[ Something breaks, in Hayame. Broken by him, by what he has known innately is his right to do — he does not have to explain himself to anyone, not friend or ally or enemy, because he has never had to. It was a given, among his siblings, that what he did was always going to be wild, feral, and entirely in support of Egypt. For Egypt, before even the throne of gods and men, before the king who ruled both; he has placed the focus of his goal alongside Meridian, because his son asked him to return home, though he could readily obtain his son and get all he wanted out of Zenith.
All he has ever wanted from his allies was for them to ask him for what he has gathered, what he has scraped for and bargained for and observed and learned; the wealth of information at his fingertips, rivaling even Sebastian Michaelis ( though perhaps lessened, due to his depth of emotion compared to the sheer rationality of the demon ). And Hayame has asked for word of his exploits and decisions, which — is a little different than just asking for his counsel, to his mind. All she wants, is to not be left behind, and she crawls on her belly before him to plead for what he has not given her — the sight of her doing so striking a dual-chord of pleasure to have dragged her so low, and something slightly off-set from unhappiness, to have forced his favorite warrior to this.
He sinks to the ground, as she bows her head, her spine. Folded before him to beg of him for something a friend ought to give her without such need. And he sets his hands upon hers. ]
— I will. Not because you are begging, but because apparently even I have much to learn about having friends with minds and hearts of their own.
[ It is different, to lead legion-score of warriors. Faceless, obedient.
He tugs on her hands, trying to urge her to look up. She may feel the veil drift across her shoulders, then. Layers of soft, gauzy linen in golds and tawny-reds like the endless rolling hills of a desert, the parting of a secret place around her — as Set draws her into his mind, deeper and deeper, until below her belly and arms is no longer snow, no longer sand, but the cool, slightly-rough texture of sandstone. The faint breeze playing through her hair carrying with it the scent of ink and papyrus, smoke and metal and blood.
Before her, should she finally lift her gaze, sprawls a low table. Heavy, laden with notation and weaponry, charts and maps layered upon it so thickly that to even begin to look upon the titanic assortment might be to go mad with the sheer enormity of it. Above the table is a sea of stars, a cacophony of colors and sizes and intensity of glow, each tethered to scraps of information — through her connection with Set, she will be able to see some of the names attached to the stars: Hayame, Liem, Amos, Sebastian, Silco, Cyrus, Yima, Osiris, Isis, Horus, Coalbrand, the Hieropoios — on and on, with each of the endless stars representing someone. ]
This is my war table, Hayame. [ He tells her. ] It is where I keep everything. What I know about each and every one of you, how to embolden or ruin you, every errant conversation in Communion I have ever listened into, every rumor spoken, every miniscule thing I have gleaned from my interactions, facts and figures and plans and tactics and —
[ He holds steady for a moment, before reaching out to call one of the stars to him. Her name, the sense of her existence stains it richly, the shape of it unique and the associated tethers upon it numerous and dense — river after river of conversation, observation, as he fits this moment to her as well. ]
I will tell you whatever you want to know. I only needed your interest, in the form of a direct question — that is all you have ever had to do, my soon-to-be-blessed warrior. I cannot offer information, without knowing what you seek. For now... your advance notice of my plans is this: I have joined myself to the Church, for power and access to their bevvy of secrets. And I seek to control the Beyond, to begin to lay the noose prepared by Zenith around Highstorm until they strangle themselves with it.
no subject
All he has ever wanted from his allies was for them to ask him for what he has gathered, what he has scraped for and bargained for and observed and learned; the wealth of information at his fingertips, rivaling even Sebastian Michaelis ( though perhaps lessened, due to his depth of emotion compared to the sheer rationality of the demon ). And Hayame has asked for word of his exploits and decisions, which — is a little different than just asking for his counsel, to his mind. All she wants, is to not be left behind, and she crawls on her belly before him to plead for what he has not given her — the sight of her doing so striking a dual-chord of pleasure to have dragged her so low, and something slightly off-set from unhappiness, to have forced his favorite warrior to this.
He sinks to the ground, as she bows her head, her spine. Folded before him to beg of him for something a friend ought to give her without such need. And he sets his hands upon hers. ]
— I will. Not because you are begging, but because apparently even I have much to learn about having friends with minds and hearts of their own.
[ It is different, to lead legion-score of warriors. Faceless, obedient.
He tugs on her hands, trying to urge her to look up. She may feel the veil drift across her shoulders, then. Layers of soft, gauzy linen in golds and tawny-reds like the endless rolling hills of a desert, the parting of a secret place around her — as Set draws her into his mind, deeper and deeper, until below her belly and arms is no longer snow, no longer sand, but the cool, slightly-rough texture of sandstone. The faint breeze playing through her hair carrying with it the scent of ink and papyrus, smoke and metal and blood.
Before her, should she finally lift her gaze, sprawls a low table. Heavy, laden with notation and weaponry, charts and maps layered upon it so thickly that to even begin to look upon the titanic assortment might be to go mad with the sheer enormity of it. Above the table is a sea of stars, a cacophony of colors and sizes and intensity of glow, each tethered to scraps of information — through her connection with Set, she will be able to see some of the names attached to the stars: Hayame, Liem, Amos, Sebastian, Silco, Cyrus, Yima, Osiris, Isis, Horus, Coalbrand, the Hieropoios — on and on, with each of the endless stars representing someone. ]
This is my war table, Hayame. [ He tells her. ] It is where I keep everything. What I know about each and every one of you, how to embolden or ruin you, every errant conversation in Communion I have ever listened into, every rumor spoken, every miniscule thing I have gleaned from my interactions, facts and figures and plans and tactics and —
[ He holds steady for a moment, before reaching out to call one of the stars to him. Her name, the sense of her existence stains it richly, the shape of it unique and the associated tethers upon it numerous and dense — river after river of conversation, observation, as he fits this moment to her as well. ]
I will tell you whatever you want to know. I only needed your interest, in the form of a direct question — that is all you have ever had to do, my soon-to-be-blessed warrior. I cannot offer information, without knowing what you seek. For now... your advance notice of my plans is this: I have joined myself to the Church, for power and access to their bevvy of secrets. And I seek to control the Beyond, to begin to lay the noose prepared by Zenith around Highstorm until they strangle themselves with it.