[Even by appearances held within a mortal body, Set carries his divinity in every languid movement and turn of head, in the graceful drape of limbs over pillows and that distinct manner of speech. Tyki has not harbored doubt since that immense presence, gold and red, first brushed his mind — but if he did, then surely the evidence spread before him would sate it.]
That's a shame. [A true one, that such a being as this goes without worship.] It sounds as if their belief in you is driven mostly by fear. Well, I can understand that. Not that I'm looking for followers, I'm no god.
[A drink is provided, and habit has Tyki reaching for the glass, a gloved white hand encasing it like something delicate — the taste when lifted to lips is sharp, astringent, familiar. Dark lashes drift low over yellow eyes. There was once a part of him that craved this first touch of the tongue; now in him, it feels muted, buried somewhere far below in the recesses of his humanity. An indulgence he misses more than the Noah will allow him to say. Tyki remains upright on the cushioned bench, posture relaxing somewhat into a slouch.]
The god we serve isn't around us in any material sense, and I can't say we practice any particular rituals... I guess I'd start by praying to you. [Idly thoughtful, Tyki's finger taps the edge of his glass.] But I've known some methods more involved, with priests or similar figureheads in positions of authority. I could wash your feet, massage your body, comb your hair. [He looks at Set, at an angle.] Or I could give you gifts. Most aligned with the Church [the slightest, barest grimace] want money, but I'm not sure about you. Maybe a sacrifice?
no subject
That's a shame. [A true one, that such a being as this goes without worship.] It sounds as if their belief in you is driven mostly by fear. Well, I can understand that. Not that I'm looking for followers, I'm no god.
[A drink is provided, and habit has Tyki reaching for the glass, a gloved white hand encasing it like something delicate — the taste when lifted to lips is sharp, astringent, familiar. Dark lashes drift low over yellow eyes. There was once a part of him that craved this first touch of the tongue; now in him, it feels muted, buried somewhere far below in the recesses of his humanity. An indulgence he misses more than the Noah will allow him to say. Tyki remains upright on the cushioned bench, posture relaxing somewhat into a slouch.]
The god we serve isn't around us in any material sense, and I can't say we practice any particular rituals... I guess I'd start by praying to you. [Idly thoughtful, Tyki's finger taps the edge of his glass.] But I've known some methods more involved, with priests or similar figureheads in positions of authority. I could wash your feet, massage your body, comb your hair. [He looks at Set, at an angle.] Or I could give you gifts. Most aligned with the Church [the slightest, barest grimace] want money, but I'm not sure about you. Maybe a sacrifice?