— i'll say a prayer, as i cast it to the flame

[redsoil]

WHO: set & others
WHERE: around the netherworld
WHEN: check headers for specific dates/times
WHAT: a catch-all for everything during his time in-game
WARNINGS: physical violence, mentions of sexual abuse, hanahaki syndrome, etc.

Comments

「OCTOBER」

[redsoil]

— @ GRIMMJOW

[ The god of war is red of hair and red of eye, with little to his person aside from the dark drape of his shendyt and the flex of his fingers into fists. He awaits this fellow who's called him out, by virtue of his being a god of war, who wants to fight with him for the same reason. Honestly, it's a relief, to know that his divinity - while imprisoned far from him - is enough in name alone to entice the violent to him. It'll be satisfying, to really cut loose on some whelp eager to pit himself against Egypt's greatest god ( former ) and be met by a kindred soul.

At least, he hopes this 'Grimmjow' proves to be a kindred soul. The kind who finds delight and freedom in combat. He doesn't know who to look for, and that alone keeps him on edge, rolling up to his toes with a fresh eagerness that has him breathing the environment in, animal-like and watchful. Will this soul approach him head-on? Will he announce his presence before they begin, or will he attempt to ambush Set? Does he bring a weapon, or his own bare hands? He doesn't care, he's fought in all manners and ways, and all he'd like to do is prove he can still destroy others.

( His shadow's presence is unwanted, but there, lingering and lounging like an indolent king. He can feel it curling in the corner of his mouth, savage and bright. ) ]

[arrancar]

( his spirit is high for one who was severely beaten not too long ago. injuries recovered and purpose defined, grimmjow is ravenous for new opponents. the stronger they are, the better the prospect. he has a goal to achieve, after all; and it isn't going to meet itself without pain and bloodshed.

admittedly, he isn't used to entering a battle without the intent to kill. survival has always enforced that an enemy must be defeated and consumed, lest he be the one to meet such a fate. but he made a deal with ichigo and he is gonna keep it, no matter how hard it'll be (and it will be hard, trust him).

he arrives with no weapon in hand, wearing his typical white attire with a black graphic t-shirt underneath his jacket to conceal the hole in his abdomen. )

Are you ready, you old pile of shit? ( only a coward would ambush another. he is here for a fair fight. )

[redsoil]

There you are! I wouldn't have blamed you if you decided against challenging me!

[ He laughs as Grimmjow approaches him - honorable, in that he announces his presence, rather than taking hold of an advantage or exploiting a vulnerability. It speaks to Set, that they come with no weapons alike; that this man who contacted him solely to duke it out is so straightforward. He, too, has made a vow against causing death. Mayhem is on the table, disorder is in his nature, but slaying others and potentially threatening the throne of the gods? No more.

Like his hair, he has a redness to his approach, his attitude. As wild and vicious as the arid desert lands, he stretches his arms up and over his head, cradling one elbow in his palm and then the other. Limbering up a body that does not need the warm up, as it gives him time to briefly take in the size of the other, his general build. He's eager to see what Grimmjow brings. ]

I'm ready, you little rascal. I hope you give as good as you get --

[ His thighs bunch, just below the dark edge of his shendyt, heralding his gap-closing leap, cat-like in his own way. He's aiming cat-like claws for the widest span of body, eager to rake them through Grimmjow's shirt and gouge through the meat of his chest, if he connects. ]

[arrancar]

( as arrogant as a god should be, he imagines; not unlike the shinigami that rules over seireitei.

perhaps, he can be grateful to oblivium for one thing — it has given him a space to grow stronger outside of the restrictions placed upon him in hueco mundo as one of aizen's espadas. here, he can fight whoever he wants whenever he wants. here, he can focus solely on the only objective he has ever had.

to find the strongest among the litter and defeat them in battle.

although he no longer sees it as a fight to the death, destruction remains his core nature, so he won't be satisfied until one of them is left within the inch of his life. pantera has been acting up ever since he stepped foot on these lands though. it would be too early to try summoning it again. but it's just as well that he battles this god without reliance on his zanpakuto. it will only prepare him for future encounters when pantera is not an option. )

Speak for yourself, you old goat! ( he blocks the downward slash of set's clawed hand with his arm as he reels his own claws back to swing them upward towards bare abdomen. he always did enjoy the proximity of close combat, how much more thrilling and brutal it can be. )

「OCTOBER」

[redsoil]

— @ CAIN

[ The location tag that Set sends to Cain will lead him to one of neon-hot night parlors of Mirth, a three-story structure wedged tightly between other businesses upon a strip of gayly lit awnings and windows gone ashy from the low-hanging miasma of exhaust and airy drugs. The first two floors belong to a massage parlor and private gambling space, the third floor and rooftop accessed via a rickety metal stairwell. The third floor is inhabited by the owners of the building, who will shoo at Cain if he attempts to enter there, urging him on towards the roof.

Most of the rooftop is taken by a set of greenhouses, their windows occluded by hanging drapery within or dingy spraypaint. A heavy chain and padlock marks it as a no-fly zone. The rest of the rooftop features scattered patio equipment, pockmarked by burns and leftover you-know-what paraphernalia. There is what appears to be a long pergola, draped in broken neon-lighting as thick as a canopy of trees, blinking in oddly-timed patches. Below it, is a little divided-off area -- a chaise lounge, a low table and a scattered collection of other odd items -- where Set leans along one of the broad legs of the pergola, toying with the blinking lights that drape across his shoulder.

He's still wearing next to nothing.... aside from his shendyt and a couple of rings on his fingers. It truly makes him appear vulnerable. Still, his voice carries boldly as he spots Cain cresting over the edge of the rooftop, a pair of plastic party cups clutched between the fingers of his hand: ] Well, well. You really aren't that bad looking. I can see why you'd want to throw yourself into beds.

[ l l L LEWD?????? ]

[blyat]

[It's not a difficult place to find. Cain arrives at the building in short time, as promised, stowing his phone into the back pocket of dark pants before confronting the dim and narrow entryway. He finds the owners on the third floor before being redirected, thinking off-handedly that "Set" should have been more specific about the roof if that's what he meant by upstairs. The metal steps creak beneath his boots; he takes them two at a time, leaping deftly to the top before slowing in awe through the tangle of greenery, patio equipment, and lights. To him, it may as well be another world — not the clean, perfect gleam of Earth he's seen in pictures and videos, not the grunge desolation of Mars, not the air-tight prison of an Alliance ship. Mirth is something else.

Yet even all of that doesn't compare to finally seeing Set, in the flesh, starting at the sound of the voice before his head whips around. Whoa. A long, sleek curtain of red hair is the first feature he sees, then bare white contrast of skin, lights a flickering adornment over a slender shoulder. Then those dark, kohl-lined eyes pinning him in place. Maybe he should feel guilt for the rush of attraction he feels — as if, even now, he is in some way betraying Abel — but the reaction is impulsive and he couldn't control it if he tried. He's never seen anyone like this. Not back home, not off-world.]

You're... uh. [Gorgeous. Cain closes his mouth over the word, feeling strangely skittish in a way he hasn't experienced since he was probably sixteen.] Better. Than the profile.

[Smooth. Such a brusque assessment of his own appearance would have agitated him coming from anyone else, but in this instance it slips in and out of his head, quickly forgotten. He snorts, coming forward to drop a pack of cigarettes onto the table in an effort not to stare.]

You really called yourself a god, though? That was kind of weird. [Gods don't exist. Ha ha ha.] Where's the wine?

[redsoil]

[ The day that Set makes anything easy for anyone is the day he ceases to be himself; a tempestuous creature, vibrant in attitude and lofty in intellect. Albeit diminished and battered around the edges, old bruises from weeks ago still linger on his skin -- for there is no balm from Isis to be found in this land, no priestesses graced by his sister or Nephthys who will lay hand upon the injured and attend them. There is a young woman somewhere, Sakura, whom Set had been told to visit - however, he'd found it unecessary. Let her attend to those with imperfect bodies.

Mirth is a wild place, full of shrieking laughter and neon madness. It is hot and bright all of the time, with no sense of quiet, no peace, no dark of night and somehow, he thrives in it - even though he lives under a pergola, he is as embraced by the unique disorder of Mirth as it cradles him. It's not Serene, with its lush landscape. It's not the Barrens, though he thinks of that empty place as an extension of himself - made of cold stone, rather than hot sands.

He awaits Cain, until the creak of the metal stairwell heralds the man's arrival, and rises to greet him with all the brashness of an expectant god. Tucking a lock of red hair behind one ear, he beckons invitingly to Cain -- he has, after all, called on him with a purpose in mind. It's not sex, but it is inebriation and hedonism of equal heights. By the time Cain has joined him under the heap of hot, neon lights that form boughs over the pergola, Set has procured the wine in the plastic cups. They're not polished stone, or crystal, or glass, but they serve! ]

You lot truly do find it difficult to grasp divinity.

[ A muttered scoff, as he presses the cup into Cain's hands. Here's the wine. If Set was flattered by the assessment of "looking better in person", he gives nothing away -- of course he does!! ]

I am a god. Egypt's god of the desert, and of war.

[ As red a desert as Mars itself. ]

[blyat]

[He hasn't shaken the residual shock at the sight of Set even after he's beckoned closer and handed a cup of wine. Instinctively, Cain brings it to his lips and drains several swallows — as though in an effort to burn off his own lingering nerves, to imbibe the alcohol as quickly as possible because intoxication would make dealing with this whole place infinitely easier. Being dead. Being trapped. Meeting gods.]

Never heard of Egypt, but that's not weird, there's a lot of stuff I've told people they've got no idea about too. [Eyeing Set — unable to stop if he tried, really, for all that red hair and pale skin on display it feels like he's entranced — Cain finds a seat on a rickety lounge chair, cup perched on a bent knee, boots splayed. He fishes a cigarette out from the carton on the table and offers it over, slender stick pinched in gloved fingers.] Look, I've never believed in a god either. Gods. You've gotta be from a whole different place than me, but... after the shit I've seen, maybe I could buy it.

[War is something he knows well. And deserts. His own home is cold and barren, void of life for miles, and he misses it more than he'll say to a stranger, god or not, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see it again.]

Can you prove it?

「NOVEMBER」

[redsoil]

— LIVE, SOILED BY THE WORLD.

cw: hanahaki, set's november curse, potential mentions of sexual assault and psychological manipulation, im being angsty and making him vulnerable

Stop, looking at me like that!

[ The crack of his voice is a raw, open wound that lashes through the air at the same time that his fist does; the sound of splintering glass and creaking metal echoes in the space, as Set drives his arm fully through the beautiful brass-and-silverlace reflection before him, sending the other citizens around him scattering and shrieking in sudden alarm. Shrapnel explodes across the alley, and in a moment, he is adrift in a vacant little hole made just for him -- quickly abandoned, as he draws his bloodied fist back to himself and cradles it to his chest.

Startled, at both the idea that he is among others ( -- had he forgotten, between one moment and the next? ), and that he had acted out like that. Lost control. Lost his mind. He looks down the alley road. A thousand-yard stare that seems to beg for someone to help him; maybe, it begs, for some sort of end to his humiliation.

The merchant of vibrant, colored glass and beautiful silver-backed surfaces - luxury items, pretty baubles that gleam and shine and might have been for someone - begins to return to themselves; they come out of the stunned silence and their voice begins to sharpen, to scold and abride at the redheaded god who stands so still and startled. Inches from collapse, it seems. ]

Ah, [ the red of his eyes are mere pinpricks in a sea of white; Set looks more like a cornered animal than a lofty god, his pale hands lifted as if to press away an approaching figure, shoulders hunched in defense.

Even as he takes note of who has come upon him, his eyes return quickly to the nearby reflection in the scattered pieces of mirror. The color has drained from him, leaving him pale and ashy as he remains transfixed upon the glossy surface, looking into the space just between his image and the distant background. He sees something in the shards, and he cannot take his attention from it, even though one of the other Restless has come upon this chaotic little scene. ]

I didn't mean to --

[ And he wheezes the rest, spitting the petals of a beautiful, blue lotus flower into his palms with a jolt and another mournful little cry. Please, stop looking at me, he begs of those around him, hoarse and plaintive as he buries his head in his palms. ]

girl you KNOW i'm here for angst prompt

[appeale]

[ the option to walk away is one Rudbeckia considers heavily, even as she watches Set shrink away from the mess he's created. he hasn't yet noticed her; even if he had, hadn't she done well to establish herself as a coward? no one would think it out of character for poor Ruby to run away from conflict. on the other hand, there is a precious commodity she's gotten her hands on that she never had access to back in Britannia: trust. (not her trust, of course.) it won't last long, she knows, but shouldn't she preserve it as best she can for now? and if he sees her leave, and he resents her for it...

it isn't until she draws closer and catches his attention that she actually commits, though. sighhh. time to perform some maintenance on one of her lifelines. ]

Set!

[ Don't hit me for this, you jerk.

with that cry of his name, Ruby barrels into Set and throws her arms around his neck to drag him down into a hug. it does exactly what she intended: the tension of the situation is broken. a stunned silence stretches out as she clings to him. at last, she releases her hold and turns to the shopkeeper, takes a deep breath as if to shout— ]

I'm sorry, signore! My friend really isn't doing well, so please don't be mad at him... [ Rudbeckia is making direct eye contact with the shopkeeper when she begins to cry; not just teary-eyed, but big, round tears rolling down her cheeks, breath hitching, sniffles in between words: ] I'm really, really sorryyy... I-I don't have much, but here—

[ a satchel hangs from her shoulder that she shoves a hand into now, and it withdraws holding a hairpiece, gold and glittering with jewels. ]

Take this as payment for your mirror!

[ it's everything she can think to do: disrupt the mood to get her foot in the door; apologise, since people don't care who does the grovelling as long as it happens; crying to defuse the situation; and compensation before it can be demanded. the shopkeeper might just slap her anyway, but whatever. this is the best she can manage.

Ahh, you better owe me for this, stupid god. ]

I KNEW U WOULD BE

[redsoil]

[ Rudbeckia de Borgia is a wise coward, who avoids conflict and does nothing that will not ensure her protection. Yet, she is the one who comes running down the lane to his side. Selfish or not, she is the one who draws him into her arms and breaks the building frustrations and fears in the lane, dragging him into her wake -- her very skilled, very theatrical wake. As she begins to cry before the shopkeeper, the exact wish she makes comes true. They are visibly discomforted by her sudden crying, the kowtowing and cringing that she performs before them -- it removes the attention from Set, who remains locked in some sort of stunned silence, and breaks up the building tensions.

The salesperson is put off balance, clutching at her offering ( it's worth so much more than the mirror, really; the thing was a beautiful piece, crafted for a vanity but not a customized item since it was presented at the store's front -- ) and trying so very hard to regain their footing. They want to be angry, they want to cover for their own deep concerns and fears -- the redheaded god had lashed out at their wares, scattered sharp shards across the lane and across people, and it was the suddenness of Set's cry and the violence of his act that truly affected them.

Where Ruby had thrown her arms around him, his skin crawls and he feels so cold along the ghostly lines of her presence; below the red fall of his hair, he remains staring down at the fractured mirror and the fractured reflection at his feet. Already, he's starting to get worked up again. Whatever he sees in it, his attention is not so easily drawn away. Even as the shopkeeper urges her to 'just get him OUT of here', Set is stooping down to shove a hand over one of the shards.

A splash of blood covers it, as he cuts his palm upon it, smearing red across the reflection. He slaps his palm upon the next, mechanically pushing blood and dirt across the things he sees, until the shopkeeper urges again: 'leave! criminy, you're just making a mess of things, knock it off!' and pushes Set towards the young woman until his spine is curved back along her arm and his shock is thinning. He manages to look behind him, to her, ashen in a way that --

Ruby must understand, what sort of things could make someone look like that. ]

[appeale]

[ yeah, she knows that expression. it's something she doesn't see often; she doesn't catch sight of her own face in those moments, but she can always feel it trying to twist her features every time Cesare touches her. she's woken from dreams and found that haunted stare looking back at her in a reflection. how strange to see it now on Set. poor Set. poor, unfortunate god, flayed to the marrow, his statuesque beauty cracked open to expose some ugliness beneath, and with no one around to feel sympathy. Rudbeckia is struck by the recognition of him, feels it in her black heart, but—

Don't show me that face. I don't have any pity to spare for you.

Set had flinched against the press of her body to his. it's not a boundary she wants to violate, but they need to move before the crowd's patience becomes truly threadbare, and with the state he's in, she's not sure he'll understand the urgency. he may not have even if his wits were about him; he isn't a prey animal the way she is, sensitive to how hostility moves the air. Ruby takes Set's arm—the bleeding hand, heedless of stains—and enfolds it in her own, tucks it against her side, and she pulls at him like he is a stubborn horse needing to be lead. ]

Here, let's go. We need to leave, Set. [ in a more pleading, plaintive voice: ] I'm sorry, I won't touch you anymore. It's only for now, just—we'll go somewhere else.

look at this mess

[dodgeouttahell]

['A rolling stone gathers no moss,' It had been used to criticize his wanderlust, his determined and foolish attempts at running out of his home whilst shirking the responsibilities of a prince, of someone of divine blood but no domain to hold. It slipped and nestled in his ears, whispering softly in various tones. Sometimes darkness, sometimes punishment, other times a stuttering hissing betrayed little thing. It always sounds hurt, and in turn, it clutches at his mind with thistles and vines.

So he takes it to heart. When the first petal stuck between his teeth, its acrid taste making him wince and realize that it was not something new he's placed upon him to try every day, it had rung softly like an echo. And he wishes it were his mother, sending him a sign that she's waiting, part of him, and holding on to his return.

(His lungs had seized so hard he spewed narcissus onto the damp flooring of the pier.)

So if moss doesn't grow, other plants don't, right?

So he moved, rolled, walked, and ran across town, several districts, until the roads were covered with the soot of his feet, and the people knew him by name. He feels his head heavy, his breaths slower and more purposeful, as though he needs to remind himself to do it, to make himself keep moving.

Zagreus sees a blur of familiar red, and he hurries further. He doesn't want—doesn't need—the steady simmer of his temper further stoked. Who knows what it will do when he hears the voice in his head starting to sound like her instead, and he's already clearing his throat into the back of his wrist, red staining the skin. He needs to go, he needs to move.

His steps falter at the crash, and he hears the admonishments far quicker than the rest. But the clamor he had expected is lacking, and his feet fall to a stop.

The people whisper, and it's nothing, just another moment of having to deal with consequences to which the gods never really think beforehand——

——and he hears a plea.

And he would curse himself later, claiming he's worse than a god with no regard for consequences, but a god who knows the consequences and still goes through with it as he weaves through the onlookers, whispers like gorgon heads. He'll later say he's no god, he had no right nor reason to answer another god's call.

And yet, he's there, the heat licking black over the shards near his feet.] Set...?

god of messiness........

[redsoil]

[ The dragging warmth of Zagreus's presence is unlike the cold bite of the mirror's shard between his fingers; Set has stooped to pick the largest, the most jagged of the remnants up from the dirt, from where he'd shattered half the beautiful thing into the street and people had leapt away from his sudden violence. Deserved. Only proper. He can see faces in the gleaming fragments - judging, whispering, knowing, pitying - and among them, the somber eyes of --

The mirror slices again, through his fingertips. It cuts deep and he bleeds into the street like someone's just given him a killing blow; turning his hand over, the blood begins to fall in thin rivers, following the cupped shape of his hand until it pools in his palm. Until it begins to overfill and spill back into the dirt. The onlookers seem deeply concerned, perhaps frightened, of this redheaded creature that seems to be on the verge of destroying himself -- of collapsing into a fit of madness.

Zagreus calls him by name, with that lovely voice of him and Set thinks: I never wanted to be hated by you, of the other demigod, before he turns on his toes and flees the scene. Pushing sharply through the midst of the gathered crowd with a gasping, crunching sound pouring from his throat. It's pain, wrought of humiliation and raw fear; his bleeding hand slides across Zag's arm as he dives past him, intent on going somewhere else. On escaping.

( Zagreus ought to understand as much. ) ]

[coherer]

(jonas frequents the merchant stalls cluttering a sidestreet winding away from the harbourfront. they're close to where he stays, closer still to his frequented route to work or to noctis', and so it's not strange for him to be in the mouth of the alley where the commotion begins.

something precious is slipped into his sweater pocket while everyone is distracted by the crash. jonas, accustomed to ducking suspicion by retreating as quickly and casually as he arrived, is about to leave when he sees set. the hair is unmissable; he stands at the heart of the startled crowd, beset by vendors who approach him without understanding. only human, and prone to favouritism, he pushes forward to see the rest of the scene through the negative spaces created by the crowd, and inhales at the carved mirror inlaid with gems.

would set destroy something beautiful on purpose? jonas has only ever seen the god hold things gently, especially when they're intended to be a gift. the image of his ukulele comes to mind, still propped up by his bedside, meaningful and, now, precious to him.

that's all it takes for jonas, loyal to a fault, to go to him, shoving at anyone in his way.)

Hey, get the hell away from him! (he snaps, finally angry. his temper, carefully hidden, is rare to see and even rarer to hear. coupled with his height, it's employed effectively to make most back away, though the mirror's owner lingers to raise his voice.) Fuck your mirror, didn't you hear me? Back off. You've lived here how long and you've never seen somebody sick and upset before?

Douche-bag.

(the rest of the man's indignance is ignored. some small part of jonas understands it—products are what keep a business afloat. selling these items keeps merchants and their potential families fed. accidents, however—and this is assumed to be one—happen. accidents shouldn't be treated as acts of spite and treated as severely, something he is intimately familiar with.

stepping in front of set prevents him from having to stare at the mirror and merchant. it's all he can do to prevent himself from grabbing at someone who's clearly in an elevated state and liable to stay that way for a while, though his hands do hover close between them in a request to see his friend's bleeding fistful of petals.)

Set, it's Jonas. I know this sucks—I know—but I need you to look at me for just a sec. Just a sec, okay?

[redsoil]

[ There are more voices joining the din, angered ones. He is not afraid of anger, for anger has only ever brought the bite of a weapon or the lash of a fist; anger brings violence, and the physicality of violence is something he understands. As god of war, it is an intimacy both gifted to the people by him, and by the people to him. Such a burdensome thing, though, is to have to await the shopkeeper to finally cast aside his demands for remuneration, and simply demand his pound of flesh. It'd be easy to claw it out of Set, like this. His arm aches and bleeds, he could hook claws into the injury and rip scraps of himself apart and --

There is a hand, one he knows so well, thrust into his line of sight. Set curls around himself, seizing for breath in the midst of all that is occurring. He is cold to the heart, overstimulated in a way that makes everything too much, too bright and too loud, and Jonas has arrived to see him in such a state. Vulnerable and overwrought by something that might only be a mirror, but had rapidly escalated an already terse situation into one where Set is liable to be seized. He'll be grabbed, he knows. Someone will put their hands on him. ]

I can't.

[ He whispers it, hoarse and faint, as he pours his face into the palmful of flower petals and blood. It's all his, anyways. He can't look at Jonas. Surfacing from the things that grip him would be too much, too soon. If he looks at Jonas, he will snap and he knows it. If he pretends that it is a familiar, albeit disembodied voice, he may get out of this whole situation intact and unmolested. ]

I don't want you to see me like this.

「DECEMBER」

[redsoil]

— @ D

[ No matter where they go, Stygia's moons are omnipresent. Their pull is an unnatural thing, tugging the hearts and minds of the Restless to and fro as they might a tide. Every month, there is a new challenge to survive ( not even surmount, but merely survive -- ), new ground to lose, new souls to tend to as though he were a farmer attending to crops rather than a fallen god hoarding his sins like syrupy gold. All he has is his penance, now. In this place, apart from the Ennead and distanced from the only one who his promise mattered to

who it had mattered to

who it did not matter to anymore --

It is all he has. ]

D.

[ He finds the dhampir early in the morning, before the fogs have lifted and the lights have begun to dim in his eternally bright home in Mirth. It reminds him of the rays of Ra, there, neon-bright and eternal. Unstoppably warm, painfully alight and noisy. He meets D on the steps of the Academy, arms full of scrolls he has checked out of the library to copy into notes; research that he undertakes, unknown and unseen. In the middle of flagging down a courier, he aims to stop the other by calling his name, and pauses only to heap his gains into the courier's bag and instruct them on where to deliver them. It leaves his arms free, hands dusting one another off as he descends the stairs from the Academy's front doors and approaches.

His expression is severe, the furrow between his brows speaking of horrible devotion to some manner of thing. A cause, a promise, a vow? ]

What we spoke of. Did you come to a decision?

[ My answer has not changed, his tone suggests, however distinctly he feels ill at ease, dread boiling within him at the thought of setting foot within a place so intimately made for him -- not knowing what he will find there. The idea of shedding blood for someone is far more palatable than that, and truly, the proposal he'd made while they were recovering from their traded forms was twofold: a soulmate, and a source of sustenance, to allow D to keep some measure of peace. ]

[damnpire]

[As usual, the gloomy atmosphere sweeps him out wherever he needs to be, unhurried and silent. He comes like all the other times before, some bizarre ghost of familiarity to Set, garbed in strange and out-of-place clothes for who he resembles. And he stands there at the bottom of the stairs, politely waiting on the scholarly god to bestow upon him undivided attention.

His head tips back enough to raise the brim of the hat; he watches Set come to him from beneath it.

Set has quite a serious expression; it ruins the perfected beauty in a completely different, beautiful way. D thinks he knows what this is about already. Set is one of the few who would chase him down to continue the same conversation.]

Sakura and I were able to create imitations of the pills I formerly had. [Firstly. Somehow, this does not sound like it's going to be a rejection. There isn't much satisfaction in his tone.] Like everything else, they don't last very long, and they require time to make.

[He unfortunately must circumvent with other options, as much as he hates involving other people into his entire business, as much as he hates burdening them with everything that he is. After a moment of pause, he says quietly:]

I am willing.

[redsoil]

[ There is a lack of bias towards D's appearance and manner, the somberness of his being does not deter Set's reckless? persistence, nor his hunt for the man's time. That they find one another now, rather than later, serves him in equal measures. He approaches without hesitation, barefoot upon the steps and wrapped in an additional layer of cloth -- one day soon, he will need warmer clothing. For now, he is still unaffected by the chill beginning to solidify in the weather patterns of Stygia. ]

Then, we will work together to provide for you in the meanwhile. If you cannot rely on them completely, I will assist you in the times between.

[ He does not ask D to turn the whole of his needs over to him, only to offset them upon his being. Though the offer appears entirely altruistic, there is something Set gets from it in return. Something desperate lives within him, rattling at his nerves and his memories; it demands he do something for D, for this distant deity from an equally distant world. The one who -- ah, but he cannot allow himself to give into such a delusion entirely. Subconsciously, he has. He has yielded to the pathetic, yearning thing that tells him he is caring for the one he wants to most of all.

The one he has cared for, beyond sanity. ] To both aspects, correct? You will travel with me to the Shadowlands to bind ourselves together, and sate yourself as much as you are willing and able to?

[ If so, he would like to leave before the seas become frosty and the harbors too difficult to navigate. There is a captain already paid for a round-trip, awaiting Set's word. ]

「DECEMBER」

[redsoil]

— @ SILCO

[ Following the directions to his 'neighbor' in Mirth is an easy task; it is the internal struggle that takes place within Set on the way that proves an inelegant distraction. More and more of him has gone into considering what to do with the substance he'd found on the bodies of the explorers, his own academic investigations proving as disinteresting as his actual sampling of it had proven the opposite. It quieted the omnipresent whisper inside of him; the doubt and the concern, the so-called 'shadow' that was spoken of as if it were a foreign entity rooting around in the minds and hearts of the Restless, and simply not their rottenness, illuminated and pointed out.

He remembers his conversation from the parade, with the slim, scarred man who also took up residence in the brilliance of Mirth and spoke to him about the variety of substances found there. The drugs, the booze, the things Set had poured into himself from day one, to fill himself with something other than that insidious memory of who he was, what he had been and done. And then - then, he had seen things in the water, in the windows and the mirrors and the shine of his own metal jewelry and it had pushed him so far, so fast. There is a gap within him, and a weakness that he cannot confront.

So, he goes to Silco. Battering on the door with his fist, following an enticing conversation about sticking it to the Hierarchy ( -- the same Hierarchy he had openly announced was a necessary thing on day one, when Amun had spoken so dismissively to the new arrivals as a whole; he did not disagree with their presence, only that their weaknesses had become so visible ) and gate-crashing the future party in Radiance. ]

Here.

[ The moment he sees him, he thrusts some of the substance into his hands. It is blue, captured in a thin tube that must have formerly served as a shotglass in some hole-in-the-wall locale. It is clean, and corked, and he brings only enough to pique Silco's interest at this time. The rest he reserves for others, never one to place all of his eggs in one basket -- or fail to create competition between intellectuals. ]

When we were in the forest, seeking the Puck, I came across the bodies of former explorers. I had mentioned a substance upon their bodies and the ground around them to the Restless as a whole, and now that I know one of its properties, I think it poignant to bring it to your attention. Let me in.

[zauneyete]

[ Silco's residence in Mirth is... rather dim. It doesn't really stand out in any way, and it's not even really decorated. He was not a man who eschewed the finer things in life, but since he had little in the way of funds, everything goes toward that. He's dead, it's not like it matters if he has too many nice things in his residence, and he isn't one for entertaining, not really. The only people who had really been by had been Mikey, and of course Jinx, but...

Set, though, Silco was keen on speaking with, so he's quick to answer the door, when Set banged on it loud enough to wake the...other dead in the neighborhood. He opened the door, and stared out at him, listened, and then, finally, he nodded behind him.

His eyes, though, stared down at the bottle of... something. Blue, with a shine that is almost reminiscent of Shimmer, if it were in liquid instead of powder. He closed the door, before he held it up, and looked at it, tipped it, examined. ]

This came from a body? [ He'd just said that, but... ]

Why don't you join me in my office? Through the doors there.

[ It's plain, just a desk and two chairs, but the fact that Silco has an office says enough, doesn't it? ]

[redsoil]

Upon and around the bodies the explorers I found in Serene's forest, [ he repeats, with distinct precision.

What it is, Set now knows, but that is information he will withhold for the moment. A battle-hungry brute he may be, but it was his intelligence and guile that had allowed him to outsmart opponents for countless centuries. He scuffs his heels on the doorframe, to ensure there is no snow or ice attached to his ( new! ) shoes, and enters once invited to.

He shunts his coat onto anything nearby, as though carelessly claiming portions of Silco's space as his own. Tacky, but very much like him; the moment he enters a room, he seems to grow to fill it, loud and brilliant and color, like the vast and deadly dunes of the desert. Too warm, too dry; murderously so. He leaves the vial to Silco, and follows in his wake with a wry twist to his mouth.

An office. ] We had spoken before about substances, and I thought you might appreciate knowing of this one. When I collected it, the presence Stygia calls our 'shadow' was decidedly upset by its existence -- you feel it, yes? The way it cringes and protests.

「DECEMBER」

[redsoil]

— @ CHILDE

[ The sprite slips the item into Childe's pocket early in the day, and leaves the scattered clues of its whereabouts in order to leave Set to it. The tempestuous god of war spends the day running to-and-fro in search of what he's lost, growing increasingly irritated with its loss -- all he knows is that someone has stolen it ( the sprite ) and whomever has it must be culpable in its loss ( sorry childe ). Were it an item that was not of immediate import, he might be handling the situation with a little more... judiciousness.

Instead, Childe is being ambushed by a red-faced, red-haired man dressed something that belonged to the deserts of Sumeru, moreso than the wintering months of Stygia. A burst of movement and the shattering of roof tiles heralds his launch, and Set descends upon the Harbinger with a strangled, bitten sound of pure frustration and a snarled: ] Hand it over, thief!

[ Around them, the little sprites begin to titter - what joy! what perfection! let them fight, for this is Set's playful punishment for avoiding the delights of the mistletoe-divine! The facilitator of such preens with pride, chirping brightly about how sown misunderstandings are so much more fun than straight up lies! Their chosen prankee thinks Childe a thief, rather than an unwitting participant in the prank! ]

[lackluster]

[ The sprite doesn't get away from Tartaglia unscathed when it slips something into his pocket. While he doesn't realize that he is now the unwitting participant in a prank, he does notice that something is messing with him and so he attempts to crush the little thing before it manages to get away.

He mutters something about what an annoyance before going about the rest of his day, doing his very best to ignore and avoid all mistletoes on sight. It should have been a relatively uneventful and cold winter day, but then —

Hand it over, thief!

Just before the god of war descends upon him, he dodges out of the way, dual blades made out of pure hydro energy already manifested in his hands. ]

Hand what over?

[ The sprites' laughter makes him look over their way, ocean-blue eyes narrowing at them. Did they do something? And why is this guy so mad at him? ]

[redsoil]

Don't be coy! The item you stole from me --!

[ Which happens to be a handsome, dark pin for either a cloak - or perhaps hair. It isn't fancy, save for silver embellishment along the design at the end; likely not for himself, more a gift for someone else. Set's expression is incandescent with frustration-become-wrath, flexing his claws as he hunches over. His thighs bunch, toes digging into the ground beneath him before it gives under the sudden force of his lunge -- sailing towards the young man and his watery blades without hesitation. ]

I followed the path left across the city, and it leads me no further than you! Rapscallion!

[ He sets his claws to a blade with a sharp crack, fangs bared in challenge. ]