Set
" There's a black bird perched outside my window, I hear him calling. I hear him sing. He burns me with his eyes of gold to embers. He sees all my sins. He reads my soul. "
Oh. It is too rich. Too perfect. It is sickly metallic on his tongue, this wondrous kismet.
He is the prodigal just in time for the world to shift. With a shudder, a low moan, she had twisted them all into struggling chaos; broke off pieces of what they had thought they had known and then jumbled them together and rearranged them until they knew themselves but could not recognize one another. Or was it the other way around? The magic had leached from him not long after he'd set foot on home soil and though the principle of its absence - he had fought and fought hard for the powers he'd once wielded - irks like salt in an unfamiliar wound, his magicks would be his again. There is an ease to his arrogance, a self-confidence one cannot help but notice, perhaps grudgingly admire, here in the arch of his neck, the direct gaze.
It's this same yellow-gold gaze that's hung on the red stallion's frame, made whole and hearty again by the shift in magical tides. Rodrik. By all regards, a nemesis, the sentiment ground home by the creature's treatment of Set's bloodlines. For a moment, his vision narrows, the edges darkening and drawing together. His tail wrings, lashing smartly at his hindquarters, once, twice, again before falling still. A flicker of movement draws his focus wider. Witching. The silver bay steals closer to her father, knock-kneed and wide-eyed - much like the first time he'd set eyes on his great-grandchild. As he slips forward, strides long and sure over unfamiliar terrain, he wonders if she remembers him, his name the first sound to touch her lips.
"Likely he made another deal with the devil," he inserts, drawing near his blood at Rodrik's reply, eyes held steady to Rodrik's. It is, no doubt, the work of their homeland's recent ... changes, but the piebald takes simple pleasure in digging at his enemy. Petty, perhaps, but pleasurable nonetheless. In a brief glance, he gathers in Witching's appearance, disheveled and lost as she is. He offers her the crook of a smile, warm in spite of the steel behind his eyes, looking back to Rodrik but still addressing her. "Rodrik enjoys making deals." His grin widens, taking on a sinister light just for him, the knowledge that once the devil-stallion had made a bargain involving Talos and Reap's life held in the gaze that clashes with Rodrik's. "Don't you?" Despite not knowing the complete truth - there had not been time to glean all the information - his stare does not falter, the accusation in his voice unmistakable.
Moments pass. He snorts, suddenly. "It is perhaps who he always was ... but it won't be all he will ever be," he spits. His confidence in the eventual return of his magic meant that Rodrik would one day be cursed again. His eyes narrow, remembering Nocturnal's stench, her body turned to carrion so unnaturally soon following the birth of her triplets.
SET
alliance champion, once king, magician