[That exploratory touch is enough to take his breath, and Tyki is at odds with it, at once disliking his own discomposure while remaining in a state of wondrous appreciation for Set's existence. Then again, he's used to the dichotomy of his interior self. Even if these days it seems to slip, more and more, from his grasp.
But it will be Tyki who goes to meet Set, not Joyd, traveling as he's directed with confident ease. It really isn't much different than how he once traversed by guidance of the Ark; Kenos isn't so large, and the image in his mind is solid. He finds that dim, shadowy establishment with the ease of one who chooses such similar locations for his own entertainment.
Well, he used to.
The god in the flesh is no less stunning, and Tyki is grateful to have changed since crawling out of the ground — dressed in sleek, European fashionwear meant for an aristocrat, black hair pulled back in a loose tie at the nape of his neck. It is not so long as it once was, but still enough to require maintenance, raked back to display a dark, smiling face. Unlike with everyone else he's encountered, Tyki does not conceal the scarred crown of crosses across his forehead.]
So here you are. [There's a narrow doorway into the room draped with sheer silks, which Tyki brushes gently aside to enter. And Set will sense, or see in phantom quality, the black shadow he brings with him — Joyd always that ominous burden, like an extra smile on Tyki's face, but warped and fanged and stretched too wide. Tyki closes his eyes; the moment passes, Joyd fades.] Somehow, this does suit you.
no subject
But it will be Tyki who goes to meet Set, not Joyd, traveling as he's directed with confident ease. It really isn't much different than how he once traversed by guidance of the Ark; Kenos isn't so large, and the image in his mind is solid. He finds that dim, shadowy establishment with the ease of one who chooses such similar locations for his own entertainment.
Well, he used to.
The god in the flesh is no less stunning, and Tyki is grateful to have changed since crawling out of the ground — dressed in sleek, European fashionwear meant for an aristocrat, black hair pulled back in a loose tie at the nape of his neck. It is not so long as it once was, but still enough to require maintenance, raked back to display a dark, smiling face. Unlike with everyone else he's encountered, Tyki does not conceal the scarred crown of crosses across his forehead.]
So here you are. [There's a narrow doorway into the room draped with sheer silks, which Tyki brushes gently aside to enter. And Set will sense, or see in phantom quality, the black shadow he brings with him — Joyd always that ominous burden, like an extra smile on Tyki's face, but warped and fanged and stretched too wide. Tyki closes his eyes; the moment passes, Joyd fades.] Somehow, this does suit you.