"Truly?" Myr's tone is one of curious wonder rather than incredulity. "I know there's a cult of the Maker or two that has something like that as doctrine--but the Chant is explicit that after Making mankind, He wished to see what we'd make of ourselves and the world He had given us. How we'd grow out of the 'opposition in all things' He declared for it."
Growing through hardship and leaving the world a better place than one found it were sacred acts, for Myr. He's maybe not representative of Andrastians generally, but that's hardly heterodox to their beliefs.
He...breathes out, slowly, (is there a Maker's breath hidden in the outrushing sigh?) at Lahabrea's proffered explanation. If he'd had cause to question his instincts about the sort of creature he was dealing with, here, he's definitely discarded it now. At least his hair-trigger response to things that fit the "demon" mold has attenuated in Aefenglom, with time and painful experience. Still...
"It may well be," he finally says. "Not all of the Chant is meant to be taken literally, and not all of it was copied forward as well as we'd like. There may be truth about the spirits that we've lost over the Ages, that gives a clearer picture of how the demons came to be. But I do still trust the Maker Made them, just as He Made us--even if, perhaps..."
He trails off, stacking gourds audibly in his basket as he turns the thought over in his mind. The Chantry had scapegoated and erased elves from the Chant over mortal politics--they'd docked Shartan's ears and relegated him to a mere title in Andraste's own Canticle. What could that mean for spirits, or demons?
"...we don't understand them so well as we should." Maker, forgive me for entertaining these ideas, and whatever it might mean should I return to the Fade after.
He balances a final gourd in the basket and sets it aside. "Are your kind hunted, then, whenever mortals find you out?" It's a little bit of a gruesome--and maybe invasive--thing to ask a new acquaintance, but given how demons were regarded on Thedas...it's a logical leap.
One that leaps him right away from considering uncomfortable things about spirits at length.
no subject
Growing through hardship and leaving the world a better place than one found it were sacred acts, for Myr. He's maybe not representative of Andrastians generally, but that's hardly heterodox to their beliefs.
He...breathes out, slowly, (is there a Maker's breath hidden in the outrushing sigh?) at Lahabrea's proffered explanation. If he'd had cause to question his instincts about the sort of creature he was dealing with, here, he's definitely discarded it now. At least his hair-trigger response to things that fit the "demon" mold has attenuated in Aefenglom, with time and painful experience. Still...
"It may well be," he finally says. "Not all of the Chant is meant to be taken literally, and not all of it was copied forward as well as we'd like. There may be truth about the spirits that we've lost over the Ages, that gives a clearer picture of how the demons came to be. But I do still trust the Maker Made them, just as He Made us--even if, perhaps..."
He trails off, stacking gourds audibly in his basket as he turns the thought over in his mind. The Chantry had scapegoated and erased elves from the Chant over mortal politics--they'd docked Shartan's ears and relegated him to a mere title in Andraste's own Canticle. What could that mean for spirits, or demons?
"...we don't understand them so well as we should." Maker, forgive me for entertaining these ideas, and whatever it might mean should I return to the Fade after.
He balances a final gourd in the basket and sets it aside. "Are your kind hunted, then, whenever mortals find you out?" It's a little bit of a gruesome--and maybe invasive--thing to ask a new acquaintance, but given how demons were regarded on Thedas...it's a logical leap.
One that leaps him right away from considering uncomfortable things about spirits at length.