[ With Set's inferiority complex contesting the innate knowledge of his superiority, he won't be arguing against John's words. Perhaps any Shardbearer might have the right ( or ability ) to understand whatever the Tree might like to convey, it is only that Set has the benefit of an inhuman mind and a spell that allows him to speak directly with plants to assist him in getting a leg up. He rolls his neck from side to side, warming himself up as he advances on the Tree of Life — ] Do not worry, John Gaius. You once said that it was the side with the god of war that would achieve victory. In this moment, I am on your side.
[ Meridian's power blooms in the wake of his steps, where he walks. Thick moss begins to spread below his heels, vibrant green as it grows rampant and wild alongside the ecosystem that finds itself in equilibrium below the great sprawl of the Tree of Life's roots. Shade-tolerant flowers — phlox and spring starflowers and grape hyacinth — begin to rapidly blossom. Set's voice booms as he spreads his arms before the Tree, and looks up to it once more. He had sought to aid it once, to alleviate Blight from it and hopes that is enough to have forged a connection as well. ]
As once I told the Tree of Heliopolis, your child! My mother is Nut, who wears the gown of the dark heavens and carries the waters of the cosmos as her crown. My father is Geb, from whom laughter shook the earth and from whom the boundary between primordial and earthly beings was established. I am not here for peace, but to be your warlord. I am here to bring you disorder and discord, so that seekers of peace and harmony are given meaning.
Tree of Life, I am Set. God of the desert, god of war. I speak with you now in the tongue of men, the tongue of gods, the tongue of your kin to ask you to reveal to John Gaius, through me, that which he seeks knowledge of. To you, I gift my soul, returning it to the soil from which I was reborn to you — allow me to be your vessel, and I will pledge my might to you so that you are given voice.
[ As he speaks, more grows around him. Higher and higher, denser and denser; a carpet, a blanket, an arbor of green life that he burns Meridian's energy within him to create. The rampant, uncontrollable growth — the power of creation and life, oft-kept in balance by gentle decay, cool destruction.
From the ends of his heels, sand begins to rise. Rivulets that defy gravity becoming rivers of soft, pale earth that curve back towards his body. That firm into weapons, sand packed so tightly into the shapes of sickles, swords, daggers, maces, khopesh and other ancient, familiar and trustworthy implements of slaughter and death. Their sharp edges angle towards Set's own body, hovering and controlled as he brings his hands together before him. Aligned in facsimile of prayer. ]
Pray, take my soul into yours. Grace John Gaius, whom wishes to heed your guidance and seek the balance you request.
[ Though his face cannot easily be seen below the mask, it still cants back briefly. To look over his shoulder in the direction of where John awaits — and the curled smile upon his mouth is knowing, coy and full of the insane confidence in the two of them that a proper god ought to show in their ( temporarily ) final moments. And he wrenches his fists outward, as if drawing a garrotte tight around someone's throat — driving every weapon through his own form. Suddenly, violently, and all over the place. ]
no subject
[ Meridian's power blooms in the wake of his steps, where he walks. Thick moss begins to spread below his heels, vibrant green as it grows rampant and wild alongside the ecosystem that finds itself in equilibrium below the great sprawl of the Tree of Life's roots. Shade-tolerant flowers — phlox and spring starflowers and grape hyacinth — begin to rapidly blossom. Set's voice booms as he spreads his arms before the Tree, and looks up to it once more. He had sought to aid it once, to alleviate Blight from it and hopes that is enough to have forged a connection as well. ]
As once I told the Tree of Heliopolis, your child! My mother is Nut, who wears the gown of the dark heavens and carries the waters of the cosmos as her crown. My father is Geb, from whom laughter shook the earth and from whom the boundary between primordial and earthly beings was established. I am not here for peace, but to be your warlord. I am here to bring you disorder and discord, so that seekers of peace and harmony are given meaning.
Tree of Life, I am Set. God of the desert, god of war. I speak with you now in the tongue of men, the tongue of gods, the tongue of your kin to ask you to reveal to John Gaius, through me, that which he seeks knowledge of. To you, I gift my soul, returning it to the soil from which I was reborn to you — allow me to be your vessel, and I will pledge my might to you so that you are given voice.
[ As he speaks, more grows around him. Higher and higher, denser and denser; a carpet, a blanket, an arbor of green life that he burns Meridian's energy within him to create. The rampant, uncontrollable growth — the power of creation and life, oft-kept in balance by gentle decay, cool destruction.
From the ends of his heels, sand begins to rise. Rivulets that defy gravity becoming rivers of soft, pale earth that curve back towards his body. That firm into weapons, sand packed so tightly into the shapes of sickles, swords, daggers, maces, khopesh and other ancient, familiar and trustworthy implements of slaughter and death. Their sharp edges angle towards Set's own body, hovering and controlled as he brings his hands together before him. Aligned in facsimile of prayer. ]
Pray, take my soul into yours. Grace John Gaius, whom wishes to heed your guidance and seek the balance you request.
[ Though his face cannot easily be seen below the mask, it still cants back briefly. To look over his shoulder in the direction of where John awaits — and the curled smile upon his mouth is knowing, coy and full of the insane confidence in the two of them that a proper god ought to show in their ( temporarily ) final moments. And he wrenches his fists outward, as if drawing a garrotte tight around someone's throat — driving every weapon through his own form. Suddenly, violently, and all over the place. ]