Desertification

[strong_one]

Set makes camp in Theoi in typical fashion: gusts of wind, lightning, sandstorm. A few acres, unprotected by any other god, wither and burn. When he has seared the land to his liking, Set walks through his new territory. That would be a good spot for a tent. And that, that would be a good spot for a door to the underworld.

He doesn't like long

Comments

[cold_hope]

Nadezhda is a lot thinner than she was yesterday, and hollow-eyed, and is holding a bottle of something spirituous.

She's in the mood to not think too hard.

[cold_hope]

That's adorable, watching a wuffly-nosed god eat lettuce. She smiles, and drinks her sherry. "Nah, 's okay. You enjoy them. --You should braid your hair. It's very good hair."

[strong_one]

Lettuce was an aphrodisiac! Set eats it every day. With limited success.

"You think so? I dunno, it seems kinda...kinda gay, you know?"

[cold_hope]

Must've been some interestin' lettuce. It doesn't seem to be working on the witch.

"...Think of all those extraordinarily virile American Indians who went around with braided hair, hmm? Not in the least homosexual. Here, let me."

She runs her fingers through his hair, the nails careful not to hurt. There's a lot of it.

[strong_one]

"Well....yeah...yeah, the Indians are okay." He nibbles on another lettuce leaf. The Egyptian kind was long and thin and stiff and oozed a white sap. But he'll take what he can get.

"That feels really nice." He's perking up a little, and thinking that maybe just one little more drink would be good.

[cold_hope]

Sounds more like dandelions. But she would recognize the allusion.

She fingercombs through the long dark mass of Set's hair and then deftly braids it in a single tail down his back. "There. Very nice."

She drinks from the bottle again, and hands it over. "Cheers."

[strong_one]

He turns his head, squirming, trying in vain to see his braid. "Iss not girly? Iss more like a, a sailor or an Indian?" Yeah, a sailor. Sailors are manly.

Set takes the bottle and slurps from it. "Ahhhhh. Thasthe good stuff." He'd probably say that about anything from Veuve Cliquot to Blue Nun.

[cold_hope]

He reminds her of colleagues she has known, around the bottom of the bottle of firewhisky. She puts a friendly arm around his shoulders. "That's right. Sailor-Indian braid, and it'll stay out of your face. Cheer up, Set, and happy housewarming."

[strong_one]

"Thanks." His head flops forward onto his arms, and his eyes close.

Snuffle.

((I gotta go for now; catch you later!))

[cold_hope]

She chuckles, and sits back with the bottle, yawning. Yeah. Things could be worse.