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

— @ 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. ) ]

— @ 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?????? ]

Edited 2022-10-06 03:26 (UTC)

— 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. ]

— @ 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. ]

Edited 2022-12-05 19:02 (UTC)

— @ 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.

Edited 2022-12-08 18:54 (UTC)

— @ 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! ]

「OCTOBER」

「OCTOBER」

「NOVEMBER」

— LIVE, SOILED BY THE WORLD.

「DECEMBER」

「DECEMBER」

「DECEMBER」