I like to imagine Him with His arms crossed and His chin jutting out, while He refuses to look at us.
[ Like a spoiled toddler, you know.
And sooner or later, over drinks or cards or a walk, Bastien will come for all of those unfamiliar words–gith and dragonborn and drow and illithid. And what about the magic, and what about the demons, and how do the ships soar, and why is it called Toril, and why would it be in the sky?
I spent two hundred years chained to the cruelest bastard imaginable, adoring him as if he were the sun itself, hating him as if he were every bit the monster he was.
[His inhale is sharp. Pointed.]
I did my begging. My weeping. Said my prayers in the dark, and for what.
[There's no such thing as heroism. No divine mercy. No white knights on horseback charging in to slay dragons.]
No one ever came.
[And then, with a milder scoff. The weariest start of a more humorous tone:]
Some people believe a lot of things, darling. Doesn't make them any less stupid.
[His mood is better and worse now; amused and spiteful all at once, like he cant decide where to settle. Instead, he simply claws.]
In Toril, it was hard not to know the gods were...around, so to speak. Granted some of them were for the simpler things, so the bar was a bit low when you delve into the idea that some overpowered immortal was in charge of something as simple as making babies or— oh I don't know, painlessly pissing. But unlike your Maker and his Black City—
Mm. Gold? No— black now.
[He's transparent in his feigned confusion. Teasing.]
They did leave their marks. Have their wars. Granted I never saw either them or their own aspects for myself, so I can't tell you I shook a wolf-god's hand or watched a divine aspect personally char the flesh from a thousand bodies, but...
It was different.
[A beat, before:]
And because of it, you know, personally, each time they decide to fuck you over.
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no subject
[ Like a spoiled toddler, you know.
And sooner or later, over drinks or cards or a walk, Bastien will come for all of those unfamiliar words–gith and dragonborn and drow and illithid. And what about the magic, and what about the demons, and how do the ships soar, and why is it called Toril, and why would it be in the sky?
For now: ]
Did a god shut you out?
no subject
[His inhale is sharp. Pointed.]
I did my begging. My weeping. Said my prayers in the dark, and for what.
[There's no such thing as heroism. No divine mercy. No white knights on horseback charging in to slay dragons.]
No one ever came.
[And then, with a milder scoff. The weariest start of a more humorous tone:]
Not until this mess of a world, anyway.
no subject
[ And unsatiated. What he wants to know is if there was a meddling god before all of that—but now it seems cruel to ask.
For a few seconds he's silent, and then he says, ]
I have heard that some people believe the Maker is sending you to us, to help.
no subject
Some people believe a lot of things, darling. Doesn't make them any less stupid.
[His mood is better and worse now; amused and spiteful all at once, like he cant decide where to settle. Instead, he simply claws.]
In Toril, it was hard not to know the gods were...around, so to speak. Granted some of them were for the simpler things, so the bar was a bit low when you delve into the idea that some overpowered immortal was in charge of something as simple as making babies or— oh I don't know, painlessly pissing. But unlike your Maker and his Black City—
Mm. Gold? No— black now.
[He's transparent in his feigned confusion. Teasing.]
They did leave their marks. Have their wars. Granted I never saw either them or their own aspects for myself, so I can't tell you I shook a wolf-god's hand or watched a divine aspect personally char the flesh from a thousand bodies, but...
It was different.
[A beat, before:]
And because of it, you know, personally, each time they decide to fuck you over.