— 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

[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?

[redsoil]

[ Like Cain, Set is the manner of creature that slugs his drinks. Once he finds his own seat again, stretching out along the (faux) chaise lounge like an indolent deity, he tips his head back and skillfully pours the wine down his open throat. Nearby, a barrel embellished with the marks and signatures of a local wine-maker (and blacksmith!) sits - lightly corked to ensure excess air does not sour the wine. He's not pleased that it's made of wood, a good clay would have been more secure - but, something about the woody hints it's left in the wine's chemical makeup is tasty.

He reaches for the cigarette, when it's offered. ]

What would you need to witness, to be made certain of my divinity?

[ With the hand holding the cigarette, he gestures sweepingly down the length of his body; the structure of it, the blemish-less skin and lack of any discerning scar or mark. He is oddly symmetrical in features, akin to something made perfect by hands and eyes without flaw. ]

Do I not look the part?