[ To show kindness or compassion to Silco as he speaks of Zaun would be foolish. Stupid, even.
Instead, Set is quiet. Attentive, without removing his hand from the other man's person. That vicious, brutal person that no one could speak with, let alone touch, without being cut asunder. Yet, there he stood, so very close to a man who worshiped annihilation above all else, and he could understand him. Without question. Rather than speak, he listens to Silco speak of the wasteland of his home. The way Zaun was the ends of the earth, a cesspool where the gilded city above discarded people as waste and waste without thought. A place where people lived hard and died fast, and survivors — had to be like Silco.
Men like Vander were illusions, in Zaun. He'd never liked Vander much, however others had enjoyed his presence. Osiris had been an easy-to-love god, and yet, he hadn't hesitated to ruin Set for his own ends; Silco, too, had been ruined by someone he'd been close with. Scarred and drowned and left to bloom with rot. ]
Doing what you have to do to survive the brutality of others is not foolish. You are marvelous to me, Silco. I would never ask you to change who you are, only encourage you to walk different paths — accepted and prized as-is. A man like you never has to accept a dead end. Not while I am here.
[ Set understood, and allowed himself to be guided forth and across the threshold. A cold place, welcoming him as though... as though he was meant to be there, like he belonged. Purity of acceptance, by Silco himself. So, Set stepped forward, and allowed himself to attune ( to be attuned? ), hot and scalding against Zenite-rich power, he feels it twine and balk and croon as though it has missed him. As if it wants to be in sync with the Meridian within him, but also wielded against it.
Like chaos, and order. The Kemet and Deshret. War, and peace. ]
no subject
Instead, Set is quiet. Attentive, without removing his hand from the other man's person. That vicious, brutal person that no one could speak with, let alone touch, without being cut asunder. Yet, there he stood, so very close to a man who worshiped annihilation above all else, and he could understand him. Without question. Rather than speak, he listens to Silco speak of the wasteland of his home. The way Zaun was the ends of the earth, a cesspool where the gilded city above discarded people as waste and waste without thought. A place where people lived hard and died fast, and survivors — had to be like Silco.
Men like Vander were illusions, in Zaun. He'd never liked Vander much, however others had enjoyed his presence. Osiris had been an easy-to-love god, and yet, he hadn't hesitated to ruin Set for his own ends; Silco, too, had been ruined by someone he'd been close with. Scarred and drowned and left to bloom with rot. ]
Doing what you have to do to survive the brutality of others is not foolish. You are marvelous to me, Silco. I would never ask you to change who you are, only encourage you to walk different paths — accepted and prized as-is. A man like you never has to accept a dead end. Not while I am here.
[ Set understood, and allowed himself to be guided forth and across the threshold. A cold place, welcoming him as though... as though he was meant to be there, like he belonged. Purity of acceptance, by Silco himself. So, Set stepped forward, and allowed himself to attune ( to be attuned? ), hot and scalding against Zenite-rich power, he feels it twine and balk and croon as though it has missed him. As if it wants to be in sync with the Meridian within him, but also wielded against it.
Like chaos, and order. The Kemet and Deshret. War, and peace. ]
May I hold her?