I know of the place. I will be there within the hour.
[ and he is punctual to a fault, arriving at the hunting lodge with a handful of minutes to spare. he's dressed down, which for him means none of his usual leathers, though he takes care to slide an offered knife into his waist holster, and another into his boot.
it never hurts to be careful.
he casts around to sight the red-haired man, or perhaps to hear his overloud voice booming across the quiet space. surely he's not late? ]
[ Compared to many, Set is always "dressed down"; shining gold jewelry and exposed skin, a black shendyt wrapped around his hips. A creature made for the desert — extreme heat, bitter cold.
He's puttering in one of the adjoining rooms, when Aemond arrives. The sound of clattering woods and the brief racking of a shotgun heralds his arrival, as he walks out with the weapon held in his hands. Is it loaded? God fucking knows. ]
[ he supposes the thing in his hand is a weapon, but aemond does not feel threatened. he does show some distaste for the excess of skin on display. it's rather egregious, given the warm decor of the lodge. ]
Some of your wisdom would be welcome, Set. And a bit of your weapons expertise.
[ heartbreaking that they'll get along so well and then the Truth Comes Out Does Set Is Threaten Aemond's Mommy/Family? later on ]
I am. All weapons are made in the image of war, and I am war itself.
[ It's not just a boast, when he says it between himself and one other person. There's a divine gravity to his words, a depth — echoing and resolute, that would mark such a proclamation as providence, as truth-beyond-reproach. It's not like the claims he makes when he's cavorting gleefully around others, embellishing aspects of himself. Set does not lie. But, he is a trickster at his core.
He slings the shotgun across his shoulders, strolling towards Aemond with a broadening smile. ]
Would you like lessons, is that it? I am a difficult taskmaster, but the prowess of my warriors is undeniable. Never once have my lands fallen to invaders.
I am a diligent student and always, but you should not mistake me for one of your own. I mean to build myself a weapon. I'm like to hear what your thoughts would be for the best kind.
[ protection. that's one of his biggest motivators, especially with this cursed game in progress. he can appreciate set's arrogance, if not the intelligence lacking in his actions as of recent. the man is... eccentric, detrimentally so. ]
Those who partake in war are always mine. That is as inevitable as the sun rising at dawn, to set in the eve. Balk and bare teeth as you will, it will never be within your power to escape my domain.
[ He doesn't sound harsh as he speaks it; there is an unmistakable power in his words. The suffocating, fearsome weight of an ancient, endless being that speaks not in whim or potential, but in concrete fact. Ah. If only he could actively access the memories of the time he built a railgun and nuked half a city for Aemond to know of, sighs. ]
Unless you become a pacifist.
[ Set sits. The shotgun resting over his lap as he begins to dismantle it, eyes fixated upon the man before him; his hands work independent, field stripping the tool slowly, surely. Sand billows in thin ribbons from his wrists to unscrew portions, pry free coil and lever. A shell sits on his thigh, for later. ]
Not a bad idea. Close to mine own. Very well. To begin: tell me what your purpose for it is. A weapon must always have a use.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ he can kill two birds with one stone, this way; examining what passes for hunting in this place, and meeting with the delightful aemond targaryen ]
no subject
[ and he is punctual to a fault, arriving at the hunting lodge with a handful of minutes to spare. he's dressed down, which for him means none of his usual leathers, though he takes care to slide an offered knife into his waist holster, and another into his boot.
it never hurts to be careful.
he casts around to sight the red-haired man, or perhaps to hear his overloud voice booming across the quiet space. surely he's not late? ]
no subject
He's puttering in one of the adjoining rooms, when Aemond arrives. The sound of clattering woods and the brief racking of a shotgun heralds his arrival, as he walks out with the weapon held in his hands. Is it loaded? God fucking knows. ]
Aemond! What might I provide to you?
no subject
Some of your wisdom would be welcome, Set. And a bit of your weapons expertise.
You are an expert, yes?
no subject
I am. All weapons are made in the image of war, and I am war itself.
[ It's not just a boast, when he says it between himself and one other person. There's a divine gravity to his words, a depth — echoing and resolute, that would mark such a proclamation as providence, as truth-beyond-reproach. It's not like the claims he makes when he's cavorting gleefully around others, embellishing aspects of himself. Set does not lie. But, he is a trickster at his core.
He slings the shotgun across his shoulders, strolling towards Aemond with a broadening smile. ]
Would you like lessons, is that it? I am a difficult taskmaster, but the prowess of my warriors is undeniable. Never once have my lands fallen to invaders.
no subject
[ protection. that's one of his biggest motivators, especially with this cursed game in progress. he can appreciate set's arrogance, if not the intelligence lacking in his actions as of recent. the man is... eccentric, detrimentally so. ]
Shall we sit?
no subject
[ He doesn't sound harsh as he speaks it; there is an unmistakable power in his words. The suffocating, fearsome weight of an ancient, endless being that speaks not in whim or potential, but in concrete fact. Ah. If only he could actively access the memories of the time he built a railgun and nuked half a city for Aemond to know of, sighs. ]
Unless you become a pacifist.
[ Set sits. The shotgun resting over his lap as he begins to dismantle it, eyes fixated upon the man before him; his hands work independent, field stripping the tool slowly, surely. Sand billows in thin ribbons from his wrists to unscrew portions, pry free coil and lever. A shell sits on his thigh, for later. ]
Not a bad idea. Close to mine own. Very well. To begin: tell me what your purpose for it is. A weapon must always have a use.