[ Dark desert, he mouths. That's a new one. A different sort of familiarity with his domains, but one that is not untrue to say the least. Set cradles the small pillow he's taken along with him, head tipped to one side — eyes distant, brows slackened. It's as calm, as neutral as he's capable of appearing; the perpetual crease between his brow lessened, as Liem speaks of something that they share. A thin thread that binds man to divine, and Set thinks: Is this understanding someone? Perhaps not. He still struggles.

He does gesture, to the cup that Liem has brought down. ]

I only meant to spare you the song and dance of procuring what goes with tea. I do drink.

[ As Liem is correct, Set had been drinking ( copiously ) in the baths they had shared at first meeting. On the Isles, he had supped on wine and other drink, and rarely was easy to observe putting anything solid into his mouth. It was odd, it felt terrible within him, and he was deeply particular about the things he wanted to eat in the first place, when he actually had to. ]

It is that, [ for a moment, he draws the edge of the pillow up and towards his mouth. Briefly hiding behind it as he considers what he shares; it is difficult, to admit anything to others, for fear of them using even the most innocuous of facts against him in the future. It's habit, now. Opening to someone means allowing them to know things that could be used to harm, and he is — he is so poor, at seeing betrayal before it is upon him. ] Before I became this, I never needed to and I, do not like the way it feels to eat.

[ A step closer, and he fetches up against Liem's counter. Against Liem himself, the side of his arm light against the line of the priest's shoulder. So tactile, when he controls the sensation. ]

You are the same, though. What manner of illness overcomes you?