[ It's appropriate, to find Tezcatlipoca in the Undercity. ( In some other instance, Set would be enthralled by the Advocate Oracle's premise — he'd enjoy the idea of gallivanting across foreign lands, pouring the evidence of life and uniqueness through his fingertips as he learned of the roots that gave birth to the people who now fought as Shard-Bearer for or against these worlds. In some other instance, the Advocate would be his nemesis: what does he care, in the end, for any world but his own? That last secret that he hides deep, because it cannot be used to manipulate and encourage others to be in favor of him. )
In some other instance.
In this one, all that matters is ripping another god apart with his teeth.
He's burning up, in the Undercity. Aglow from within with something violet-violent that blackens his eyes like they've been burnt, corrupts the brilliant white-red of a deadly sun within him into a poisonous sludge. It feels amazing, it feels good to be made so lethal and bright. He'd only wanted to try it for once, at the hand of someone he trusted ( trusted, in the sense that one would trust a scorpion to sting no matter the situation ) ( the same as him, really ), and to know it for what it could offer. Now, he was incandescent with Shimmer, heat radiating off of him to burn the surfaces he'd touch, enveloping his vision in muddles images. Blurs of color and light and hideous beauty.
He can smell Tezcatlipoca in the Undercity, in the seat of Silco's once-home. The Advocate had looked upon Set and bade him choose the fate of dead worlds, to prove himself one way or another, but it's not the worlds that he is fixated on. It's the Bearers who represent them, who get to make the choices. If he were conscious, he could contort his alien mind into all sorts of reasons and rationales, but there is no mind. It's taken a lovely backseat now, leaving him tooth and claw and beautiful, lethal instinct that involves him in the middle of the Enforcer's onslaught. People die around him, Zaunite and Pilty alike, ripped limb from limb — no one can count the purity of war as its friend, truly.
Set's heading across the bridge anyways, fixated on the familiar scent of copal and night. Lunging through bodies, darting and weaving across the top of the bridge, only to sling himself off one side and use his sands to drag his form along the underside — an extension of limb, until he can get closer to Tezcatlipoca and surge back over the edge of the bridge. He bodies a pair of Enforcers on the way up, sending them flying off the edge, and immediately upon touching down onto the bridge, he lunges for the god of conflict with a pleased animal sound. The rumbling thrum of something finally, finally relaxed enough to just enjoy its most basic instinct.
( In another instance, Set would be crowing with glee: I found you, again! ]
*yakety sax blasting in the distance*
In some other instance.
In this one, all that matters is ripping another god apart with his teeth.
He's burning up, in the Undercity. Aglow from within with something violet-violent that blackens his eyes like they've been burnt, corrupts the brilliant white-red of a deadly sun within him into a poisonous sludge. It feels amazing, it feels good to be made so lethal and bright. He'd only wanted to try it for once, at the hand of someone he trusted ( trusted, in the sense that one would trust a scorpion to sting no matter the situation ) ( the same as him, really ), and to know it for what it could offer. Now, he was incandescent with Shimmer, heat radiating off of him to burn the surfaces he'd touch, enveloping his vision in muddles images. Blurs of color and light and hideous beauty.
He can smell Tezcatlipoca in the Undercity, in the seat of Silco's once-home. The Advocate had looked upon Set and bade him choose the fate of dead worlds, to prove himself one way or another, but it's not the worlds that he is fixated on. It's the Bearers who represent them, who get to make the choices. If he were conscious, he could contort his alien mind into all sorts of reasons and rationales, but there is no mind. It's taken a lovely backseat now, leaving him tooth and claw and beautiful, lethal instinct that involves him in the middle of the Enforcer's onslaught. People die around him, Zaunite and Pilty alike, ripped limb from limb — no one can count the purity of war as its friend, truly.
Set's heading across the bridge anyways, fixated on the familiar scent of copal and night. Lunging through bodies, darting and weaving across the top of the bridge, only to sling himself off one side and use his sands to drag his form along the underside — an extension of limb, until he can get closer to Tezcatlipoca and surge back over the edge of the bridge. He bodies a pair of Enforcers on the way up, sending them flying off the edge, and immediately upon touching down onto the bridge, he lunges for the god of conflict with a pleased animal sound. The rumbling thrum of something finally, finally relaxed enough to just enjoy its most basic instinct.
( In another instance, Set would be crowing with glee: I found you, again! ]