— 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. ) ]

「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?????? ]

[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. )

[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]

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. ]

[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?

[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. )

[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?

[redsoil]

[ Excellent.

His opening bid is a broad swing, an attempt to gauge the sense of Grimmjow's attitude towards combat - does he fight defensively? is he aggressive at the expense of his own form? does he think faster than he acts, or act before he thinks? Set is the god of war, and unlike the vast pantheon of the gods of Hellas, he does not divide his domain between other gods of battle and strife. Bloodthirst and tactics are both his.

While he finds Grimmjow's lashing hand with the free slide of his own, tangling their fingers and claws together into an oddly intimate hold that still leaves his wrist and palm scored viciously by the force of the other man's blow, he locks them into this close-range combat. Hand-in-hand, pressed in close and wild-eyed together. He's not shy about the proximity of their forms. To some, looking from afar, they may appear to be dancing moreso than brawling. He stuffs the bare jut of his knee into the angle of Grimmjow's hip, using it for leverage as he half-climbs the other's form --

It tears his wrist free, the glide of claws through his own skin obvious as the blood that flushes the injury and begins to flow in bursts and fits, scattering red across the ground. ]

So. [ He rasps, delighted: ] What do you fight for?

[ He's going to try to hook his ankle behind Grimmjow's knee and TAKE HIM DOWN!!!!! ]

[arrancar]

( what does he fight for?

if it was before he met ichigo, he surely would state that it's for power and survival. in some way, it still is, but now his motive lies less in wanting to be the strongest of them all; rather, he wants to grow stronger and battle against ichigo as equals.

it's a sentiment that he isn't willing to divulge, however; so instead of giving him an answer, grimmjow wraps his arms around the deity's lower body, pulling him tight against him even as he is swept onto his back. he hits the floor with a soft grunt but wastes little time in attempting to roll him over.

if successful, he will grab him by the hips, digging his claws into his flesh as he yanks him towards him in an effort to trap his inner left thigh beneath the weight of his knee. this would go far more smoothly if he could use cero but he still has yet to gauge this self-proclaimed god's capabilities and he is supposed to keep the battle nonlethal.

who knew fighting not to kill could present a challenge in and of itself? )

'fraid you're gonna have to earn that answer. ( he bites out. )

「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. ]

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...?

[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.

[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]

[ The corded strength in his forearm bunches and twitches, as she slides her hand into his and curls it into her side. He manages to think of stains, before she tugs on him, and he untangles the knots in his knees and unlocks his limbs; he goes with her, desperate to be led away from the thing he cannot take his eyes from. By the time he's allowed Ruby to take him far enough from the scene ( -- perhaps even only a few steps, ) his eyes can no longer find the reflective surface of the mirror. Instead, they dart to and fro beneath the red sheet of his hair, as he holds his shoulders up around his ears and tries to curtain himself with his own body.

At the least, his breathing isn't as ragged, having slowed to a faint, unpleasant gasp as he looks, and looks. Sometimes, his eyes lands on a pane of glass in a window, and he drags his gaze away with a full-bodied flinch. Sometimes, he finds a puddle of water in a divot in the ground, and purposefully puts his foot into it with a faint sound of unhappiness. There is something about reflections that is ailing him, and finally he seizes Ruby about her upper arm and hauls her to the side; away from the market's promenade and into the still, cold darkness of a side alley. Away from windows and mirrors, shining puddles and metal jewelry flashing before them. ]

Ruby --

[ He manages to say her name, as if to ask a question, and falters. ]

Don't tell anyone of this. Please.

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. ) ]

[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.

( 1/2 ) cw abuse

[appeale]

[ the bruising grip around her arm, the sudden, harsh jolt of movement, the direction towards an isolated alleyway—to Ruby, all of these are indicators of one outcome: now he's going to hit her. of course, he wanted to take her somewhere away from the eyes of others first, before he punished her for her stupidity.

it's okay. he isn't going to kill her just for this. they're still in public, it won't be so bad. perhaps he'll let her off with a warning strike this time, only a bruise to remind her of her place.

when Set turns to Rudbeckia in that alleyway, there is a flash of genuine fear in her eyes, a hard flinch she can't suppress. his red eyes are bright, burning coals. he makes his demand of her, and in that split second between words there are a thousand apologies churning in her gut, rising up her throat: for her impudence, her arrogance. she is ungracious and ignorant and she has committed a sin.

—Please, Set says. ]

( 2/2 )

[appeale]

[ Rudbeckia's gentle smile is natural, if slightly wan—and even if some trace of fear lingers in her eyes. ]

Tell them what? [ it's a signal of her submissiveness, not a question. without waiting for his response, she begins to chatter: ] Oh, we need to clean this up and get you some bandages. I've been learning medicine from the Dottoressa Sakura, you know. I'm not the cleverest student, but I'm certain I should be able to do this much for you...

[ she turns his injured hand over in her delicate grasp as she speaks, as if inspecting the wound. her gaze does not lift to meet his. ]

[dodgeouttahell]

[He stares for a second at the red on his arm, blood that doesn't belong to him.

He hadn't expected a god to bleed red. To feel as slick as his own blood. The ichor of the gods was told to be gold, out of ambrosia itself, or black, if it spilled onto something dire, or made of something incorporeal. And that, in itself, feels like a calling. Alms towards his own mercy, towards a faith that doesn't exist.

' Perhaps consider that the underworld doesn't revolve around you, boy. Why would anyone offer their blood to you? What good would that bring?'

And Zagreus does understand, does understand as the coin he leaves the shopkeeper and a promise that he'd help do deliveries later would make up for the fact that he broke it. The shopkeeper merely shakes their head, obviously upset but really just concerned now that more than the price was paid for.

He understands, and he runs, he inhales sharply, the copper tang on his tongue finally not his own. His feet flaring as he rushes faster through the city. Set is fast, of course. Was there anyone in his pantheon faster, he vaguely wondered?]

Lord Set. [He calls out once he finds him still. It sounds so foreign, to call him with the same deference he reserves for his extended family. He has to swallow, as though the taste of it festered in his lips if he left it there too long—

—a sigh. The simmer in his blood is becoming familiar, but Zagreus is too tired to even think it, much less talk and act on it.] How— [Can he help?] What happened?

why are they so unhealthy for one another ( cw more abuse talk )

[redsoil]

[ Considering he has no issue with striking women ( sorry Gilia ), Ruby's abrupt recognition of the violence inherent in the redheaded god is not ill-placed. He has attacked and murdered women in his life, especially those who reminded him of his dark-haired, willful sister -- the one who had denied him, escaped him, and spurned him in so many ways. His dragging of Ruby into a place where there are less eyes would be easily construed by Isis as Set's preparation to lash out at the girl for her boldness, for her "aid" which only served to humiliate him more.

And truly, he does feel humiliation. To need to be saved by a cringing coward of a girl, who cried and threw money at the shopkeeper because Set was incapable of speaking, of thinking beyond the sudden, aching need to shatter the mirror and not be seen by the judgmental, pitying gaze of the individual haunting him inside of it -- ah, of course Ruby thinks he's going to beat her. Even if he has no intention of it, instead drawing her aside ham-handedly to be able to hide himself away from prying eyes.

He cannot focus on the terror in her face, the way her eyes diminish into pinpricks and the hollowness of her gaze when he meets it, in this small, dark place. She thinks he's going to beat her, he is suddenly, painfully aware. As aware as he is of the fact that his own expression, haunted and agonized, reflects hers in so many ways. He, too, is afraid of some oncoming agony. Some pain he expects will befall him, that he cannot prepare for but must scramble to survive in the aftermath. ]

What do you want?

[ He rasps it, so quiet that it's nearly inaudible.

What the fuck does she want, in exchange for her silence? What is she going to demand of him? ]

[redsoil]

[ In Set's pantheon, he was the mightiest. The swift, the strong, the agile. The god of war had taken the throne and with it, had ensured that all other gods would bow their heads before him. It didn't matter if they were older, wiser because of their experiences, even Ra had conceded her right to rule to Osiris once. The gods of the Ennead were, each and every one of them, equal in all things. And then there was Set, who had lorded over them all. He remembers the taste of that power, day after day, night after night. He remembers what it felt like, to know that despite the independence and power of all of Kemet's gods, he was the best of them all.

And now, he was nothing. A fallen, evil thing cast out from his own home. Cast into this city of the presumed-dead, lost to Kemet and Kemet lost to him. The memory of the god he'd seen in the mirror -- the one who had curled up her blood-red mouth at the moment his eyes had met hers below her lioness-head mask -- incites him to wrath, to ruinous thoughts that push him beyond the crowds and far from Zagreus. However, Zagreus is a fleet-footed youth, who comes to him sooner rather than later.

Too soon, in fact, for Set rounds upon him the moment he hears his voice and snarls: ] Go on, then! Say your damned piece, Zagreus! I didn't ask you to follow me!

[ What follows is an array of heated, beautiful sounds; the tongue of the divine, the tongue of the Egyptian people mingling with it. Sharp, lyrical tones of a language that would one day die out, only to be uncovered and known for its purity. He curses at the demigod who dares approach him, with politeness on his tongue that wasn't once there. ]

What is it now? What ire of yours have I invoked? What insult did I make! Was that your shopkeeper, were they a friend of yours? Have I trod upon your burning toes somehow again? What did I do this time?

[ For there must be something that brings Zagreus around, again. Their first meeting had been so ugly, colored by Set's incompetent display of playfulness and some deep anger it instilled in Zagreus. It isn't surprising, not to Set; he is a god of many domains, many more to come, and the most prominent of them now is disorder. It is chaos, the invitation to allow one's worse aspects to possess them.

There is heat pricking in his throat and in his eyes. Sekhmet's face swims in the tears that have begun to build. Her smile, her destructive whispering. Lonely. Sad. Abandoned. Vilified. As if it wasn't her fault --! ]