[He remembers. He remembers very clearly the first time he saw such an idea on the network — that time from Javert — and the moment Aunamee asked what sort of monster he was, as though he could divine Giorno's nature from that information like some kind of mystic. He finds it disgusting, for more reasons than one.]
The Fog God doesn't have access to our souls. She doesn't know what makes us. My personal opinion [not that it's particularly relevant, but since it's come up anyway] is that she knows just enough to give us a shape that will sting or soothe. Or one that she just finds funny. It's not nearly as deep as the people who spout that sort of thing would like you to believe.
[A pause. He leans back on his hands, folds his legs, sideswiping Maple with a root as he does so.]
You can eat them, you know. That's why I brought them.
. . . Anyway. While they're wrong about the Fog God's choices, the principle of it isn't totally off base. At home, some rare people have powers that you could call . . . an external representation of one's soul, is the best way I know to describe it. They don't tell all, but they might tell something. About someone's anger or regret or desires. Sometimes sad things, sometimes good, sometimes neutral.
[There's a pause, the space of a blink, and he looks up at her again with his wide, alien eyes.]
Mine was . . . creating living things. Creating life, and healing. Mista's— [He presses his lips together, aware he's already stomping on a line and pulling back from it. Even so, he can't help but smile. Abbacchio would be furious with him — or wouldn't; he wonders, on second thought, whether he'd like Riley a lot better than him.]
Mista's is [not was, never was] very representative. The kind of thing you could look at and recognize that the person you're talking to is kind at their center.
pistols icon because fuck you theyre cute
[He remembers. He remembers very clearly the first time he saw such an idea on the network — that time from Javert — and the moment Aunamee asked what sort of monster he was, as though he could divine Giorno's nature from that information like some kind of mystic. He finds it disgusting, for more reasons than one.]
The Fog God doesn't have access to our souls. She doesn't know what makes us. My personal opinion [not that it's particularly relevant, but since it's come up anyway] is that she knows just enough to give us a shape that will sting or soothe. Or one that she just finds funny. It's not nearly as deep as the people who spout that sort of thing would like you to believe.
[A pause. He leans back on his hands, folds his legs, sideswiping Maple with a root as he does so.]
You can eat them, you know. That's why I brought them.
. . . Anyway. While they're wrong about the Fog God's choices, the principle of it isn't totally off base. At home, some rare people have powers that you could call . . . an external representation of one's soul, is the best way I know to describe it. They don't tell all, but they might tell something. About someone's anger or regret or desires. Sometimes sad things, sometimes good, sometimes neutral.
[There's a pause, the space of a blink, and he looks up at her again with his wide, alien eyes.]
Mine was . . . creating living things. Creating life, and healing. Mista's— [He presses his lips together, aware he's already stomping on a line and pulling back from it. Even so, he can't help but smile. Abbacchio would be furious with him — or wouldn't; he wonders, on second thought, whether he'd like Riley a lot better than him.]
Mista's is [not was, never was] very representative. The kind of thing you could look at and recognize that the person you're talking to is kind at their center.