[ Blood arcs through the air, suspended in sluggish motion before it begins to turn to sand, to dust; Set's aim is precise, avoiding the unpolished, rough-red of his shard, which comes soon to rest in the palm of John's hand. It resembles a raw wound, something carved open and bloodless.
He feels nothing, until he does. And when he does, it is inescapable, even in his state; the sudden throb of soul-deep sensation, the arc of feeling — the sudden connection, to John. They are drawn together, tethered soul-to-soul. When he feels it burning inside of him, Meridian's bright power calling to John's darkness, he comes to and joins the other man in the strange, dark place. A place only gods may tread, where they have pierced through a veil ( a pall, a shroud ) upon them together.
He is amorphous, as usual, in places that are built upon the metaphysical. A sprawling thing of pale skin and boundless red hair, pouring out across the darkness like a carpet of blood. Upon arrival, his hand finds itself tangled in John's own, holding fast to him — to the presentation of him, to the existence of him as the Tree mourns for his death. It is peculiar to him, to be mourned. To feel the resonating cry of its sorrow, and to feel the weight of John's own grief as though both were his own. A dark tangle of thorny vines shape the shackles around his throat, the weight holding him upon his knees in the darkness — whatever brilliance he'd had, freedom he'd known, strangled by something parasitic and possessive.
Less a tree and more a sprawling, decadent sea of flowers, resilient as sycamore and corrupted, miserably-so, that dip and weave through the life-and-death foliage of John's own existence; for naturally, a man who commands such energy will resemble the lotus flowers, the fig treets and sprawling, beautiful green existence of the fertile banks of the Nile. The Black Desert, Kemet, which was ruled by Osiris. Though he can feel it grow and die in stages, it is still the same natural cycle. And without words, he draws on John to bring him back — closer, closer.
Soundlessly, he calls to him. ( Something else is here, in the dark. Gather yourself, John Gaius / do not drift far, not again. ) Even as their memories drift against one another, liquid and easy. His own deathless, dying existence calling out to the Necromancer Prime, inviting and open to him. To whatever feelings and memories he is lost in, hungry for it. ]
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He feels nothing, until he does. And when he does, it is inescapable, even in his state; the sudden throb of soul-deep sensation, the arc of feeling — the sudden connection, to John. They are drawn together, tethered soul-to-soul. When he feels it burning inside of him, Meridian's bright power calling to John's darkness, he comes to and joins the other man in the strange, dark place. A place only gods may tread, where they have pierced through a veil ( a pall, a shroud ) upon them together.
He is amorphous, as usual, in places that are built upon the metaphysical. A sprawling thing of pale skin and boundless red hair, pouring out across the darkness like a carpet of blood. Upon arrival, his hand finds itself tangled in John's own, holding fast to him — to the presentation of him, to the existence of him as the Tree mourns for his death. It is peculiar to him, to be mourned. To feel the resonating cry of its sorrow, and to feel the weight of John's own grief as though both were his own. A dark tangle of thorny vines shape the shackles around his throat, the weight holding him upon his knees in the darkness — whatever brilliance he'd had, freedom he'd known, strangled by something parasitic and possessive.
Less a tree and more a sprawling, decadent sea of flowers, resilient as sycamore and corrupted, miserably-so, that dip and weave through the life-and-death foliage of John's own existence; for naturally, a man who commands such energy will resemble the lotus flowers, the fig treets and sprawling, beautiful green existence of the fertile banks of the Nile. The Black Desert, Kemet, which was ruled by Osiris. Though he can feel it grow and die in stages, it is still the same natural cycle. And without words, he draws on John to bring him back — closer, closer.
Soundlessly, he calls to him. ( Something else is here, in the dark. Gather yourself, John Gaius / do not drift far, not again. ) Even as their memories drift against one another, liquid and easy. His own deathless, dying existence calling out to the Necromancer Prime, inviting and open to him. To whatever feelings and memories he is lost in, hungry for it. ]