If the Solidor had but known the irony of such words having place with them both, that they are similar creatures yet again - how oft do the Angel's wings haunt him, how much he is loathe to admit they are so alike - disbelief, dissatisfaction. This could never be the answer he had sought in what seems like ages ago. The purpose of joining the science that built his world with the knowledge of those who persisted in it against the History-weavers had indeed only repeated itself, Vayne could see it written so plainly.
How so much they were alike. The draught is a bitter one.
The man does not feel rage, or really even disgust as he listens to the words Ajora pushes at him, tone simple, pleasing, almost questioning his own state of mind - the usual quandaries and dissatisfaction with the state of things, but he knows it is all for naught, he believes with each part of himself that the suffering they encounter can and will be combated when the truths of their world are laid bare - and not just for the nobles, well learned, the privileged who can only see one path because they do not fight and struggle as hume do. He feels only satisfaction, confident now, now he is upon a path he is pleased with.
A soft sigh escapes him and Vayne's feet adjust, shifting as though to pace. His shoulders droop and his eyes lid, for a moment perhaps appearing chastised.
Then up with his eyes once more, cold and lacking so much color the blue could be white. "And you would retain for only yourself this knowledge that to live is only to partake of suffering unrelenting? That man cannot learn the words in a prescribed book, cannot understand beyond their ken so thus any effort is...useless?" He looks...sorrowful, brows pinching, lips drawing thin. Then it is gone.
"Though Hume doth err, stumble on stiffened limbs, the path forged is strong, a chain that is secured to the clay that molds us;" - his hands move from his back, fingers uncurling, a single arm outstretching," the mirror is returned to you, priest, note well that though perhaps we may burn ourselves to immortal dust, it is hence the dust of ages past that have allowed us to grow aught." His eyes are gentle. "We shall suffer you, endure you, and live without you."
no subject
How so much they were alike. The draught is a bitter one.
The man does not feel rage, or really even disgust as he listens to the words Ajora pushes at him, tone simple, pleasing, almost questioning his own state of mind - the usual quandaries and dissatisfaction with the state of things, but he knows it is all for naught, he believes with each part of himself that the suffering they encounter can and will be combated when the truths of their world are laid bare - and not just for the nobles, well learned, the privileged who can only see one path because they do not fight and struggle as hume do. He feels only satisfaction, confident now, now he is upon a path he is pleased with.
A soft sigh escapes him and Vayne's feet adjust, shifting as though to pace. His shoulders droop and his eyes lid, for a moment perhaps appearing chastised.
Then up with his eyes once more, cold and lacking so much color the blue could be white. "And you would retain for only yourself this knowledge that to live is only to partake of suffering unrelenting? That man cannot learn the words in a prescribed book, cannot understand beyond their ken so thus any effort is...useless?" He looks...sorrowful, brows pinching, lips drawing thin. Then it is gone.
"Though Hume doth err, stumble on stiffened limbs, the path forged is strong, a chain that is secured to the clay that molds us;" - his hands move from his back, fingers uncurling, a single arm outstretching," the mirror is returned to you, priest, note well that though perhaps we may burn ourselves to immortal dust, it is hence the dust of ages past that have allowed us to grow aught." His eyes are gentle. "We shall suffer you, endure you, and live without you."