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

[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. ]

[epiprocta]

[ The worst of the pain subsides, bit by bit. It still hurts like hell, of course -- closing up split flesh and stemming the bloodflow won't undo how badly his brain's been rattled against his skull, won't undo the deeper damage that's still aching at his nerves. But at least the pain lessens enough that Gen can start to calm down, breaths slowing from those shallow, uneven wheezes to deeper, more exhausted rasps.

And one last tap of the claw -- gentle as the touch of any doctor's tool, despite the sharp edge of that claw and the terrifying power contained in Amos' arm -- earns a small grunt before Gen blinks heavily. It's still a little tentative and careful when he raises a hand to try and rub away the blood that's starting to dry sticking in his lashes, crusting over his eyes, but the fact that he can deal with the blood at all means Amos has done a fantastic job. ]

... mn.

[ That vague noise in assent is all he can manage at the moment. Especially now that Amos has floated the idea of resting for now, it's all he wants.

It's not that his anger has subsided at all. So much has been happening in this fight, and none of it has felt fair -- he hates Hayame and Dimitri, he hates John, he hates D, he hates the Meridian, and he fucking hates Liem, and he hates Set. But the one thing he'd thought secure amidst all this chaos was the belief he'd done the right thing in prioritizing Reiji's shard. Having that called into question, wondering if there'd been another way events could have conspired, has an achingly heavy feeling settling in his guts. (Maybe he could have done better. Maybe he wouldn't be hurting now. Maybe Amos wouldn't have been put in danger. Maybe things didn't have to end up this way. Maybe he'd been wrong --) ]

Amos. [ He'd briefly raised his head, and the bleeding's definitely stopped, but Gen still rests his head back against Amos' forearm; his canine ears are weakly canted back and his hands are still clutched into Amos' shirt when he mumbles, ] Help me get back to camp.

[ No 'please,' of course, prideful and ungrateful little shit that he is. But Amos is one of the very few that he'd make such a request of, in such frank fashion. 'Help me.' ]

'm too dizzy to walk.

[baltimores]

[ He's watching as Gen rubs away the blood on his face, looking to see if there's anything else he needs to patch up. Amos hadn't thought much of it when he'd elected to learn how to heal people; it just seemed like the kind of thing that'd be useful. And now that he's using that skill to help Gen, who is only busted up like this because Set somehow got ahold of his gun and doesn't know how to use it properly—

There weren't any bullets. He'd seen that. And things would have turned out much worse if Set did know how to use it, but... still.

It's better to dwell on this, on his own simmering hatred of Set and concern for Gen's physical health than to pay close attention to the doubts whirling inside his companion's head. It's simple, and direct, and something he can actually do something about.

But it looks like he's taken care of all of Gen's outer wounds, no new blood flows springing up. So that's a relief—

He snaps to attention at the sound of his name. Feels Gen's weight against him again. And sighs, soft and sad, because this all just went... so wrong.

It's going to take more time yet to make it right, so he'll just focus on what he can do right now. ]

Yeah. Sure thing.

[ Since when has he needed a please? Amos shifts his arms so that his free one can scoop up Gen properly; leaves his other arm in place so Gen can use it as a pillow. He stabilizes his hold on him, resuming the princess carry he'd had before. (And maybe, over the course of the time that's passed, his arms have gotten that little bit fluffier? Maybe he's furrier than before in this moment.)

Amos looks skyward, debating if he should take off again; it'd get them back faster, but it also might rattle Gen's brains more, and... no. It's not worth it. If someone else attacks them he'll fly them away, but they don't have anything on them that's worth fighting for now.

With Gen nestled in his arms, he sets off on a slow, steady gait back towards Zenith's camp. ]

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?)]

[hauntedking]

[ Dimitri cannot say he is used to Set; that would imply a familiarity that the two of them do not share. They are not friends, not in that real way. They are, instead, companions. A god and a devotee (however temporary). They know one another; they have seen the twisted darkness that lies in one another's hearts. And Dimitri has pledged himself to him - even if he knows that Set twists and turns and prefers to tease and tug and approach the entire conflict from a different angle for his own inscrutable ends. He's chaotic, fickle, alternately distant and far too intimate. So his reaction is a surprise but perhaps not unexpected. Dimitri slows a little, trying to catch his breath, standing alongside Hayame as he studies Set.

The words do sting a little, it must be said.

Dimitri had believed (hoped) that there might be something a bit more reciprocal there. He cares for Set - even if he also does not know how to truly handle him. His weight shifts and he leans on his lance as he recovers from the adrenaline and the long, long run that he's just been on. It's been an exhausting day so far. ]

If not for us, then for Meridian, surely.

[ It's his nature to offer a challenge to that rejection of a kindness done or assistance offered. If Set had not retrieved the prism for the sake of their mutual goals, then why? For his own personal satisfaction? For some slight? He doesn't know. He doesn't suppose it matters. He does not feel a need to offer contrition to Set. ]

I'm glad you were here to intervene, in any case. I'm only sorry that we were too far back to help.

[redsoil]

[ It is unfortunate, that the god they had available to them is mercurial and full of contempt for traditional structures. He vacillates between a creature of precision and duty, and one who seeks to tear up the very foundations of things that keep most relationships stable and sane; Set is a terrible god, brilliant and mad, and dangerous to them. Even now, he seems to regard them no better or worse than he would an oncoming Zenite — an active threat to their aligned goals to return their worlds to fruition, to return to them. Clutched in his hand, the Prism would allow them to be one step closer to that victory.

What he would see done with it. / If not for use, then for Meridian.

Even as the bright red of Set's eyes slides from the two who have arrived to the Prism, his body language does not suggest he is anything other than willing to fight them, too. He seems lost in some labyrinthine thought, as if contemplating how to get the most out of the situation — which he has always, and will always do. Which he must, because though his goal is aligned with his fellow Meridian right now, tomorrow could bring him a better way to accomplish that goal. That is the issue within him, after all — his loyalties are tenuous, fragile. He hesitates to fully allow himself to deepen his bonds with one side over the other, even looking at the warriors before him — he dreads them ( knows, he is false and withering ). ]

I would very much like to use it to hurt someone, right now.

[ The words are hollow, cold. War springs around them, and he cannot find any pleasure in it. Because he cannot rid his heart of his greatest weaknesses. ]

It is unfortunate, that the two of you came upon me first, instead of more worthy victims.

[ A thread of danger vibrates in the air, Set's fingers tightening upon the Prism and the gun alike... and then, with a flick of his arm, he tosses the Effigy's item between them, shoving it away from him before he chooses to do something drastic. Like hurt them. Or leave to hurt others. Or destroy the item, to spite the Effigy the way it has spitefully made them suffer like it does. How dare it. ]

[warmare]

[I am prepared to kill you. Every time. Set had said that to her, once. So she would be a fool to be surprised that he looks just about ready to attack them now. (And yet, since he had insisted they were friends... She has found that a part of her, a very small part of her auxiliary heart that she keeps as secret as she can... might just be a suffering, resentful fool.)

Still, Hayame simply stands there, ready to be attacked physically, attacked verbally... or spoken to as an ally or a friend. Something would happen, either way, if she simply waited. She holds her tongue through his words, (shoots Dimitri a look that advises him to do the same, halved gaze to halved gaze), resisting the urge to respond too quickly, and the result...

Is the Prism tossed their way.

Hayame waits a moment... but she does move to pick it up, holding it firmly and protectively. This godsdamned object that she and Dimitri had clawed to claim, that those sneaking thieves had robbed them of... and that Set has reclaimed. One piece required for a Meridian victory. But with it in their hands... She lingers. If she only cared for the mission, she would leave then and there to secure the Prism somewhere safe. ... But she cares for more than that.]

Who is most worthy now, Set?

[He is a god of war, and they are warriors who have pledged themselves to him, who provide his offerings, if not in different ways. Would he not command them? Would he reject their offers to fight at his side? Would he deny them the knowledge of who had wronged him, keep them from joining him in revenge or plot? Would he explain at all what has him so on edge and wanting to inflict pain for pain's sake?

She does not know. And so she asks.]

[hauntedking]

[ Set is an enigma but Dimitri likes to think he has a handle on the god after their encounters and after he's dedicated a part of himself to him. Perhaps that's foolish of him; perhaps he ought to be warier. But he doesn't allow himself to feel wary of him. He is mercurial, true, but he is still Set and he - they - are both pledged to him. Maybe that's a mistake to think that bonds of Meridian and bonds of worship will hold. But he'll go on believing that, because he doesn't have an alternative. He cannot - will not - see the worst in the world.

He exchanges a glance with Hayame and can read the warning in her gaze. So he bites his tongue - at least until the Prism comes clattering onto the earth between them and then Hayame stoops to retrieve it as he stares at Set and tries to get a read on him, on what's happening. More worthy victims, he says - and he understands that Set seeks someone (something) to vent himself on. Perhaps because he has his own experience from the last time - the Iconoclast and the withering gaze it turned on him, the way it scooped him out and left him hollow and wanting. He shifts his weight, a frown creasing his features. ]

What has happened?

[ Because it is rare he sees Set like this. In fact - he thinks it's the first time he's seen Set be anything but laughing and careless and wild. He is still wild now - but wild like a storm, threatening and dark, looming over everything around him and threatening to smash apart whatever is in his grasp. ]

Who is this "someone"? Or would it be anyone?

[redsoil]

Anyone.

[ Once he has passed the prism off to them, he expects them to depart. That would be the wise thing, than to linger.

Instead, they wait. They ask his thoughts, and the searing thing within his heart throbs and aches and thinks I do not need them, they need me, knowing it for a lie. His heel drags in the dirt, an irritated motion not unlike a mirror to Hayame's stamping hooves or the grinding of toes upon something that needs to be crushed. What can he say to them, that is not deeply private? That is not a baring of vulnerability? That is not a sign that the god they follow is not weak at heart.

( He thinks of the two Zenites he has tricked and beaten. ) ]

Amos Burton, I will always condemn. Minegishi Gen is mine.

[ Especially now. Their relationship is tenuous but wild, and Set will not send his warriors to deal with the young man when he is the one who ought to do so. He was wronged, so Gen will be punished by his hand and their relationship righted by him alone. ]

Time has brought the pieces of my child to Kenos. Four parts of his whole being, captured in canopic jars the way —

[ He stirs the sands of his body with his hand, twisting his wrist to tear a hole in his form and produce two pale, stoppered jars with animal-head figures. He snarls his way through the words; Hayame knows, what he says. Dimitri will find the information new, and perhaps... telling. And he informs them both, because — the image of a grieving, injured father given to madness is a better one to wear than a god of capriciousness, a manipulative and selfish creature. ( No better than a demon, he had once said. ) ]

He returned only two, after I retrieved the Shard of his own loved one. He is unaware of what he holds, only that it is of dire importance to me. I do everything in this world, for my son — !

[warmare]

[They need me, Set tells (lies to) himself, I do not need them, but Hayame is still standing there despite his insulting welcome, despite having retrieved the Prism... precisely because he is the one who had once stood on the border between the hot sands and the freezing snow of their communion-mind and taken the first step forward to stroke his fingers over her cheeks and say we need one another.

Because she still clung desperately to the idea that he had been telling the truth, then. That he had meant it when he said he would always listen for her, that nothing could rob them of their friendship but her own word. That he wouldn't abandon her.

... So she cannot abandon him.

But though she opens her mouth to reply in haste when he gives them names, Set keeps speaking... and Hayame's expression, her intent to present herself only as a composed and reliable warrior cracks. His son. The sweet, soft child she had seen in the memories he had brought to life to let her "meet" him, who had wept longing for his father and nestled into his strong arms, peeking over them with wide, curious eyes when Set had bid him greet his "friend". The one that Set had made his promise to, that he valued more than anything or anyone else...

In jars? Half of him was in those two jars Set pulls from his body, and half of them are still with Minegishi Gen? That pathetic, perverse, irreverent brat who played at being Meridian until he decided he'd rather see every goddamned world burn? And for what- ?]

Then unleash us.

[In the very same decade that Hayame herself lived, miles and miles away across the sea and in a version of her world where jinba did not exist, a man pens the words: raging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines with a Monarch's voice cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war. And here, Set has two loyal hounds that would bray and hunt if he would but command them to.]

That traitor will be yours-

[And she would never think to rob him of that satisfaction, just how she would attempt to demand no one else steal from her revenge against the demon that had shamed her. But there is more afoot than a single human brat feeling full of himself just because, in addition to the other magics he had gained since leaving his world, he somehow now knew how to make himself fucking invisible... and had lucked into being bound to such a precious object brought (temporarily?) into this world by the Exalt Oracle.]

But Dimitri can help clear your way. I can find your son, with the same magic I used to find the Bell and the Prism- !

[Commune with Nature. Set knew she had long avoided using the spells Meridian granted them, but after the last Oracle... she had forced herself to master them. She could not longer afford not to. And that spell... it could tell her things about the earth for miles around her- what people walked on it, what terrain existed, where there was influence from other worlds and beings... The fact that they'd watch Set beat Gen bloody with Amos' gun but not take anything from his person meant that the brat must have hidden them somewhere, so-

Hayame's forelegs paw the earth and her palm slams over her auxiliary heart as if to impress her seriousness on the war god, her intent. Her let us (help) serve.]

[hauntedking]

[ Dimitri simply listens. His relationship with Set is fraught; the war god took from him his service in the aftermath of the Iconoclast oracle. They have verbally sparred on more than one occasion - and Dimitri does think he understands him, at least a little, if he also finds him aggravating and difficult to deal with it at times. But he can hear the anger and the grief and he does not think it deception - how can it be? No; he hangs on every word, his good eye narrowing as the story comes out and Set produces the jars.

This... makes little sense to him, in a way. But he knows Set is from a strange and distant land and a god in his own right. So the thought of having a person contained within a set of jars is no more fanciful than having a being contained within a single shard. Things he might have disbelieved once are now accepted without reservation. But it is still somewhat staggering to hear and it upends a part of how he views Set. So even this fickle god can have family and can care for it. That is an all too human thing, he thinks, and one he understands. It rubs at him, tugs at raw wounds that still have not healed in a decade. The ghosts that used to whisper in his ear about vengeance and justice seem to be echoed in this moment.

But he cannot blame Set for this. He has no family living, not anymore, but were he to hear that the shard of a friend - Dedue, Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid, Mercedes, Ash, Annette, Byleth - were held by another as some kind of hostage...

It makes his blood boil.

It burns from the inside. Treachery and dishonor, a foul trick to play upon anyone. No matter that a part of him thinks that Set would do the same to any other, it still offends his own sensibilities. He has never seen Set's child, not in memories or dreams, but he might imagine him in his mind's eye. To threaten the life (the soul) of a child, divine or otherwise...

No.

Hayame's words burn with righteousness and while he might at another time urge caution, he cannot find it in himself to do so now. Especially not for Gen, someone he does not truly know, but who he has wrestled with - almost killed - who has insulted him and sneered and perhaps that adds a touch of personal furor to this, despite Dimitri's attempts to hold himself apart from such things. It isn't conscious, but it's there. Something small and burning hot, worming its way into his heart alongside the more righteous, disgusted anger that fills him. ]

Hayame is right.

[ Dimitri's grip on the haft of the home-made spear he carries tightens. The wood creaks underneath the grip, as if it threatens to snap in his palm. ]

The coward deserves no mercy. To hold a hostage - to threaten the very soul of a child - is nothing less than rank cowardice. Together, we can run them to ground. We can find what he's taken and bring your child back to you - as whole as he can be.

[ He doesn't quite understand the jars, but... he's making an effort. ]

I have given you my pledge and you have given me your favor. Say the word and I will cut down any who stand between you and your child!

[ Break their skulls with his bare hands. Take their heads. There's a darkness in him and perhaps always will be. It swirls and seeps and gathers - but he holds it in check. This is not the tree or the chamber. ]

[redsoil]

— no, you will leave him be. Amos is forfeit to your will, but Gen is mine.

[ If he fervently snarls the claim, perhaps Hayame and Dimitri will think it because he wishes to visit his own type of punishment upon the young man who had failed him. Set shifts his weight upon his toes, raking his fingers over the smooth curves of one of the pale canopic jars. They might be able to see the etched sigils upon it — hieroglyphs that indicate the name of the one held within, the part of him that is tucked away in the confines of the sealed vessel.

Set holds one between his hands, reverent in his gentleness. His brows knit, the line of his mouth finding the animal-head effigy on top to press a morose kiss to something that ought not exist. Time was something he could understand implicitly, in Kenos. It was structured like a line, but acted like his experience of it — everything, anywhere, all at once. ]

I want to give Gen the opportunity to consider his next step. If he destroys my child, you may have him. But for now...

[ He wants to handle it, personally. ]

What I want you two to take away from this is a new consideration, as Meridian: the Zenites chose to involve those they wanted to treasure and preserve. They chose their undoing. That will be the way to destroy them — from now on, ensure targeting their loved ones is part of your tactic.

[ His eyes flash, alighting upon the two of them as he tucks the jars back into the depths of the sands, the sands tucked back into the depths of his body. Maybe in some part of his divine form, they rest now; he takes to approaching his snarling warriors, reaching his hands out to them. To rest on Hayame's arm and Dimitri's shoulders. ]

Find ways to locate their loved ones, We should include capturing them and holding them hostage, if not executing them, part of any future escalations.

[warmare]

[Despite how honorbound the two of them were in their own particular ways, the differences in that honor show themselves in the way Set's sworn warriors react to his news. Hayame is enraged because of the personal insult- that someone would take Set's child hostage, a child that she "knew" and had accepted despite all they had always represented to a woman such as herself, that someone would dare to wrong Set, while Dimitri seems incensed on behalf of children, of the innocents. (Perhaps, despite how publicly and violently he had raged across Communion, he was the nobler of all of them.)]

...

[Despite her expressed willingness to move, to attack, to go now if he would just command them, Hayame is silent as she listens to the war god's answer, watching (sadly) as he cradles the canopic jar with the peculiar writing of his world upon it, pressing his lips to the shape of it. If the spirits of those orphans were here... if someone were to take from her was precious little she cared for...

Fine. She thought it was far too merciful to give that brat anything less than execution, far too risky to grant him time to potentially do something to Anubis' remaining jars, but... It was not her son. It was Set's decision, and no matter how suspicious she is of the phrasing give him the opportunity, thinking cynically of the Zenith pets the god seemed to like to collect and coddle despite how much it potentially undermined Meridian's cause...

There was also the Prism to consider. It needed to be secured. Hayame's head lowers slightly in acknowledgement. Not just of his claim (which she would honor until Gen wrongs her days later), but of his advice. He did not even need to say it (to her). After all...]

It is already begun.

[Beneath the bolstering grip of Set's hand, Hayame's muscular arm flexes as her hand moves to one of her makeshift, leaf-woven saddlebags to pull from it a shard, gleaming and crimson and held tight in her fingers. One the Exalt Oracle had connected her to, that belonged to a Zenite with whom she has no personal grudge...

But she does not need one. He is a Zenite. An enemy. A man who is actively working to see the end of her hope to return to her world where she belonged. She is not cruel and not violent without cause, she has no immediate plans to crush it... yet she also has no plans to return it. For now, she has a hostage of her own. And she does not seem to see an ounce of hypocrisy in it.]

[hauntedking]

[ There's something in those words that makes Dimitri pause. His anger still burns hot and righteous but there's something else; a cooling that comes with what Set says. Punishing the wicked, protecting the weak - those are things he will gladly do. He will fight on the field of battle and drench himself in blood for the sake of others and to protect others. He will take on that weight. But the touch of Set's hand and the task he asks of him makes Dimitri hesitate. He curls his fingers against his spear again, lips pressed tightly together. He glances sidelong at Hayame and then tries to form his own reaction. He's unsure.

Floundering a little in the wave of his two companions. ]

They aren't warriors or soldiers, though. They're innocents.

[ His objection isn't precisely half-hearted. He knows that taking hostages has a long tradition - disobedient vassals can be brought to heel with wards and other such measures. But it's not something he particularly enjoys or likes considering. Someone's child or spouse or parent should not pay the blood price of another. That isn't right.

Set's touch is oddly reassuring but it also brings the discord; that tingling burn even through the clothes he wears.]

They haven't done anything...

[ He doubts. His morals are his bedrock, what he clings to to keep himself from descending into that crazed animal madness. ]

[redsoil]

[ In the end, he will not budge from the idea — he was dragged into the fight between Liem and Gen without wanting to be, and he will finish it to ( hopefully ) ensure they ( mostly Gen ) understand never to involve him in their squabbles again. It is his son who is on the line, which means all else falls to the wayside. There is no past or future for him, no Meridian nor Zenith, if he does not have his child; without Anubis, he would readily and wholly align with Silco, and seek to destroy everything. Including the future, to bring all to a halting, screaming end.

With his hand upon each of them, he feels the way they move. Hears the way they react to what he is calling for them to be prepared to to — Hayame with sound acceptance, familiar with the ruthlessness of war, and Dimitri with his halting goodness, familiar and refuting the need to harm innocents. It is why he touches Hayame again, fingers to her wrist as she produces the Shard that she has claimed as hostage of her own. There is pride in the way he thumbs against her pulse, his expression stern but eyes locked upon her own, looking upon her face without mercy. Good, he thinks, approving of her actions.

Dimitri, though. ] They are people who will get to inherit their new world, while scores of innocents Meridian seek to save will be abandoned. Why is their form of innocent better than those we seek to save? Their mere existence condemns all those Meridian bears as lesser-than-deserving. Their innocence is only preserved as long as Meridian wins.

Should Meridian not do all that we can, then, to win?