⏳ THE SCORCHING ISLE: Oracle Event One ⏳

[beleos]

ARRIVAL

All Bearers have heard whispers of them - the Oracles. Mysterious and unknown entities of an abstract nature, they serve as the heart of each faction’s cause - both as a means to an end and a very real stepping stone in achieving their objectives. To claim an Oracle means growing ever closer to victory: to see your homes restored as they were, or to herald in a new one of your making.

So you go.

A Cornerstone has been set up for each faction; one for the Zenith and one for the Meridian in Yima’s manor and Heliopolis, respectively. They warn you that upon transportation, your safety cannot be guaranteed and there is no telling what waits for you beyond - to be prepared. To make sure you have whatever you deem necessary with you before you go, as there is no telling when - or how - you will be coming back. CONTINUED HERE...

NOTES

Upon your arrival, you woke up with an HOURGLASS NECKLACE. Please refer to the Time Mechanics on the OOC Summary and bottom of this post for details on its usage.

The COURTYARD is frozen in time. Player Characters and the Great Tree are the only signs of moving, free life in the courtyard. During the intro, time magic does not work.

Characters are free to investigate but cannot move beyond the courtyard if you choose a prompt during the intro. You may mingle among your fellow Bearers or speak with [MR. TIBBS] if you so choose. (Also? LOOK AT HIM HELP)

Iconoclasts and Stargazers will notice Aspect benefits/detriments now.

All characters will be weak for the 24 hours - think like mild flu - and unable to leave until Mr. Tibbs has dispersed them. This is the time in which any threads with the NPC will be carried out.

The INTRO concludes with said dispersal of PC’s once interactions concluded. They will be sent to a location around the castle of your choosing; they are free to move about freely from here. Your prompts can start with you waking alone or in the presence of others - whatever you’d like!

Your character will innately understand how to use time magic from this point forward. It will come naturally to them, like a skill they were born with.

CASTLE: OVERVIEW (p a s t)

The Scorching Isles is home to the Atirat, a people of sea-dwellers who have the ability to walk on land. (Think mermaids with the ability to shift back and forth between human and mermaid forms.) As such, much of the Scorching Isles is covered in large bodies of blue water and glistening pieces of ice to accommodate their lifestyle.

THE CASTLE, however, is what dominates the landscape and it's where the Shard-Bearers will be spending their time. The white castle with colorful glass windows is obscured by a thick layer of clouds and fog. Nearly every location on the island has a thin layer of fog that rolls through it, which gives the entire Island an inescapable chill. The castle has artfully built rooms with a CAVALCADE OF DECORATIVE ICE, lavish mirrors, and white plants accented with blue decorations. Several portions of the castle are submerged due to the aquatic nature of the native residents.

And everywhere you go, you find them - STATUESQUE BODIES FROZEN mid-movement. They are haunting reminders of the power in your Hourglass - the very real power to decide their fates.

The castle has many winding paths to explore, as castles often do. There are sleeping quarters, HALLWAYS, a wine cellar, and a few large rooms presumably for diplomatic affairs. Players can use these rooms at their own leisure for whatever purposes they see fit. (Exploration, combat, or supply gathering.)

However, many of these rooms will require some strategy to access their full potential! Atirat were much more comfortable being underwater than many Kenosians may be. Therefore, rooms of higher importance may be COMPLETELY SUBMERGED or require swimming through an underwater pathway to reach them. Very minimal supplies will be kept out in the open for all to reach. More desirable supplies - such as warm clothing, small weapons, treasure, and the like - will be located past or within one of these flooded areas.

Players may gather supplies within and preserve their Sand or use their Sand to make other rooms accessible and gather whatever lies within! The larger the asset you attempt to unfreeze, the more Sand it costs - and the more drained/vulnerable you will be as a consequence, so choose your path ahead wisely.

Currently, a pervasive fog is preventing you from wandering beyond the Castle's limits. Should you try to venture past it, your Sand will rapidly be stolen and you will find yourself suffering the same fate as the islanders if you don't move back to safety quickly... However, if you ask Mr. Tibbs what lays beyond the mist - he will tell you about the thriving farmland, the once-bustling village surrounding the castle, and the beautiful coral reefs beneath it. Sadly, they're beyond your reach - but maybe if the Bearers decide to unfreeze them when the week is up...

LIBRARY (s a f e z o n e)

The ROYAL LIBRARY - A treasure trove of knowledge, history, and glimpses of a fractured past scattered throughout. The lower floor of the Library is void of much reading material and contains several intricate-looking art pieces on decorative pedestals.

A spiral staircase dominates the center of the room, with its once delicate structure overtaken by sheets of formidable ice; it leads you toward the upper levels where a sea of books awaits. There are isles and isles of books, most perched on intricately carved shelves. Many books lay in piles or are discarded onto the floor, and scattered papers are common throughout.

Curious Kenosians may pick out books from the shelves and read on various topics, but players may also pass through this room on their way elsewhere. This area will function as a safe haven where violence and the taking of others' Sand is not allowed; do not disturb the books or Mr. Tibbs won’t be happy!

NOTES

Characters who wish to receive a book with lore specific to the island may comment [HERE]. You will be RNGed a book from a pre-written list of topics. The books may give you a deeper look into the island, its inhabitants, and its history! (Only 1 book per player! Please assume all other books they read are about commonly-available topics.)

THE EATING PARLOR (p a s t)

There are no basic amenities on the island. No hot water, no warm beds, and no salacious magazines (that you know of. heh heh). That would make the Eating Parlour a wise stop for anyone. After all, this could be the perfect chance to procure some provisions!

The EATING PARLOUR has all the equipment one would need for meal preparation. Dried plants hang from the ceiling, and the walls are lined with mason jars filled with every strange manner of presumably edible thing (Is that a head over there? Hmm… maybe you should check).

The parlour also comes with a garden under a massive windowed dome so that the inhabitants could have fresh produce at hand. Many plants have withered, but there are some salvageable plants if you know how to look for them. But beware… Some of the plants have a strange blue glow. These plants can spell potential disaster.

If someone should make contact with these glowing plants, they will crumble into glass shards - glass that will quickly burrow its way under the skin and curse that person with Blight. Blight will make all resources within that person's vicinity slowly age and eventually crumble to dust. (Which I relate to on a personal level tbh.) Iconoclasts will be immune to its effects.

NOTES

Please see the "Blight" section below for more information on its effects.

TREASURE ROOM (f u t u r e)

Faint singing can be heard coming from this room. Once you hear the song, it dulls your senses and leaves you in a haze. There is no stopping your feet from guiding you to it through the doors and into the Treasure room. The door slams shut at your back, sealed with a wall of ice and magic.

Players will find themselves lured to an icy chamber bordered by a ring of cold blue fire. There is a deep pond that surrounds the platform you’ve found yourself standing on. Beyond its glassy surface and crystal clear water, one can glimpse all manner of treasures - from crowns, jewels, ornate statues in various statues of repair, scepters, spears, and books that seem impervious to the water's cold chill.

As you come to your senses, you will find yourself frozen in place and at the mercy of a large statuesque being before you. This beautiful and horrifying figure in a perpetual song is the SIREN, the only Atirat you’ve seen in person. She measures nearly 20 feet (6 meters) from her head to the tip of her long-finned tail. She cradles an icy shard in her arms, singing to it as if it were a child.

She sits serenely in front of a large hourglass filled with white sand, which is bordered by a spear and a lance. Emblazoned in faint text at the base of where she sits reads: “The future lies in our hands.”

NOTES

Welcome to the Siren’s Chamber! Players must use their wit, charisma, or some good ol' fashioned elbow grease to escape the room or break the Siren’s magic. The Shard that the Siren holds contains dormant time magic that players may activate by using the Sand within their necklace. Players can access the future in 5-second intervals and use whatever they find in that time period to escape their predicament.

For example, if they activate the shard by using their time magic, that shard will begin to glow blue. The room around them will shift, and it could change to a point in the future where there is a sword nearby. If you can grab it, now you have a weapon! When the 5 seconds are up and time returns to the present, you will still have that weapon on your person. You may also try verbal communication if you’d like. If your character is someone who would try and talk their way out of a situation diplomatically, they may give it a try!

It is up to player discretion/creativity to think of a scenario you’d like. Each “future" does not have to be the same across player encounters! What one group experiences may be tailored to the player wants (because branching timelines exist). Let your imagination run free!

HALL OF MIRRORS (p r e s e n t)

Should you reach the rightmost wing of the massive castle Library, you will find a door hidden in the very back of one aisle against a wall; it looks as though the door used to be concealed by magicks that have since dissolved.

The stairwell leads down and into darkness. Once you reach the bottom, shimmering light cast from an unknown source beneath sheets of glistening ice will illuminate your new surroundings; you are in a maze of mirror-like ice. This labyrinth is silent save for the quiet creaking of shifting ice that may disquiet you and leave you uneasy regarding the stability of this area… but it holds beneath your feet.

Mr. Tibbs had told you that the “Kaleidoscope” - where your Sand is counted - rests through here, so eventually, you must brave the journey. Is it a trick of the light? Maybe the product of an especially active imagination…?

Did you just see one of your reflections move without you?

NOTES

Please refer to the OOC Summary for details on the Hall of Mirrors!

THE BLIGHT and TIME MECHANICS

BLIGHT

Blight is an infliction that will age supplies and infect people with a creeping disease that steals their Sand. For objects, this includes weapons, food, and items like cloth. It will take a few days to deteriorate things beyond use - so watching your supplies and acting accordingly is in your best interest. Generally, it will make it more difficult for PC's to get by given that their already scarce resources will dwindle and deteriorate - especially since it's 'contagious' through touch.

The Blight will not act quickly enough to severely hamper infected persons, but repeated exposure will cause effects to a person's body - notedly protruding VEINS in the face and extremities, a lower body temperature, and increased agitation. These effects start out mild and grow more severe with each 'dose.'

Characters must touch an object/person that is Blighted to become inflicted with Blight themselves. When that happens, it will become easily identifiable as Blighted from the faint blue, shimmering outline around the infected subject, as well as the WITHERED, FROSTBITTEN or ashy appearance it takes as it progresses.

However, there is one single perk with Blight. (Or is it a perk?) Players will feel reduced impact by the cold surroundings, making the climate around them somewhat more hospitable. Beware of falling victim to a chill you can't feel...

TIME

To use your Sand, each character is granted access to and innate knowledge of a spell they channel from their Shard that automatically manipulates their Hourglass. This allows the remote control of Sand (aka gathering and dispersing), as well as the ability to pull Fragments of time from Shards.

Fragments are literal pieces of you taken from your Shard. They manifest as memories or images displayed on little shards of broken glass (think of the memory being played out in real-time on the mirror's surface), and can be crushed to convert into Sand automatically, either voluntarily or by force. The only stipulation is that the parties must be close to one another, and the Fragment must be exchanged while both Bearers are still. This means someone has to give it to you, or you need to immobilize them before you take it - one way or another.

Once the Fragment is crushed, the memory and associated time of that person's life is lost and your character will suffer amnesia until the Oracle is claimed. How deep this goes is up to you; they could lose a large chunk of time - even all their memories surrounding a person or place for a big payload of Sand, or they could lose very little for a meager net gain.

Sand is automatically gathered or distributed by your Hourglass and added/subtracted to your running total. No need to micromanage. Convenient!

Please note that using Sand to unfreeze anything (resources, a door which can be then opened, etc) is an unpleasant experience. Each time you use Sand in this way, your character will be left feeling weakened and flu-like for an hour or two, which will leave them vulnerable. This effect stacks and scales up to outright KO-ing them for a few hours if they go crazy, so unfreezing too large of an area is off the table!

NOTES

• An OOC POST will be coming shortly explaining how Sand is going to be tallied and the Oracle claimed.
• Should your character attempt to unfreeze any NPC's, please respond [HERE]. NOTE: unfreezing NPC's may result in physical violence with CW's for severe mental instability/illness and a potential reference to self-harm.
• HAVE FUN!!!

CODING

Comments

04, but the Special Version

[redsoil]

[ Ever since their unified decision, made before the roots of the Great Tree and the dryad who had lived among it, he continued to feel her at the edge of his consciousness. A mote of cold among the sun-warmed sands, a termination of self that ought not to be, and the existence of her; her, with her cold peaks and vicious winds, her hard eyes and simmering wrath. Hayame, the woman and warrior he had pressed his divine blessing upon, whom he sought restoration of himself for. There was a grudge within her, one that he was intent upon seeing her able to face mightily -- in victory or loss, whichever her skill would lead her to.

Even throughout the castle's endless hallways and submerged zones, he feels her presence now and again. A uniquely bitter thing, enraged by the ethereal power of the place, drawing her weapon in hostility against those who fail to announce themselves; at one moment near the beginning, he feels her strain hatefully ( the cold of her mountain burning, a blizzard of a woman -- ) as she must come across the demon she names as the object upon which she will enact her vengeance.

He knows this demon now, knows of his identity as a demon, now. And he champions her, eager to see her growth in such a pursuit.

But now, there is naught of her. The chill of her presence at the corners of his existence has faded, the sound of her hooves and the huff of her lovely scoffs is silent. Gone. ]

Hayame. [ He weaves through the unique knot of their bond. ] Hayame, it is night.

[ It is night, and she had vowed to return. ]

-- you wretched thing, has something felled you so soon?

[ Regardless, he is en route; the fullness of his mind honing in upon her, pressing for an answer as he hurries, a battering ram of a man, towards her last known location. He will drag her back by her hindlegs, if he must! ]

cw: sa, slavery, forced amputations, etc.

[warmare]

[Hayame has almost grown used to the vague presence of another in the stark white chill of her hearts. Almost. She does not want to puzzle over how or why the bond remained when the other one that the dryad forced upon her had faded and finally been severed when the Tribune had cleansed her Discord, freeing her from the creeping specter of the smirking demon that had ripped the eye from her head and shamed her with his "mercy" before mocking her with offers of peace between them. She assumes it was because of her demand, their vow, the single strand of hair in her ink black mane that now sometimes seemed crimson in the light...

For whatever reason, he is there, lingering and easier to reach out to in Communion than some others she has attempted to speak to. So she tells Set where she has gone, and she tells herself it was done more as simple notice than precaution.

But what she finds in the Hall of Mirrors is nothing like what she expected, nor hoped.

The cold of the labyrinthine paths deadened her sense of smell, the reflective surfaces confused her eyes, and the echoing sounds in the chambers muddied her ears. She had thought to root out Zenith ambushes, perhaps traps, not imagined that the strange, icy sheets would show her scenes from the past she never liked to acknowledge. The further she had gone, the worse the images had been, and though she tried to ignore them... it became difficult to not confront them. The dead eyes of the filly she'd once been, her younger half-brother standing in horror beside her as they watched the stable master oversee the flensing of a disobedient yearling's arms. The distant gaze of the young mare in her first season, standing for Exhibition Day and mentally going anywhere but the line where potential buyers were allowed to run their hands over legs, check their teeth with their fingers, pull their tails up to inspect suitability for the breeding stables. The fire burning in the eyes of the woman who looked between her master's enemy and the raging waterfall and instead of believing in his offers of freedom... grabbing the rope that bound them together and throwing herself into the water.

And sometime in between the maze-like halls leading deeper into the castle and the realization that the eyes were watching her, following her... any connection she might have had with other shard-bearers goes dead. It isn't until hours later, once she had throttled the life out of a version of her herself that emerged from the ice and watched the doppelganger shatter along with the mirror she kicks to pieces, once she has dragged herself most of the way back but collapsed upon the stairs... that she hears a voice again.

It's his voice.]

Take that insult back.

[No matter how wretched she feels, part of her [TIME] stolen and body aching for it even though she'd reclaimed it, alone in the dark with the glow of the ice lurking behind her. As if this wasn't communion, a place where a lie or a front could be easily exposed-]

I merely lost track of time. I did not know war gods were able to fret about schedules so.

[redsoil]

[ Like her, he assumes their connection to be forged anew in the shape of their tenuous pact; the god of war bequeathing his undivided attention upon the struggles of a warrior-maiden, unerring in his confidence regarding her development. Set has never favored anyone, and so the sensation of Hayame's existence is new to him. Her presence is subtle, but unequvocably fastened to him - bound by a length of red hair, and the whisper of what godhood lingered within him. It was because of her that he had rexamined his current methodology, assessing the need for his full divinity if he was to properly bestow upon her a war-god's blessing.

( He pursues the shape of her soul, into the belly of the beastly castle. Hunting for her, stern of brow and snarling of tooth. There is a part of him that yearns for her success, for it will reflect upon him well; another part simply hopes she rejects him one day, long before she learns the truth of him. )

The hall of mirrors is one he has heard whispers of. Other Shard-Bearers had ventured into it, only to be met by violent apparitions in the shape of themselves. How many, he wondered, had defeated the illusions and how many more were replaced by them? For Hayame to have gone there, alone and armed with only her intuition and strength of arm -- it pleases him to know she yet lives, that she has triumphed over her own self. ]

How else are you to get a good rest, if you do not return in time for one? Such a thing is important for your continued health.

[ In the face of her cool voice, he is something warm and savage.

There is pride, eminating from him. She is alive, she survives. Every challenge she conquers will bring her one step closer to every goal she wishes to achieve; the recreation of her world, the death of the demon she so loathes. The one he has now met, at that. ]

I am here.

[ Single-mindedly, he has found his way to her. Standing there, at the top of the stairs; blood-red and gazing upon her collapsed form without judgment or pleasure. Only in patient question: will she climb alone, or will she accept his aid? ]

[warmare]

[She had heard that those who had their [TIME] tampered with or stolen became weak the same way they all had, the day after that demented river weasel had stolen from them all to "demonstrate" the strange rules that dictated how this frozen world worked. She did not think to experience it for herself, not again... and yet now, even though she had reclaimed the [TIME] back from the doppelganger... her body still aches from its loss. Her legs have grown unreliable. Her vision blurred in the corner until she collapsed and pretended that she had laid down.

And then... Set is there, his silhouette aglow with the faint light from the Library from whence he'd came, his hair afire like a torch come to light the way. She hears him in her hearts, as she hears him with her ears, and she... is ashamed, to be seen like this. To know that the strange sense of pride that bleeds through their communion will soon dissipate once he gets the measure of her condition.]

... So you are.

[Now that he is here... she uses her mouth. Her hand moves to brush long, inky strands of hair from her face, grown disheveled in the desperate fight against a woman who knew her every strength and weakness. But that woman is dead now, if she had ever been alive in the first place. ... Hah. She doesn't know which one she's even thinking about anymore.

But though Set has found her, and though a small part of her... did not hate that she had been found, even in this weakened state... Hayame does not try to rise. She leans against the icy wall of the corridor, her back legs curling tighter to her dun belly, both sets of lungs rising and falling somewhat labored, the binding around her chest half-ripped and a few cuts and scrapes bleeding slow in the chill.]

I will take my rest here. It is quieter than that accursed library.

[There's also less otters and demons and Zenites she was supposed to be honoring a truce with for some reason.]

[redsoil]

[ Hayame has seen a difficult battle, he knows. There is no injury in the world he has not born witness to, save perhaps the agonies of bombs and bullets -- and even then, it is simply because the eternal sprawl of his consciousness is bound to this moment. One day, he will be all that he will be. Thankfully, Hayame's injuries now are familiar to him, known on sight as signs of her struggle and proximity to her attacker. He can smell the blood upon her, as readily as he sees the heave of her flanks.

The steps he takes are quiet, for all the heavy brocade and faux-fur lining of his sleek ensemble ought to add weight and rasp against themselves, he is a silent creature. Descending to her, brilliant and red, until he can draw himself into a crouch and settle upon the stair near to her collapsed form. A warrior's pride is vital to their strength of will, and to diminish her in this moment would be a criminal act; one that Egypt's greatest soldier could never do unto another, not when he was not there to rob her of her will. ]

You did well, to survive your trial.

[ Lightly said, as he rests the trident upon the floor near to the two of them. Within his reach, should he need to bring it to bear. ]

Are you willing to show me your injuries? I am no god of healing, however, my sister did see fit to teach me some rudimentary techniques.

[warmare]

[He says that she did well... and perhaps she is allowed to feel pride for that, over the shame of her failures being seen at the same time. Perhaps it could be said to be praiseworthy, that she had survived an ambush from herself at all, the woman who knew her weaknesses best...

But there is a part of her that has never allowed anything less than perfection- that hadn't been able to, to secure her survival, and it remains in her still. The closer he comes, the more he will see... but she steels herself. Had she not demanded his blessing? Was he not a god, if not a weakened one?

Hiding at this point... would be too cowardly a thing to do. And if he could do unto her the sort of healing she was more familiar with, or at least a sort of magic that would not feel like an sick invasion crawling through her body...]

- You may.

[Relaxing... is not something Hayame has ever been quite capable of. But she tries to do it now, to... make herself available, sinking back against the icy wall and attempting to force her muscles to, if not relax, to at least... welcome him. At least not reject him, or any touch this healing might require.

But to watch him in that moment would be... almost too much, and so her remaining eye goes to to glitter of the weapon laid beside them. A trident, bejeweled... Not something he'd had before, the make seemed more like-]

- It seems you have found yourself a fine weapon.

[She invites him to expound on it. Hopes he might, so that she can think of that instead of anything else.]

[redsoil]

[ In so many small ways, he and Hayame are cut from the same cloth. She holds the tatters of her pride to her with such ferocity, in the same way he clings to his own; a pair of them, with the remains of their hearts patched together by little else other than tenacity and despair. To relinquish any ground to others would be devastating. They are bluster and bluff, miserable in their independence and spiteful in many a way. He feels the need to apologize to her, for he is so very impartial in all matters -- his faith in her as a warrior does not exclude him from relationships with those she may hate.

Another time, perhaps.

For now, he settles near to her and does not immediately move to touch her person. First, he assesses her for visible injury. What is the worst damage done to her that he can see? How is she breathing, what parts of her body does she guard the most? There is no magic he can work that will effectively assist her, as he took on no healing incantations when he joined himself to Meridian's banner. They were not in his nature, after all, not in the way others were -- even the additional mote of power he received from the shrine in the Beyond did naught to provide him abilities like those of his sister.

Isis would know what to do. In fact, as he finishes looking Hayame over and finds her eyes again -- he feels his heart lurch, for she is so much like Isis. Fiery in temper, endless in her grudges. ] I sought the armory, in case the Atirat possessed weapons and methods that were new to me. There was nothing else, save for this, that wasn't touched by their Blight.

[ He reaches for it, only to offer the haft of it to Hayame to examine. It is ornate, clearly a unique piece. ]

I do not know who it belonged to, only that it must have been important. It isn't entirely ceremonial, for I have used it in battle a few times.

[ Once he has her hands involved with something, he can use his own. Fanning out his fingers, he reaches forth to lay them on the back of her own hands first, to sweep up her arms and examine her injuries for severity and depth, for effective clotting versus bleeding. ]

Do you have experience in spearmanship, Hayame?

[warmare]

[The only eye remaining to her is fastened to the bejeweled trident, so that she might not see his own on her injuries. Even if it is survivable, perhaps even little compared to what could have been done to her by the thing she encountered... she cannot easily bear to see how those ancient eyes might look as they cast over her body.

Most easily noticeable are the scrapes, quick to stand out out for the crimson smears of blood on dun coat and tanned hide, but in the end, shallow things over heavier bruising that will eventually rise from skids and falls upon the ice as she wrestled with one of the only other beings in Meridian or Zenith that was her equal in raw physical strength- another jinba (another her). There is a graze along her cheek from an arrow (her arrow), a puncture wound in her rump from another that has half melted away into ice. The most severe, however, is a slash across her chest from a blade (her blade) that has ripped her clothing and half-split the binding on her breasts, exposing a bit of the obsidian shard embedded in her sternum and her sunbeam bed, on the end of a long, dangling gold chain normally concealed and tucked away there where it was safest. Not for the depth, but for what it almost hit.]

Wise.

[Going to the armory. She had come with her own weapons, and had little desire for more, but it was still wise. He reaches for the weapon... and she takes it, curling her fingers around the haft, her grip tightening and spasming on the metal so that she does not startle or shy away from his touch suddenly landing on... on her hands. She had braced herself to stomach pain from fingers probing or pressing, not... his fingers sliding up her arms in a way that makes the vestigial remnants of mane along her spine where skin became hide suddenly stand on end.

She swallows, and tries desperately to pretend that she is a woman who knew what it was like to have a man touch her bare arms. The weapon seemed of fine make, and though yes, she would have thought it perhaps ceremonial for its glittering, he said it held up in battle...]

I was also trained in the naginata. It is a bladed polearm, so... unlike a spear, one may slash, as well as thrust.

[It is difficult to think of naginata. He is... so close. He had been close, in communion, but this... Is not that. And if a man were to be this close to her, she had hoped... she would be far, far more injured. Perhaps at death's door, and unable to think of anything else but the pain.]

[redsoil]

[ With the weapon tucked into Hayame's hands, he is better able to examine the rest of her body for extensive damage; she will be sore, he concludes, but she will readily survive the damage that her own reflection caused her. The wounds he marks with the sweep of his eyes are the puncture wound, and the slice that has nearly taken her dark shard and the soft, golden glow of her sunbeam with it. That is the part of her that he is most concerned with, less for her modesty and more for the chill that may set into her very soul. She is a cold woman, but still, this place seeks to ruin all.

Blight them, how appropriate.

He does not seize her injured chest, but draws her gaze to it with the beckoning of his fingers. This, he indicates silently, will be the thing they need to take care of. Her defenses are shorn, her soul and world exposed to the elements and the eye. ]

Have you thought about how to compensate for your vision? The polearm may suit you as an additional martial style to rely on, while you work on archery with one eye.

[ A spear might suit her, or a naginata -- which, he expects is a weapon of her homeland. Reaching into his coat, he loosens the ties in order to slide the item off his shoulders and reach for one of the additional layers below and tear it from his body in a single jerk of his wrist. That, he will tear into a long strip, dark and continuous, to be able to offer to her to rebind her chest and compress the injury. And then -- he looks to her hooves, hovering his palm over one in further silent question: may he? ]

-- and, have you slipped? We may be able to find a way to provide traction for you, while simultaneously ensuring you are even deadlier.

[ badass booties for hayame??? ]

[warmare]

[She will be sore... but she will survive. That is the important part. She will not be thankful for it, but... she had fought herself, somehow, and there was little way to feel dishonor over potentially losing to someone who knew her so intimately, who matched her so evenly, as... Hayame.

Set's fingers draw her gaze as they are intended, despite how much she might like to keep looking at the trident instead. The spill of crimson that stains her tan skin, the glitter of the arrowhead-shaped shard between her breasts, the soft glow of the sunbeam she normally hid beside it, guarded beneath sliced bindings, robe, and the cold defenses of a woman sure that no one would try (or want) to touch her there.]

... I was thinking to commission one upon our return. The short blade I brought was less effective than I hoped.

[But she had been short of coin, and the blades were available, the naginata more expensive for its need for custom work. ... Priorities. Hah. She is so weak in the aftermath of having her [TIME] stolen and retrieved that she almost isn't even offended by the implication that she'd need to compensate for her current archery abilities. Almost.

Before she can stop him... he is pulling a layer of fabric from his body, and somehow- she had not expected it. It leaves her silent for a moment, long enough for him to do it... and the it is done, there is no point insisting he stop. It was not as if she had extra layers on herself- she had come relying on her kind's natural high body temperatures to protect her from the cold, so there was no jacket or extra robe to rely on. Another note for the future.

Her fingers curl tighter on the trident's shaft. She will thank him when it was done.]

- If this place had any decent straw to be found, I could weave shoes.

[Answer enough to the question of whether she had slipped or not. She had. She had in this last fight as well, while her icy doppelganger, made of the stuff, stood strong. But though she slumps against the wall in something like surrender, permission for him to... to touch her, to do what needed to be done... her stormy grey eyes aren't satisfied with the glitter of the weapon in her hand any longer.

They watch him, as she murmurs,]

I always imagined that for such a wretched showing... I would be abandoned by the god of war, not treated by him.

[- The demon had called her that, too. Wretched.]

[redsoil]

[ It would be wise of her to compensate for her blindness with other martial styles, to relearn fluidity in combat rather than specialization. Though he speaks to her of polearms, urging her to seek one out, he is secretly glad that she is already accomplished in that style -- he hasn't the heart to teach anyone else combat, not since Anubis.

Never since Anubis.

Silently, he bites the fullness of his lower lip as he listens to her. She answers what he asks of her, and little more, the two of them an awkward and terse pair better suited for violence than they are for comfort. It is all he can do to examine her with his eyes and fingertips, sweeping his palm over one of her bruises to test for depth of injury -- has it reached muscle? bone? she seems hale enough, albeit battered. That is good, he thinks. It is a powerful tool. Hayame is a powerful weapon.

( His hands are marked, both of them; the left with the dark, spoked wheel of the Savant and the left with something miasmatic and sinister, circles and lines following the arc of his wrist, the bumps of his knuckles. It is horrible in nature, a curse that follows him. He is cautious when he touches her with that hand, in particular. Hesitant, wavering. She would have been a powerful weapon. ) ]

It's not untrue, that I value strength above all else. Grace, dignity, wisdom -- none of them matter to me, provided you carry yourself with the strength to conquer all that opposes you.

[ He sets a hand upon the haft of the trident, steadied between where her own hands grasp at it. The red of his eyes finds the black of her own. There is no sorrow in him, as his expression cools, steady and alien in so many ways, despite the human shape of him. ( I may be no better than your hated demon, he had told her. And now, he knew the demon she spoke of. ) ]

It only matters to me that you were victorious, Hayame. I don't care about how honorable you were, nor how fairly you conducted yourself. I see your desire for victory, however violent you must be, however cruel you must be. That's what draws me to you -- the potential you have, to be merciless in your pursuit of what you want.

[warmare]

[The bruises that Set's hands pass over seem to largely be confined, at least, to muscle, save for one or two on her foreknees that had taken the brunt of her half ton weight in a fall across the ice. ... But the doppelganger had gotten an arrow through the temple as she skid, so... she had reclaimed the pain she'd been given. The pain she feels now as he ascertains the depth of the swelling and discoloration hidden by her dun hide is little in comparison.

... His mark is on his hand, hers on the back of her neck, beneath the high, tight arch of her updone mane. It is a different shape... but that is less noteworthy than the strange marks on his other hand. The way the dark ink? marks his knuckles and wrist, the lines connecting them as if mapping out the route to his bones.

Strength over all else... She wonders if she agrees with it. She had been taught so long to value honor and dignity, tried so hard to fight the way the humans idealized so that she would not be labeled a beast only capable of desperately clawing for survival. It was why she always clung to weapons even though her own body was a weapon perhaps more powerful than any human tool her world could manufacture, but honor...

In the end, what had honor done for her besides ruin everything that could have been potentially good in her life? In the end... that hand she had been looking at clasps the trident between her own, and yet she has to look at his eyes instead, her auxiliary lungs rising and falling in a shallow tempo that slowly spills a bit more sluggish blood from her wound into the valley between her breasts. How unnatural they were... for eyes to be red. She wishes they weren't. That demon's were crimson, too, and she has only the single stormy pupil left with which to regard them. Potential? Victory?]

If desire was enough, I myself would have been a goddess long ago.

[Everything she'd had, more effort than any mortal woman should have needed to exert just to live with something like dignity and respect as a person... in a world where gods did not smile upon jinba, it had gotten her nothing. Nothing but pain much unlike the simply wounds that she bears now. Was it blasphemous to say such a thing to a god? She says it anyway. What is he going to do... ? Abandon her? No, she doesn't want- Not the one person who had come down to this place looking for her- (How wretched.)

One of her hands shifts, and closes over the one curled on the trident beside her. Regardless of whether it was covered in sinister lines or not. Just a moment... before she tries to disguise it as just shifting her grip on the weapon, turning it blade down to shove into the icy steps beside her, point down. She will not grip it any longer like she needs a pacifier.

Instead, she puts her arms down at her sides, limp and willing to move as needed.]

... Do as you will.

[redsoil]

[ The vicious part of him, the dark part of him that seeks dominance, thinks to tell her no amount of desire would ever allow anyone not born of the divine to become divine themselves. Such was the way, among the Ennead; you were born to maat, to the order of the world, and thus entirely divorced from the freedoms allotted to mortals, individualism and passion. Hayame's passion was a thing that could free her from her shackles, for those shackles were put in place by equally fallible people. Set was bound by the very fabric of reality, and thus -- never to be freed from his fate.

( You don't want to be a goddess, he wants to tell her, low and sullen. You would never dream again. )

Instead, he works to roll up the strip of cloth he'd made from his undershirt, tucking it into the palm of his hand so that it did not trail while he worked. The rest of her body will be fine, she is sturdy and powerful in form; it is the laceration across her breasts he wants to attend to. That is where her soul is, her world. It must be safeguarded from sharp eyes, minds that will eke out every advantage. ]

You are desirous as a mortal, Hayame. It has been eons since I met someone quite like you.

[ To be able to grace her with a war god's blessing was -- infinitely strange to him, who did not grow attached to others easily. His family, yes. And even then, after so many betrayals -- the love he had for them was so darkly poisoned, soured.

He presses his fingers to the midline of her body, just below where the rend in her bindings begins. Hold that, he murmurs to her, waiting for her hand to pin it in place before he leans in, closer still, and begins to wind the cloth around her chest once more, cinching it tightly against the swell of her breasts and the wound there. ]

Did you know I was not born into full divinity? To become a god, one must acquire a perfect mind and body, before the ascension may begin. We must shed all weakness, all indecision, all right to freedom -- and we are taken in by maat, the order of the world. We shed our former lives, and we are made anew. Born, and then remade.

[ He thinks of her, pausing with his arms passing around the width of her shoulders, his own arms tucked below hers -- so close, he can smell the sweat gathered at the nape of her neck. He can feel the thud of her heart. To say nothing of the intimacy of it, he is a creature of broad appetites and ruthless desires. ]

Only the children of gods can become gods, where I am from. Though, it is different throughout the world. I travel so very much, I have seen so many different things. I yearn for new knowledge, new sights, new experiences regardless of what it costs others. My appetites are horrendous and selfish. That is the kind of god I was made into, and I wonder what we are fated to become to one another.

[warmare]

[Her eyes follow as he strips the cloth into something more like bandages. Not privy to his thoughts at first, she can only guess at their content… but guessing was a fool’s game. If she knew…

(So be it, she might say, her voice just as sullen. I stopped allowing myself to dream a long time ago.)

But she doesn’t, and instead… he says something that demands her attention far more. There is an instinctive part of her that wants to lash out at the word desirous, even before she knows what context he actually means for it. She had spent her whole life jostling in the hierarchy of armed jinba kept at her master’s stables, desperately fighting for place in a world designed for men, (even more desperately trying to avoid the fate of the pitiful broodmare that had birthed her), and a part of that was making sure no jinba or lowly groom who ever made comments about her as a woman be allowed not to suffer for them.

But she doesn’t know the way he means it, (surely just as a playmate, a mortal dancing for a god’s amusement), and so… she simply moves a hand to hold the bandage as he requests, holding her tongue the same. No, she does not know the things he speaks of…. And she does listen, it is just…

Desirous, he’d said, and he is so close now. As she shifts and arches to allow him to bind her wound, there are too many ways they almost touch. She bites into her lip to prevent a whimper from slipping out as the tight layers are wrapped to compress the wound and disguise once more the fuller curves of the breasts she’d always hid away, as crimson slowly stains the first few passes of cloth and also begins to creep up her throat and into her cheeks in the form of a flush she cannot prevent. His hair is fire red… like Matsukaze’s had been. Was. Is. Behind the heavy thud of her main heart in her equine half… the auxiliary one in her more human looking chest, the one so close to his hands, beats in echoed symphony.

I wonder what we are fated to become to one another.]

Is it not decided already… ?

[Fate.]

You will bless me in battle until I have killed that demon, I die, or you tire of my stagnance… and then, after you have left me, as the years pass… you will forget I ever existed at all.

[Won’t he? Surely such was the fate of a mortal and a god. Was it right? Was it upsetting? She certainly did not know, but.

Her hand holds the end of the bandage tightly to her sternum long after she could have released it.]

If you thought to leave me rounded when you leave and get a child of a god out of our deal…

[Mistakenly thinking that is the insinuation he presents with this talk of desire and the children of gods, Hayame’s expression grows guarded and dark.

If that was the price she would give his blessing back right then and there.]

[redsoil]

I do not know.

[ Ruthlessly, he continues to bind her injuries with the cloth, tugging it taunt around the curve of her chest. He recalls the way she guards signs of her womanhood, flattening herself to the point of constant pain, as if to ward off eyes that might find her lovely, compelling in beauty; instead, she is savage and wild, with teeth and corded muscle and the heat in her voice that demands she be viewed as worthy. Mighty. ( She's so much like him, it aches. He doesn't wish to reflect upon his own complexities. It is better to be a creature of surface hedonism and chaos, than whatever is left to him. )

He tugs the last of the bandage tight, coiling it into a knot long before he speaks again. ]

You are the first that I have ever thought to give a blessing to. The humans of Egypt pray to the god of peace, to sate my bloodthirst and violence, or they pray to me for victory, guidance in battle and feat. Rarely, never outside of war. They receive so much from the Ennead, and cringe from me. I do not like them. I do not understand them, never enough to bother with selecting one to consider.

[ Slowly, he rises to his feet, to his toes. Tucking his coat closed around himself, cinching the ties closed again, fastening the embroidered front tight together. The hood remains low along his neck, his hair spilling out in chunks and waves as he regards her.

His tone frosty, he admits to her: ] I am infertile. Even my own son, whom I raised all my life, was not born of me. I will never have children, so fear not being forced into motherhood.

[warmare]

[If it hurts her, how tightly or coldly he binds her wound, once again hiding away the blood-stained sight of her obsidian shard and the preciously guarded sunbeam bead that could summon visions of her world... Hayame never tells him to stop or begs for gentleness. If his movements grow more ruthless after her words, she never voices a complaint.

She just bites her lip and swallows the pained noises down.

In the wake of his care... She still doesn't rise. The loss of her [TIME], even though it had been regained shortly after, had left her exhausted and feeling sick, and the last thing she wanted was to let any of the Zenites in the library (or maybe just one particular Zenite) see her this week. She remains slumped against the wall, not trusting her dun legs to support her, the larger set of lungs in her powerful body rising and falling shallow and slow.

Mist frosts in little puffs in the air between them. Strange. Before the loss, the naturally high temperatures of her kind had kept her feeling rather resilient in the cold. The ice doesn't seem quite as cold as Set does, however, when he answers her mistaken interpretation of his words with such a frosty and... somewhat unbelievable answer. An infertile god? Had Izanagi not made the storm god Susano'o from his own discharge after purification? Did Amaterasu not break a blade in three and birth from it strong sons? The idea in her own world of a god not possessed of such abilities is an anathema, and for just a moment... she looks up at him like he might be lying... before coming to the conclusion that to do so to her now over such a thing would be pointless. So he is infertile. - But,]

Do not tell the daughter of an armless broodmare not to fear being forced into motherhood.

[They are too "close" for her to pretend she hadn't been afraid of that. That so much of her violence and victory was born from the abject fear and disgust she felt over the idea of being sold into such a life. She had been young once. She had not always been this strong.

But there is something in his tone that... reminds her of something else, too. She had watched Matsukaze, sometimes, quiet and hidden, as he held out his arms for the son he fought so desperately to reunite with. The sound of the colt's laughter, despite the grievous burn wound he'd received without his protector, the way that man had seemed so gentle and strong around him in contrast to the fierce demon he was upon the battlefield... That child was not of Matsukaze's loins. She'd overheard the others. It was his brother's child. But it called him "father", and clung to his legs, and when Matsukaze had turned that softer, kinder gaze upon the boy, she'd-]

... Tell me about your son.

[Perhaps she can pretend that she just needs a story to entertain her while she lays here weak and injured.]

[redsoil]

You need not fear it from me, then.

[ There is no pretending that although their species are distinct and different from one another, that were he capable of fatherhood, it would not matter. But, he is not. The ability to have children was taken away from him the moment he considered the splendor of fatherhood, perhaps it had ben stolen away long before he knew what it was he could ever desire. Nothing will be born to him, ever. Save for the beautiful, strangling vine that digs its way throughout his soul, and whatever awaits him at Osiris's side in Duat.

They are so alike. He cannot read her mind, but her revulsion at the idea of being used to father children on makes his skin crawl and his throat close up, nauseated immediately by his own — his own experiences. The things he's heard people say about him, the things he's lived through — hundreds of things, the agonies of vulnerable women. For a moment, he turns his head from her, closing his eyes in both irritation and private need. He and Hayame would rather their bodies be seen as dangerous, than desired.

He regrets his choice of descriptor of her. Desirable, it's disgusting. ]

His name is Anubis. Nephthys and I loved him from the moment he was born. I taught him how to fight and when he should love instead, I taught him of war and mercy, I showed him every corner of Egypt and we used to sail the Nile together, where he'd tell me the name of every plant and animal he could see. He loved cats the most, would always beg me to keep every stray he'd ever see and he'd cry that he needed something warm to remind him of me when I was far away, fighting wars instead of holding him.

[ He says it slowly, peeling his eyes open one by one, to look at her as she recovers (if it is under his watchful gaze, he will not say; for both their sakes, as well as their pride and independence). And slowly, he offers her his hand. ]

Would you like to see him?

[warmare]

[She has striven to be everything that woman who had borne her wasn’t, so that she might prevent becoming her- just at a different stable, for a different master. She had chosen loyalty and servitude to keep her arms, she had let the master convince her she and the others were better than the Armless to keep her head high, she had cared for her coat and her hair to not look like a broken nag who’d foaled too many times, and she’d… she’s sharpened herself to dangerous. She was beautiful, and there was no changing that, but she would be so sharp and hard that anyone who tried it would come back bloody and regretful-

But the story Set weaves is beautiful.

His eyes closed, her slumped against the icy wall shivering intermittently… his words are warm. He speaks of a child not his blood but loved by him and who she assumed is his fellow goddess, a wife or sister or both. Of a boy who was smart and curious and loving in turn, the kind of boy… she thinks, the kind of son Gonta had been to Matsukaze. Was he not always waiting patiently, showing off eagerly when he learned a new medicinal plant, throwing himself into the tasks around the village to be worthy of the respect his father commanded? Had he not… made her almost think that if she were to have a child, that if that child might be born free, from a partner she chose…

Set’s eyes are open again. His hand hovers between them.

- and she takes it, slowly and quietly.]

sobs and hands this to you

[redsoil]

[ It is not an offer he makes lightly, for he is so viciously protective over the existence of his child. The promise he made to Anubis before being banished from Heliopolis (his own, not the one of Springstar — ) an integral piece, if not the only one, that bound him to Meridian's forces. That he speaks of his child with Hayame is because,

Because she is stalwart and true.

A hard woman, but one he feels he doesn't have to be worried about turning around and using the information in an underhanded way. If she does, well. It will not be the first nor the last betrayal he's experienced, though he knows he would be — disappointed. Bereft, perhaps, of whatever grows between them. As what rests between them now is the join of their hands, his fingers clasping the sides of hers as she holds fast to him. He draws her into Communion, anchoring them together by the pressure of their hand hold, as he turns his head into the nonexistent distance of their mental bridge. Looking far, across what is both bleak emptiness and a full scene that begins to sprawl.

He holds Hayame's hand, and in the same moment, he draws away from her to chase the sound of boyish cries. Striding in gleaming, gold jewelry and soft linen shendyt towards the stumbling, toddler-sized child that runs forth from the inner depths of the warm, sandstone halls of Heliopolis's chief temple. Fat hands and fat legs, he is far too young for his own momentum, and very nearly falls over himself were it not for Set's hands sweeping under the crux of his arms to gather him up. In that memory, he tucks the dark hair of his son under his chin and presses the rounded body close to his shoulder, cradling him with skill — attentive and tender in ways he does not show himself to be otherwise.

Anubis, he chides softly as the child begins his hiccuping, clutching at the white cloth attached to his father's dark, animal-face headdress, I'm home now, don't cry. Your mother was here all this time, you weren't alone. The word that Anubis cries is jty, a miserable little thing that must be 'dad', as he thrashes and wriggles and gives in to every ill-tempered action to punish his father for being gone so long. Eventually, the headdress is knocked askew, falling towards the floor where it scatters into sand first — and Set's hair is clutched at next, fistfuls of red that he bears with stride.

His expression is nothing short of adoring, as he pushes his nose into the short fall of dark hair and bounces his son softly in his arms: What is it, then? What has you so distraught today?

Anubis warbles: I couldn't find you, as if such a thing were the end of the world itself, you went too far, and you couldn't come back and I couldn't find you. Again, he chokes on his own tears, while Set strokes his head, his neck, the fat curve of his thigh so reverently. I know, he says, I'm a terrible father to you, how do you always forgive me? Here, come meet my friend. I brought a friend home, you'll like her. She is tall and strong like your father, a brilliant warrior with the bow and spear. You love the spear, remember?

He won't let Hayame protest, nor retreat. The memory becomes a new reality, divorced from the historical proceedings that must have followed, as Set quietly carries the calming child to where he has left Hayame in their communion. There, his son peers at her with large, dark eyes and sniffs heartily against his father's shoulder. ]

Hayame.

[ Set's expression is nothing short of calm, careful. ]

This is Anubis. He is older now than you see him, but my favorite memories of him are ones like this. He cried all the time; when he was sad, when he was happy, when he was angry, his heart the most tender thing you could have imagined.

sobs and takes it

[warmare]

[In one reality, Hayame is slumped against the walls of an icy staircase, her breathing labored and her blood staining the ground, clasping the hand of the war god in ripped robes kneeling in front of her. But in another, in the world of communion... she is standing alone with hot desert wind rustling through her long hair (ink black but for the single strands of crimson) as he leaves her to walk over the sand towards a grand temple... and the small, wailing thing that comes racing out of it.

How strange is it, that she could face her own doppelganger and primarily feel rage, yet now find herself paralyzed with fear?

His son is small and pathetic, not at all what she imagined when she thought of the child of a god. Even if it were not a son of his loins... she had assumed him still divine from some way or form, and to see such a being sniffling and sobbing over the return of his father... How is it familiar? Ah. The hands clasping in the brilliant hair remind her of when she had. The bolas had been tangled around her fetlocks, then, her lungs heaving, struggling on the ground and capture imminent, but she had seen it clearly- the young son of Matsukaze whose life that proud, strong man had gotten on the ground and begged her for (that she had coldly refused), throwing his arms in tears around his father when they were reunited. How Matsukaze had wept openly, then, too, when he had never cried when her men beat him or when she'd bound him to drag him back to her stablemaster in fetters.

But that child, half his face ruined by melted, burned skin, had not looked at her like this one ("Anubis") does, when Set finally calls his attention to her. - My friend. Had he just called her his friend? No, it was surely just... something one said to children, to explain the presence of strangers. Something to make the child look at her with curiosity and wonder in his teary eyes more than the sheer hatred and fear she'd seen in Matsukaze's son towards the people who had taken his father away. What-

What did she say? When her younger brother had come to her crying she had slapped him, shaken him, half smothered him in her side, anything to keep the sounds of his weakness from being overheard by the other armed jinba or the grooms, who might tell the stablemaster and not only ruin Yubari's chances at success but her own by association. But Set, he... embraces it. Encourages it. And she cannot run from it, the sand is heavy on her hooves, even though something sticks in her throat that prevents her from responding until she can finally force out-]

Hello, Anubis.

[- What did that feel like? Not the false sensation Yima had once put into her head, but the actual arms of a parent embracing you when you were small and sad and powerless? It should be disgusting, what she is seeing. But instead, for some reason... it makes her hearts ache, the rest of anything that she might have said lost, unable to turn her gaze away from the child back to its father.]