[ Set does not look away from the device, though his dark lashes may have lowered just a fraction. His minders were outside, checking the placements of the sentinels, making certain there was enough firepower to keep an intruder at least at bay for the moment it would take to alert the gods. Ready to fight and to die, the only thing Set had ever demanded of them.

He does speak with Thoth, and his voice is the wind that wraps around those who travel long into the night across a land so vast it makes a man know his true place in the world, helping to turn those pages. It is not the beast who crept at the edge, the exile and the ugliness of men, but the one who brandished the blade to cut the head off that which would devour the Sun, the one who raised the ladder and ushered wayward souls to their rightful place. The Old tongue is an old robe and he does not falter, lilting in some places, growling in others. He gives this to Thoth, this bit of order in trade for his chaos. It is the balance.

His eyes scan the screen hungrily, taking in the battle which was soon to come. Grigori? Nothing. Belial didn't look like much on the screen either, but there were three gods on his tail and he was shaking them admirably. He restrains a snort, seeing the corpses of old souls pooling out of Jerusalem, echoing the cadre of pharaohs in the museum. ]

Our lives, left in the hands of the Greeks and the Hebrews, Thoth. Are you content with that? Overkill may be better than no kill.

[ Says the arms dealer, the one who not only dismembered his brother, but scattered the pieces of him as far as they could be flung. ]