[ As he half-flounces, half-prowls into the darkened depths of Liem's home, Set's eyes seem to glow as the shadows overtake him; an enigmatic little smirk thrown over one pale shoulder, flashing fang briefly as he coos: ] Are you challenging me, Liem Talbott?
[ Something has drawn him in to this man, as readily as curiosity draws a particularly masochistic cat. The strength of faith in a faithless world, the ease of conversation and teasing. A general passion for taunting and toying with orderly things, sickly things, strange things — unfortunate, that Liem sparks joy in an otherwise frivolous entity.
He is quick to unfurl himself into the available space, sands flowing from his flesh as ribbons of brightness, blending seamlessly with red leaves and lotus petals as he fashions a pair of comfortable seats in the middle of one of the empty spaces. And promptly sits himself down upon one, expectantly. ]
I should like to try, at least. I am testing the extent of my abilities, and should they prove helpful to my fellow Augmented, I might be inclined to promote them further than those I favor.
[The display of sand-and-flower-formed furniture surprises Liem as he finishes closing the door and accompanies Set further into the house. Like the other things he has seen the desert god doing when coming upon him in person, it seems too mundane for a deity that Liem would associate most closely with storms and murder. Yet another point in favour of Set being an unrelated person with only a passing resemblance to the god from ancient Osirian texts.
But given that Liem has yet to acquire the furniture necessary for hosting visitors in his home, it is fortunate Set can conjure such objects. Liem joins him on the other chair, though he perches on it cautiously at first, as though expecting it to melt out from under him.]
What abilities are you testing out?
[He is mostly humouring Set; at this point after exploring various ways of averting his impending demise on his own, Liem holds little hope of averting his fate. His pale, gaunt form attests to the stubbornness of his ailment. But Set is already here, so he may as well let him speak.]
It is my natural soul that is afflicting me so. I doubt the effects can be prevented without the soul’s suppression or removal.
Those of my natural soul. I possess traits of lotus flower and willow tree, it seems — both lend to decreasing pain.
[ He touches his fingertips to his shoulders, where below a veil of clear glass ( or perhaps, the image of still waters ), a network of bright, scarlet lotus flowers gather in healthy batches. His hair rich and thick with willow branches like a towering tree weeping into waters below, his lower legs laced with pale, striped bark. At complete odds with his integral nature, but he seems utterly unbothered by the presence of such changes; his alien body is quite normal, considering.
Primly, he places his hands in his lap, and cants his head to one side at Liem's protests. ]
No, I do not think that I can prevent what your natural soul is and will do to you. However, I do not think you have to suffer so strongly. I recall our time in the alley, after all.
[ That last bit, delivered with a slyness and the gleaming flash of his cat-like eyes and flashing teeth, is utterly shameless. After all, to Set, he was simply feeding someone in need; it was society that looked upon them and thought the meeting illicit. And how dare they! ]
[Set’s meaning becomes clearer when he explains the medicinal properties of the plants that have taken root within his changeable form. He has come to Liem to offer him not salvation, but succour. This he is more willing to accept might be possible; it is simply that, as his end draws closer, he has sunk so firmly into the pit of his despair and self-loathing that he has no wish to find relief at all.
Set’s sly remark about the day Liem had woken up smeared with his blood brings a grimace to his face.]
I have not slid so far into the embrace of my “natural soul” [—he says the term with bitter scorn—] as to drink the blood of others just to interrupt my own suffering. And a brief interruption it would be, in any case.
[The drugging pleasure of freshly-imbibed blood has always made him feel better, banishing his fatigue, his aches and pains, the thirst that gnaws at his insides. But the relief is so very temporary; it takes mere hours for his symptoms to return again.
And in the meantime, he must live with the knowledge of what he has sunk to, for the brief pleasure of a night without hunger. Always, the thrill of indulgence is followed by the shame of his willingness to capitulate to such vulgar desires.]
This transformation may be Patho-Gen’s doing, but I have had an entire human lifetime to consider the possibility of becoming like my father. I would rather die with what dignity I might still possess than sink willingly into depravity.
Ah, your father. I remember — the one the little robots exposed your murderous desires toward.
[ There is an acute lack of judgment, as ever, in Set's tone; he speaks of a balm to Liem's struggles — only as far as can be factually supported. He refers back to the ServiTon's little "game", that they t initially met over and speaks of it with an austere primness and severity. The straightening of his posture and illumination of his eyes the only thing giving away his brief excitement at the thought of... what, precisely?
He doesn't speak of hope or frivolous goals, practical as he is. ]
What precisely do you find depraved about the practice? If it is a matter of numbers, I am more than enough.
[ Rude, but attentive.
He wears little, as usual. But, momentarily his flesh seems to melt and rearrange in flecks of dust — grains of sand upon still winds that form clothes upon his body. An open-necked button-up, flowing trousers and suspenders in a rather bohemian-impoverished style; his feet, though, remain bare. His shirt pushed up on his forearms, as he leans his elbows on his knees and hunts with his gaze. ]
My Natural Soul gives me, the god of the desert, abilities and requirements similar to my brother — Osiris, god of life. I hate him, beyond compare. I killed him, and he persists as part of me. I hate the wrongness of my body, and the way it feels poisoned against me. You feel similar, then? We can understand one another?
[Yes, Liem’s father: The father he feels morally obligated to hunt down and kill. The father who he recently found out had been stalking him for years. The father who embodies everything he’d ever feared and loathed about himself, with some other flaws added in for good measure. That father.
Set’s question is rude, not to mention invasive. The answer should be obvious, and he does not want to provide one of his own, so he is relieved when the desert god follows up one query with another on its heels. This answer he feels more willing to admit to—and he’s not inclined to complain about Set’s conjured clothes, either.]
It is similar enough. [Similar enough to make the corners of Liem’s mouth pull down in a slight grimace, because even if he does succeed in hunting down his father one day, what Set says applies to him as well; he will always carry that wrongness inside him, even if his father turns to ash. Killing him will not make Liem into a normal living man.]
I always feared what would happen to me when I died; whether I would be denied the sleep of true death, regardless of the manner, because of my blood. It seems a cruel irony that I am expected to discover that here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
FatherTalbott
PROFILE
no subject
[ Something has drawn him in to this man, as readily as curiosity draws a particularly masochistic cat. The strength of faith in a faithless world, the ease of conversation and teasing. A general passion for taunting and toying with orderly things, sickly things, strange things — unfortunate, that Liem sparks joy in an otherwise frivolous entity.
He is quick to unfurl himself into the available space, sands flowing from his flesh as ribbons of brightness, blending seamlessly with red leaves and lotus petals as he fashions a pair of comfortable seats in the middle of one of the empty spaces. And promptly sits himself down upon one, expectantly. ]
I should like to try, at least. I am testing the extent of my abilities, and should they prove helpful to my fellow Augmented, I might be inclined to promote them further than those I favor.
no subject
But given that Liem has yet to acquire the furniture necessary for hosting visitors in his home, it is fortunate Set can conjure such objects. Liem joins him on the other chair, though he perches on it cautiously at first, as though expecting it to melt out from under him.]
What abilities are you testing out?
[He is mostly humouring Set; at this point after exploring various ways of averting his impending demise on his own, Liem holds little hope of averting his fate. His pale, gaunt form attests to the stubbornness of his ailment. But Set is already here, so he may as well let him speak.]
It is my natural soul that is afflicting me so. I doubt the effects can be prevented without the soul’s suppression or removal.
no subject
[ He touches his fingertips to his shoulders, where below a veil of clear glass ( or perhaps, the image of still waters ), a network of bright, scarlet lotus flowers gather in healthy batches. His hair rich and thick with willow branches like a towering tree weeping into waters below, his lower legs laced with pale, striped bark. At complete odds with his integral nature, but he seems utterly unbothered by the presence of such changes; his alien body is quite normal, considering.
Primly, he places his hands in his lap, and cants his head to one side at Liem's protests. ]
No, I do not think that I can prevent what your natural soul is and will do to you. However, I do not think you have to suffer so strongly. I recall our time in the alley, after all.
[ That last bit, delivered with a slyness and the gleaming flash of his cat-like eyes and flashing teeth, is utterly shameless. After all, to Set, he was simply feeding someone in need; it was society that looked upon them and thought the meeting illicit. And how dare they! ]
— at the least, you need not be alone with it.
no subject
Set’s sly remark about the day Liem had woken up smeared with his blood brings a grimace to his face.]
I have not slid so far into the embrace of my “natural soul” [—he says the term with bitter scorn—] as to drink the blood of others just to interrupt my own suffering. And a brief interruption it would be, in any case.
[The drugging pleasure of freshly-imbibed blood has always made him feel better, banishing his fatigue, his aches and pains, the thirst that gnaws at his insides. But the relief is so very temporary; it takes mere hours for his symptoms to return again.
And in the meantime, he must live with the knowledge of what he has sunk to, for the brief pleasure of a night without hunger. Always, the thrill of indulgence is followed by the shame of his willingness to capitulate to such vulgar desires.]
This transformation may be Patho-Gen’s doing, but I have had an entire human lifetime to consider the possibility of becoming like my father. I would rather die with what dignity I might still possess than sink willingly into depravity.
no subject
[ There is an acute lack of judgment, as ever, in Set's tone; he speaks of a balm to Liem's struggles — only as far as can be factually supported. He refers back to the ServiTon's little "game", that they t initially met over and speaks of it with an austere primness and severity. The straightening of his posture and illumination of his eyes the only thing giving away his brief excitement at the thought of... what, precisely?
He doesn't speak of hope or frivolous goals, practical as he is. ]
What precisely do you find depraved about the practice? If it is a matter of numbers, I am more than enough.
[ Rude, but attentive.
He wears little, as usual. But, momentarily his flesh seems to melt and rearrange in flecks of dust — grains of sand upon still winds that form clothes upon his body. An open-necked button-up, flowing trousers and suspenders in a rather bohemian-impoverished style; his feet, though, remain bare. His shirt pushed up on his forearms, as he leans his elbows on his knees and hunts with his gaze. ]
My Natural Soul gives me, the god of the desert, abilities and requirements similar to my brother — Osiris, god of life. I hate him, beyond compare. I killed him, and he persists as part of me. I hate the wrongness of my body, and the way it feels poisoned against me. You feel similar, then? We can understand one another?
no subject
Set’s question is rude, not to mention invasive. The answer should be obvious, and he does not want to provide one of his own, so he is relieved when the desert god follows up one query with another on its heels. This answer he feels more willing to admit to—and he’s not inclined to complain about Set’s conjured clothes, either.]
It is similar enough. [Similar enough to make the corners of Liem’s mouth pull down in a slight grimace, because even if he does succeed in hunting down his father one day, what Set says applies to him as well; he will always carry that wrongness inside him, even if his father turns to ash. Killing him will not make Liem into a normal living man.]
I always feared what would happen to me when I died; whether I would be denied the sleep of true death, regardless of the manner, because of my blood. It seems a cruel irony that I am expected to discover that here.