter to splinters, but that doesn't mean he's going to let Set leave, thinking he's won.

Gen will fight to the bitter end to keep everything, keep what little he has. He has to. It's the only way he knows to exist. ]

breaks order to return the stage to everyone else

[redsoil]

Get him out of here, you idiot insect!

[ Referring to Amos. The centipede, to its credit, retreats. Its parting gift is to drag Amos with it, into the grasses before it fully loses its grip on him, to break his line of sight and hopefully disorient him long enough that Set can deal with the problem child that is Gen's sudden 'invisibility'. The arthropod does release him, in order to attempt to retreat into the depths of the garden — to get away? To set up another trap? Amos is freed, regardless.

And Set has Gen to deal with. As Gen lunges for him, his expression crumples — finding itself somewhere between affectionate and frustrated. He holds onto the prism as tightly as he must, and meets Gen with his own arms thrown wide, drawing him into en embrace. His mouth finds the center of his forehead, a burning brand. The moment that Gen begins to tighten his grasp, Set turns himself into sand and melts. Away, into several directions, into the brush and the dirt itself like effervescent waters.

All you had to do was stay out of my way. ]

All you had to do was ask me, and I would have happily burned everything to bring him back to you.

[ Gen should have asked, and now Set has to hurt him in order to keep him. He has to make Gen suffer, because he still wants him, rot and misery and all.

Unlike Gen, he comes from above. The swirling gather of sand heralding Set's predatory dive, eyes flashing with violence as he swings the item in his other hand ( a broad, handsome firearm — familiar, at least for Amos, because it's his shotgun ) and smashes it across Gen's face, heavily. He follows up mercilessly, reaching for the young man's shirt collar to wrench him back up, and bludgeon him again with the broadside of the shotgun. ]

You didn't let me try for you! All you had to do, was let me try. I would have proven it to you! He's "my Reiji", Gen! What you feel, I feel as well. I understood you. Why didn't you let me be there for you when you needed someone on your side?

[ He heaves the words, desperate and angry and so deeply hurt. A third blow, just for spite, and he drags himself off of Gen; there might be blood on Amos's gun now, worked into the grooves. Set hiccoughs faintly, and leans down to drag his fingers through the blood on Gen's face, stroking him so gently — bringing the stain to his own mouth in a haze.

With the shotgun, he'll salute sharply to Amos because god knows, he's going to reappear and become a nuisance if Set doesn't pull out. Gen, he likes. Gen, he feels things for. Amos? He wants him to know who has his precious item, wants him to seethe about it. So, he salutes and spins it like a baton before giving the end a kiss, sneering at the man mockingly. And then he whirls on his toes and combusts into sand once more, to fully retreat from the Zenite pair. ]

[baltimores]

[ At first, Amos is left to helplessly listen, fully aware of just how close he is to death. Of the way Set taunts Gen. Of Yima's every word, of the way Set so freely converses with her, and he knew that Set had claimed some level of relationship with her before but this—

He wants to reject it. He stares up at the centipede, because he has no choice to wait.

Shuts his eyes against Gen's pain hitting his senses, because he just wants good things for the kid. He really does. If he could just do something to help, if they had a way out of this—

Amos' eyes snap open as Gen's rage floods in, and his first thought is, That's bad, not because of its foreboding signal of what he might do, but because Amos knows what it is to feel like that, helpless and lashing out for it. Beyond the rage of a berserker, it's something that's all too familiar to him — a poison he does not want Gen to carry with him.

And then everything goes sideways, and Amos' heart lurches as he is dragged away amidst the rocks and debris and grass, his wings instinctively fluttering as he tries to get away from the chaos, get the higher ground, get himself into position to attack Set from above—

Set smashes something across Gen's face, and for a second, his heart stops again.

And then he roars, aiming to divebomb Set, wrench the weapon from his hands. That is his gun. He has lost track of the last time he held that gun in his hands; it has to be something like two years by now. That is his gun, in Set's hands. That is his gun, with Gen's blood on it. Amos does not believe himself capable of loving people, but he loves Gen; Amos does not hate people, but he hates Set. ]

What the fuck!

[ It's too personal an attack. Immobilizing him was one thing, and that had the potential to be its own nightmare, but this— This—

He crashes into the spot where Set previously stood, claws barrelling into the grass and soil and sand where he's supposed to be. The vibrations from the impact rattle up his arms, fur doing little to absorb something so direct; he ignores it, grasping for every bit of sand he can, tearing up the ground beneath his feet as though that'll bring Set back, snarl and spittle from his lips as he digs and punches and claws and blunts himself in the process. ]

You fucking coward! [ These are not things he normally yells. ] Get the fuck back here! [ He would have done almost the exact same thing as Set, would he share his abilities. ] You piece of fucking shit! [ He is as angry as he's ever been without blacking out — and seeing the red creeping in on the edges of his vision, he knows he has to stop.

Because it's just Gen here now. And he can't lose it. His shoulders slump uselessly. His fur is matted and covered in dust now. A lone rivulet of blood runs down a claw where he probably broke something.

He takes a deep breath before turning to Gen, previously wild gaze holding a cold fury. But even that fades as he looks at Gen's face — at what his gun did to it, and thank fuck that Set apparently only knows how to use it as a blunt weapon — and his voice softens. ]

You okay?

[ Outside of, you know. The obvious. ]

[epiprocta]

[ The answer is no, definitely not. And because of more than just the physical injuries.

Gen's reflexes are good, and he should have stood a decent chance at dodging that first brutal swing of the shotgun. But when Set swirled into view, Gen had already been frozen like a rat caught before a snake, gaze barely seeing the threatening silhouette of that gun cocked back for the swing -- unable to look away from the ferocious sincerity gleaming bright in Set's eyes. In that moment, how could he possibly doubt what Set was saying? That Set really would have fought for his sake without a threat hanging above his head?

-- then the impact of the shotgun's stock against his skull rattles all coherent thought out to his brains. Gen crumples like a house of cards, those two additional blows mostly adding insult to injury, given he's already well incapacitated. The stroke of fingers against his face is barely felt in his half-conscious haze, his thoughts flickering wildly in and out of coherency past a blanket of pain.

Even when Amos' voice speaks up from somewhere close by, there's a significant moment's delay before Gen can bring himself to respond. ]

... Amos. [ His voice emerges wet and guttural, each noise coughed miserably between shallow rasps; the inside of his mouth's been torn to ribbons, and everything tastes like blood. ] You're 'kay ... ?

[ He definitely shouldn't be moving with the level of concussed he probably is; it's wobbly and weak when Gen struggles to roll over onto his side, a hand groping blindly in search of Amos. With an eyelid split and the blood gushing over his face, he can't see worth shit. ]

Where ... the prism. [ A muffled groan. ] ... 't was ours. [ His hand grasps tight at whatever part of Amos he can find, and Gen slowly buckles, ducking his (bloodied, dripping) face against the ground. It muffles his voice further when he slurs, ] ... fucker. S'not fair. ...

[ But it's not really the prism he cares about. It is, indeed, indignity and anger and upset that roil off him in near-palpable waves, even past the heavy layer of raw pain. But stronger than any of those is a frothing, anxious confusion -- that, more than any frustration about the stolen prism, is what has Gen giving a low whimper as he curls up against Amos. His head hurts something awful. His temples are ringing, his pulse throbbing in his eyeballs. And the only thing echoing in his brain is Set's last words: Why didn't you let me be there for you when you needed someone on your side? ]

I wasn't wrong ... [ The way he clings to Amos is almost childlike, like he's trying to shy away from how much those injuries hurt. ] You're 'lright. I still have Reiji. ... 'm not wrong. I jus' did what I hafta. You get it, right?

[baltimores]

[ He's quiet at first as he observes the damage Gen has taken — the physical obvious; the emotional creeping along his senses in ways he both can and cannot understand. The confusion — betrayal? — is something he's felt before, but where it came from... Amos doesn't get that.

He lets Gen grip at his shirt, bury himself in it, and cautiously he lifts his arms to hug him to his chest in a furred embrace. Always mindful of these stupid claws — they couldn't hurt Set, they still hold the potential to hurt Gen — and for a moment, he's quiet. ]

Yeah. [ His voice is a low rumble, sad and hurting as to how all of this has turned out — for the prism, yes, because they'll need to get it back, but this is much worse right now. ] You do what you have to for your people. I get it.

[ It's just that he doesn't have a Reiji, nobody from his home universe left to mourn — he'd left them behind more than a year ago. He doesn't have to fight for them. Everyone he has left to keep safe is...

... here, and instinctually, Amos hugs Gen that little bit tighter. He'd do anything he could to save any kid. Any other Zenite. But Gen is the person here he's known the longest now, and anything Amos might have to do for him, he would.

He knows cure wounds; while he can't do anything about the concussion, he can at least put a stop to the bleeding. There's a gentle prod from Amos as he seeks permission, Will you let me patch you up?, a little magical spark emanating from him, just waiting for confirmation.

And, out loud, still soft and quiet and as reassuring as he can be, ] I'm okay. We'll find a way to get the prism back, just might take longer than we thought. And then I'll kill him.

[ He'd never liked Set, something always off about the guy in a way that signalled danger — but now, after this? Whether he's working with Yima or not, he wants to bury him. ]

[epiprocta]

[ As always, Amos remains one of the very few people that Gen is willing to be vulnerable and weak before. It's in part simply that they've known each other so long by now. It's in part that their link goes deep -- shared across their Aspects, bolstered by the many events they'd suffered together. And it's in part ... something a little uglier, akin to condescending sympathy. After all, why should Gen care about seeming weak before Amos, when he knows what Amos has been through? What's the point of fighting to always seem tough and strong before the guy he knows is truly, irreparably broken?

Those arms wind around him -- furrier than he's used to, but no less strong or reassuring -- and Gen permits himself to sink into them. The temptation to bury his face into Amos' shirt is resisted only because the prospect of having anything pressing directly into the open gashes across his face is ghastly; it feels like the rough edges of those wounds are throbbing with red-hot pain in time with his pulse.

Still, he does give a little nod in response to Amos' reassurances. Forces himself to try and control his breaths, his next exhale coming as a shuddering, uneven little sigh. And after a moment, he nods againt and sits up just a little straighter so he can gingerly rest his head into Amos’ palm, indicating acceptance of that offer of some healing.

Yeah. He wants to be patched up. The sooner he's better, the sooner he can try and get back into this fray.

(Even if his mind obviously still swirls with confusion and anxiety. Set's words poisoning him deep, even as he tries to bury the ring of his voice in his ears.) ]

... 'm glad you're okay.

[ Mumbled blearily before he sniffles, swallowing thickly and regretting it when he tastes blood. But still. It's true. Just because he wouldn't hesitate a second to give up Amos in exchange for keeping Reiji just a little safer, that doesn't mean he doesn't care about Amos, too. It's just ...

... it's all he knows to do. Clawing desperately to keep his one person safe, as he's always done. (Tried to do.) ]

'll fucking pulverize his stuff. He's never getting any of'em back. ... he shouldn't've fucked with us.

[ Funny, though, how those words aren't exactly deceitful, but they're also oddly lacking in conviction. ]

[baltimores]

[ Amos isn't sure if he's feeling Gen's concussion for himself or if there's something much deeper, much more confusing that he's picking up from him — something that, for as confused as Gen is, Amos is even more so because there's a limit to how far he can follow it. He doesn't carry any anxiety within him, though. Attempts to naturally counter Gen's by the little bit of light, of warmth and love, that he feels as Gen gives him permission to patch him up. One small, tiny good thing he can have in this moment, because there... isn't much else.

So it's with a gentle touch that Amos takes Gen's head in his palm, that his claws lightly tap against him, stopping the bleeding from his face. Fixing up that eye. As careful and as gentle as he's ever been with anyone, because it really isn't all that often that it feels like he's holding someone's life in his hands that he wants to save. Protect. Keep going. ]

I'm okay. You don't gotta worry about me.

[ He means it, but even as he says it, he gets the sense that Gen's gonna ignore that second sentiment anyway. Amos has already been dealt the worst of what life has to offer; what more can hurt him? But people who care about him might just worry about him anyway, and maybe he should start accepting that. Gen doesn't have to worry about him, but if he's going to anyway, then Amos will be mindful of it. Maybe one day learn to appreciate it.

He pulls that gentle touch of his claws back, looking over Gen's face. He thinks he got it all, but with all the blood already spilled, it's a little tough to tell. ]

No, he shouldn't have fucked with us. [ He doesn't notice that lack of conviction; maybe Gen's exhaustion is seeping into his being, too. Destroying Set's stuff — whatever it is — is important, but it's not an immediate priority. ] It's okay. You can do that later. Thinking we can go back to camp now... wash up a bit along the way. Maybe take a nap... We still got time. We can get back at him tomorrow.

[ Because for as much as Amos wants to get back at him, to get this win for Zenith, and there's so much to do on all of those fronts...

Maybe he would rather spend his time now on making sure Gen's okay. ]

the Meridian break off

[warmare]

[Just as Gen and Amos had designed with their sneaky, coordinated attack, it took Hayame and Dimitri time to wrest their weights from the earth that had been turned to mud as gravity pressed down unnaturally heavily on their bodies. The further away Amos flew the less hold his magic had, and Hayame cursed herself for not sensing their approach even if perhaps few could have, for not using that damned counter spell she had forced herself to learn-

But the moment they are out, they are in pursuit. There is a moment when Hayame almost offers the other warrior her back for the sake of speed... but she had her pride (and her deep-seated feartraumahorror about being ridden). It rages against her burning need for victory, for revenge, but with Amos and Gen already out of sight... pride wins, when there is no guarantee her disgrace would catch them up. She spurs Dimitri on as fast as he was capable on his own feet and pulls out ahead of him on a leg that he had healed, galloping up the "ridge" of a sloping layer of bricks around a neglected garden patch to get a better view-

And catch sight from a distance of the latter half of Set's "battle" against the two who had robbed them. Set screaming, a centipede writhing, Gen screaming something back, earth moving, the strange rifle cracking on bone, Amos being dragged away, the prism they had won back in Meridian hands, that half-crazed look and touch over the defeated Zenith... and then Set is gone, sand on the wind, and the two warriors who had received his divine blessing are left watching from above, slightly victorious, slightly stunned, slightly satisfied, slightly concerned.

But that leaves the issue of the prism. Rather, the issue of the prism in Set's hands. They might have been too far away to hear the words exchanged below, but from what they could see and sense, as much as she wanted simply to congratulate the god on his victory...

Making use of the same spell that had enabled them to find the damned thing in the first place, Hayame reverently (uncomfortably) places her hand on the ground beneath them to commune with nature. Her brow furrows in concentration until... there. Informing Dimitri, they are off again, she reaches out without solid words in Communion just as proof of their presence, their imminent arrival, not willing to startle a man as dangerous as a war god could be, calm or not...

Until they come across the clearing where Set has taken form once more.]

[hauntedking]

[ Dimitri chases. Evne with his own great strength, the combination of terrible mud and the press of gravity had made the whole world slow. But as the distance increased, they had a chance to break free. Dimitri, like Hayame, is furious at himself for allowing the ambush to happen in the first place and angry that he's allowed one of their objectives to go slipping through their fingers. Even if their opponents have a head start, he follows, running with as much speed as he can muster. He's not as fast as Hayame, but he has endurance. He's trained to run, to march, to fight, and he can keep himself going for a long time on his own inner strength. ]

Go! [ He gasps as Hayame starts to pull ahead. ] I'll catch up!

[ And he does as they come spilling out onto the ridge. He sees her draw up short and then he sees why when he struggles to the top, panting for breath, sweat running down his brow. He can see the end of the struggle - the swirl of sand and earth and rock, the figures distant. But he can understand what's happening. And then they're moving again. Dimitri at his steady lope, just behind Hayame, following her as they kick up dirt and dust and try to find the war god. There's a touch of exultation in his Communion, but also worry. Concern.

What's happened, exactly?

He reaches out as they approach; he sends words instead of a feeling. A jolt of his concern and more: ]

Set! We're here!

[ What will this mean for them? For their objective? Set is unpredictable. A whirlwind - but one he cares for all the same. Someone he's pledged to. That matters, doesn't it? ]

[redsoil]

[ He had seen Gen and Amos's ambush from a distance, and derived his own tactic in response to their known skills and teamwork. Flight. Earth-manipulation. ( Envy simmers within him, embittered and hungry and resentful towards Amos. How dare he pretend he felt anything for Gen, how dare he lie to him about feeling joy and care and consideration for him when Set knows he's nothing. He has no sentiment, unless he is told to feel it, no ambition or drive, unless he is told to have it.

How dare he lead Gen on. How dare Gen laugh with him. He was only where he belonged because Set aided him to that place, released him, poured energy into him and helped him be reborn. Maybe he's a little mad about that, a little wild, feral. )

Feral enough, that when he feels the prick of Dimitri's voice, Hayame's proof of presence enter his mind, he immediately slams his thoughts shut to them. Neither one of them is Savant, they cannot find their way into his head unless he allows them. And in the clearing, holding Amos's bloodied shotgun in one hand and the prism in the other, Set's expression is quiet and inscrutable. He could do anything, inanimate and calm as he appears. There's nothing to give away, except the way he lifts the hand holding the prism to wipe at a fleck of blood on his face. He's stained with it. Old blood mingling with new, Gen's and Liem's both. ]

And?

[ His voice is crisp, his lip curls and the sharp hint of animal fang shows threateningly. ]

You had better not think that I did this for you.

[warmare]

[The first sign that she may not have been imagining things comes when they reach out simply in greeting and advance warning of their arrival and hit a wall instead. It doesn't stop her... but it informs her. She clips her pace down to a trot to burst into the clearing, arrests her movements with a last prance of hooves to come to a stop before him, flecks of half-dried mud crusted up to her equine chest and belly flaking off with her movements, sweat lathered on her flanks from their efforts to catch up to the Zenites who had robbed them, then to chase sand across the sky. Before she can even speak-

He does, his words a hot lash she would consider unprovoked if she did not feel always in her hearts that the weight of her own failures deserved scorn. There is something in the air, some scent that is familiar to her that is muddled up with the rest of them around them, and it distracts her for a moment (slightly rotted, sick sweet, where had she smelt that before?), but.]

...

[Had they thought he did it for them? If they had come into this clearing and Set had smiled, presenting the prism and declaring he had reclaimed it for them, his warriors... She would have been no more or less surprised than if he greeted them with condemnation and cursed them for failing him. The reaction of her hearts might change, but her head... no. The nature of a god surely was to be fickle and capricious in ways that mortals could not easily grasp, and she had always attempted to remember that, but... Hayame wondered sometimes. If Set realized just how unreliable he could appear to those he demanded rely on him.]

That is not the case.

[Her head drops into a slight bow of contrition, fingers tight with anger around her bow, acknowledgement that he had the Prism now only because it had been stolen from them in the first place. Even if she feels rage and bitterness over such cowardly tactics, (since when had that perverted punk been able to turn invisible, since when had Amos had wings?), she had no excuse. It is no different than when her stable master had critiqued her. Nothing good came of refuting it or attempting to explain. There was only acceptance of that situation.

That, and moving forward from it, to bury failure as deeply as one could beneath victories. Though they had failed as individuals, they should be able to feel success as a group. (Should.) Set had told her, once, that he simply needed to be asked, directly and clearly, and if she were to believe in that... She looks over at Dimitri, briefly, before turning her eye back towards the war god.]

We come only to ask what you would see done with the Prism.

[They weren't hunting these Exalt Oracle objects for any individual's sake, even if she'd take personal pride in claiming them, even if she'd consider helping someone she felt close to or clashing with someone she hated in the process of the fight to be a convenient bonus. They were supposed to be hunting them for everyone- for Meridian. His warriors' original plan had been to take it back to camp, to secure it...

But what was Set's plan? (And what had happened, to put him in this half-feral state that made her doubt enough to ask?)]