[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.
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FatherTalbott
PROFILE
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.