[ who tf is ren, he doensn't keep track of everyone ( a lie, he does ) ]
You men and your love of water. This is the second time in as many days that I have been invited to the lakeside.
[ all the same, that is where he will go to, the protest mostly for show; wrapped in a linen robe pulled around his throat to ward off the chill he's forced to feel, because he has none of his powers. no ability to heal, to change his form, to summon the deserts. it's so isolating. still, his footsteps are skilled and quiet, as he steps alongside q and boldly slips his arm through the other's. ]
— I feel as though I am walking blindly through this year's game of wolves. I only wish to observe and rejoice in the show, but... every turn I seek to ally myself and be part of something, I have been second-best or unnecessary.
The water is predictable even at the worst of times.
[ in a way he can commiserate with the lack of abilities. his, not entirely as strong as others here, keep him anchored, keep him rooted in the world around him. there are never questions about being able to find anyone, knowing their location, feeling the rush of power against the torrential indigo of his own. so set loops his arm and quentin, though he doesn't startle, laughs softly.
he squeezes his arm down against set's, but pauses when he speaks. a frown pinches his brow. ]
You are never second-best or unnecessary. I think it is simply an impossibility.
[ the loop of his arm moves, turns instead so quentin can angle them into a hug, strong arms around set, tugging him in against his chest. there's no time for being polite here, no time for the distance that they've had since speaking so long ago. werewolf is a game of all or nothing. quentin is warm, besides - koby tells him so - and like the turn of a tide, he can tell when someone needs the sun. ]
Shanks needs you now. Koby does. I do. Everyone needs safe harbor in a storm.
[ Rapidly swept up in the whirlpool of Quentin's arms, Set huffs and puffs against his collarbone — shoulders and spine stiffening, as if he expects something other than a warm embrace ( it had taken him time, even with Shanks, to not tighten his core against a kind touch ), before he grumbles like a sour animal and softens there, where he's held. ]
It is not impossible for a god. We come from the root of reality — the cosmic sea, where we are assigned parameters within which to function. Our roles and functions are defined for us, and cannot change. We can gain them, but we cannot divorce ourselves from that origin.
[ And his, he'd come to know long ago, was to be the red-headed stepchild to all others. Still, he has his pride! ]
Really, Quentin. Keeping everyone safe is not my duty. I enjoy watching them struggle and strive to survive and win — this would be a game in my honor, back home. I still think of it, as such.
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You men and your love of water. This is the second time in as many days that I have been invited to the lakeside.
[ all the same, that is where he will go to, the protest mostly for show; wrapped in a linen robe pulled around his throat to ward off the chill he's forced to feel, because he has none of his powers. no ability to heal, to change his form, to summon the deserts. it's so isolating. still, his footsteps are skilled and quiet, as he steps alongside q and boldly slips his arm through the other's. ]
— I feel as though I am walking blindly through this year's game of wolves. I only wish to observe and rejoice in the show, but... every turn I seek to ally myself and be part of something, I have been second-best or unnecessary.
no subject
[ in a way he can commiserate with the lack of abilities. his, not entirely as strong as others here, keep him anchored, keep him rooted in the world around him. there are never questions about being able to find anyone, knowing their location, feeling the rush of power against the torrential indigo of his own. so set loops his arm and quentin, though he doesn't startle, laughs softly.
he squeezes his arm down against set's, but pauses when he speaks. a frown pinches his brow. ]
You are never second-best or unnecessary. I think it is simply an impossibility.
[ the loop of his arm moves, turns instead so quentin can angle them into a hug, strong arms around set, tugging him in against his chest. there's no time for being polite here, no time for the distance that they've had since speaking so long ago. werewolf is a game of all or nothing. quentin is warm, besides - koby tells him so - and like the turn of a tide, he can tell when someone needs the sun. ]
Shanks needs you now. Koby does. I do. Everyone needs safe harbor in a storm.
no subject
It is not impossible for a god. We come from the root of reality — the cosmic sea, where we are assigned parameters within which to function. Our roles and functions are defined for us, and cannot change. We can gain them, but we cannot divorce ourselves from that origin.
[ And his, he'd come to know long ago, was to be the red-headed stepchild to all others. Still, he has his pride! ]
Really, Quentin. Keeping everyone safe is not my duty. I enjoy watching them struggle and strive to survive and win — this would be a game in my honor, back home. I still think of it, as such.