[ Even in communion, in this pseudo-language, it's mocking, and derisive. Quetz can probably imagine that Silco punctuates the word, like it's a disdainful little thing. The word is conveyed ironically, like polishing a scrap from the garbage, or holding up moldy bread in victory of finding a meal from the refuse. It's all like that with him. All of that ugliness, all of that garbage and filth, rot and poison, it's all a part of him, and it's easy to see where it comes from. A legacy of rot and scrambling just to not end up at the bottom of the garbage heap, and if one was able to do enough? They'd make it to the top.
Of that same garbage heap. ]
Sympathy. Precious. I don't believe this nonsense you keep spouting.
[ It's true, really. Quetz at least dodges this mine, she doesn't say anything about these odd memories, or the fervent protection or anger that seems to flow through him as much as blood does. Did. It doesn't help that she wants to call him "precious" or "protect him", even while this vast, unknowable thing that is the god before his shard, accepts his violence as if it's nothing. As if she would do that were he not a threat to her! (He has not forgotten his hand, or that feral smile of hers when she cut it off.) ]
You understand nothing about what I'm doing. I don't care what you assume will happen to me. I don't care about Meridian, or your worlds, and you would do best to understand that.
If you fail to take me seriously, you'll find it is not I who is gone.
[ It's a threat, actually. He doesn't care about his soul. What was that? A meaningless, metaphysical thing. A manifestation of... something? Nothing? It's not quantifiable. It's not numbers. What were souls to Zaunites, who had barely anything to their names β hell, how many of them had last names? Families? β it was difficult to explain the concept of Zaun's hunger for legitimacy, is it so wonder so many from this underground space are so broken?
Is it a wonder that Quetzalcoatl's overtures are met with derision and suspicion? That metaphysical ideas mean so little, when they have nothing of the sort? ]
no subject
[ Even in communion, in this pseudo-language, it's mocking, and derisive. Quetz can probably imagine that Silco punctuates the word, like it's a disdainful little thing. The word is conveyed ironically, like polishing a scrap from the garbage, or holding up moldy bread in victory of finding a meal from the refuse. It's all like that with him. All of that ugliness, all of that garbage and filth, rot and poison, it's all a part of him, and it's easy to see where it comes from. A legacy of rot and scrambling just to not end up at the bottom of the garbage heap, and if one was able to do enough? They'd make it to the top.
Of that same garbage heap. ]
Sympathy. Precious. I don't believe this nonsense you keep spouting.
[ It's true, really. Quetz at least dodges this mine, she doesn't say anything about these odd memories, or the fervent protection or anger that seems to flow through him as much as blood does. Did. It doesn't help that she wants to call him "precious" or "protect him", even while this vast, unknowable thing that is the god before his shard, accepts his violence as if it's nothing. As if she would do that were he not a threat to her! (He has not forgotten his hand, or that feral smile of hers when she cut it off.) ]
You understand nothing about what I'm doing. I don't care what you assume will happen to me. I don't care about Meridian, or your worlds, and you would do best to understand that.
If you fail to take me seriously, you'll find it is not I who is gone.
[ It's a threat, actually. He doesn't care about his soul. What was that? A meaningless, metaphysical thing. A manifestation of... something? Nothing? It's not quantifiable. It's not numbers. What were souls to Zaunites, who had barely anything to their names β hell, how many of them had last names? Families? β it was difficult to explain the concept of Zaun's hunger for legitimacy, is it so wonder so many from this underground space are so broken?
Is it a wonder that Quetzalcoatl's overtures are met with derision and suspicion? That metaphysical ideas mean so little, when they have nothing of the sort? ]