Set
One might be hard-pressed to find a creature more self-assured than he.
Many find his relentless personality threatening and abrasive; still others see him as charming, hypnotic, finding in him a force that they’re drawn to, either because they do not possess it themselves, or they simply recognize a kindred spirit. It’s chilly today, as many days are on Icicle Isle, a light breeze following the ocean’s retreat, carrying his scent out over the open water. He moves among the low tide debris with a careless step, head slung low, tossing it every now and then to keep his knotted forelock from hampering his vision. The sand is firm, vague hoofprints left in his wake. The island has finally quieted down from the riotous days of its rebirth, but it is a pregnant quiet as it and Beqanna’s futures hang in limbo. He’s really grown quite bored with the whole thing. As if to reinforce his point, the air shifts and the piebald mage is blasted with a strong gust of icy wind. He turns his head away, mismatched lids slanted over yellow eyes, ears pinned tightly to his skull as.
It relents some as he moves further inland, sand giving way to increasingly bigger rocks, smoothed by the ebb and flow of time. There are still patches of snow here, though the hardiest of northern plants draw the eye with their spots of brilliant color. When he rounds a knoll, long limbs still rolling along at an easy walk, he spies a dark figure in the distance. It is reflex to camouflage himself against his background, even as he slinks closer to the hillside, positioning himself downwind. He draws his head up, focusing his vision across the half mile or so that separates the two figures.
The dragon-stallion is staring into the crater that his ilk had created when she’d quite literally disintegrated her surroundings. Set watches him a moment longer, wavering between decisions, before his insatiable need to know spurs him closer. The mutts’ minds are easier; they’re a blend of creatures, pieced together by magic, and it’s through these chinks that Set invades. In no hurry now, he ambles closer, his dual-toned silhouette visible, using Leilan’s thoughts to occupy him as he closes the distance.
The way he sees it, Leilan and Camomila’s claims are ill-disguised grasps at power. The Nerineans have their own kingdom, complete with a pet magician. Rumor has it the magicians are among the few who can completely expel the Plague from mortal and immortal body alike. They desired a safe haven but had destroyed initial talks with careless magicks, endangering the lives of all those present. They wanted diplomacy, to compromise, yet all he had heard was how wicked and untrustworthy he and Phasus were. Leilan disappears into the earth when Set is nearly there. Truth be told, Set doesn’t give a damn what happened to the island anymore. He had intervened because Niklas had been there, stayed because he had sensed the potential in Phasus (he thrills at the memory of their entangled magic), lingered because he could, because it makes them uneasy. If they had not been so pitifully defiant, so eager to push him to war …
(They can’t know, yet, that while he is cunning, a student of the silver tongues, he is firstly a brute, a beast of conqueror’s blood, of gnashed teeth and bitter triumph.)
Reaching the edge of the crater, he peers over to find Leilan repairing it. Blinking once, twice, Set measures the presumably occupied stallion for another beat or two, his expression unreadable, lips pressed together. At the ice-drake’s final thought … cowards … a wide grin suddenly erases his stony expression. He shifts his weight, leaping deftly from one cleft to another with the otherwordly surefootedness of a mountain goat, down to the floor of the crater. His gold-colored eyes glinting with something that Leilan will be hard-pressed to interpret, Set steps over the leading edge of dragon-ice as it fills the hole. He has yet to withdraw from the other’s mind and it is through this connection that he now funnels some of his own magic, stoking what is already in Leilan. Still grinning, he seeks to meet the roan’s eyes.
“You and I have an entirely different definition of a coward.” He shifts his gaze away to check the edges of the crater for surprises before swinging that rogue’s head back ‘round. “Besides, there are far worse things, don’t you think,” he continues amicably, as if they were old friends. He pretends to think, eyes rolling up in an exaggerated motion.
Many find his relentless personality threatening and abrasive; still others see him as charming, hypnotic, finding in him a force that they’re drawn to, either because they do not possess it themselves, or they simply recognize a kindred spirit. It’s chilly today, as many days are on Icicle Isle, a light breeze following the ocean’s retreat, carrying his scent out over the open water. He moves among the low tide debris with a careless step, head slung low, tossing it every now and then to keep his knotted forelock from hampering his vision. The sand is firm, vague hoofprints left in his wake. The island has finally quieted down from the riotous days of its rebirth, but it is a pregnant quiet as it and Beqanna’s futures hang in limbo. He’s really grown quite bored with the whole thing. As if to reinforce his point, the air shifts and the piebald mage is blasted with a strong gust of icy wind. He turns his head away, mismatched lids slanted over yellow eyes, ears pinned tightly to his skull as.
It relents some as he moves further inland, sand giving way to increasingly bigger rocks, smoothed by the ebb and flow of time. There are still patches of snow here, though the hardiest of northern plants draw the eye with their spots of brilliant color. When he rounds a knoll, long limbs still rolling along at an easy walk, he spies a dark figure in the distance. It is reflex to camouflage himself against his background, even as he slinks closer to the hillside, positioning himself downwind. He draws his head up, focusing his vision across the half mile or so that separates the two figures.
The dragon-stallion is staring into the crater that his ilk had created when she’d quite literally disintegrated her surroundings. Set watches him a moment longer, wavering between decisions, before his insatiable need to know spurs him closer. The mutts’ minds are easier; they’re a blend of creatures, pieced together by magic, and it’s through these chinks that Set invades. In no hurry now, he ambles closer, his dual-toned silhouette visible, using Leilan’s thoughts to occupy him as he closes the distance.
The way he sees it, Leilan and Camomila’s claims are ill-disguised grasps at power. The Nerineans have their own kingdom, complete with a pet magician. Rumor has it the magicians are among the few who can completely expel the Plague from mortal and immortal body alike. They desired a safe haven but had destroyed initial talks with careless magicks, endangering the lives of all those present. They wanted diplomacy, to compromise, yet all he had heard was how wicked and untrustworthy he and Phasus were. Leilan disappears into the earth when Set is nearly there. Truth be told, Set doesn’t give a damn what happened to the island anymore. He had intervened because Niklas had been there, stayed because he had sensed the potential in Phasus (he thrills at the memory of their entangled magic), lingered because he could, because it makes them uneasy. If they had not been so pitifully defiant, so eager to push him to war …
(They can’t know, yet, that while he is cunning, a student of the silver tongues, he is firstly a brute, a beast of conqueror’s blood, of gnashed teeth and bitter triumph.)
Reaching the edge of the crater, he peers over to find Leilan repairing it. Blinking once, twice, Set measures the presumably occupied stallion for another beat or two, his expression unreadable, lips pressed together. At the ice-drake’s final thought … cowards … a wide grin suddenly erases his stony expression. He shifts his weight, leaping deftly from one cleft to another with the otherwordly surefootedness of a mountain goat, down to the floor of the crater. His gold-colored eyes glinting with something that Leilan will be hard-pressed to interpret, Set steps over the leading edge of dragon-ice as it fills the hole. He has yet to withdraw from the other’s mind and it is through this connection that he now funnels some of his own magic, stoking what is already in Leilan. Still grinning, he seeks to meet the roan’s eyes.
“You and I have an entirely different definition of a coward.” He shifts his gaze away to check the edges of the crater for surprises before swinging that rogue’s head back ‘round. “Besides, there are far worse things, don’t you think,” he continues amicably, as if they were old friends. He pretends to think, eyes rolling up in an exaggerated motion.