[ Silco appraised him from above, stood there, with one unblinking eye, appraised the man below him. He spoke of divinity, but he had a scar on his head, and it rest there, angry, and it looked painful. He had never heard of a god to be so mortal as to take damage, but then again, Silco's experience with gods is the sort of careful derision of someone who believed deeply that his fate was his own, and of his own making.
After all, what god would allow a place like Zaun to be in the form it is? Poor, starving, slowly choked out by the fissures and pollution, to the point that clean air is a luxury. Even here, in a garden like this, Silco hated the way it felt, like there was no acrid zest to life, like suffering wasn't a part of every waking moment. That those in Piltover lived like this every day infuriated him. It made him angry, because he'd never known anything else to life. ]
I do not think you understand. Our worlds, beyond whatever lie Cyrus has told you, are gone. He promises to remake them, but in what way would they be remade? Based on our own perceptions? Based on what we see as good?
Can they remain like that? [ Silco knew that Zaun was the product of the world he'd been in. Centuries of being less. ] Can you perfectly recreate every event, every facet that made your world like it is? Can you guarantee that something as chaotic, wild, and free as a place with free will and wild abandon can be replicated, down to the last detail?
[ He scoffed. ] Perhaps it is that I am a mere mortal, but I would rather my home exist in perfection, than try to recreate a sad, rose-colored falsehood. Instead, the rest of these worlds can burn, for the insult that none are quite like my Zaun. Nothing can ever compare, and I will not insult it by holding on to a nice little promise, that has no hope of becoming reality.
[ Silco was hard, perhaps. Cold. He loved Zaun, it had been his dream to see it come to fruition. He was also, however, all too used to letting dreams, and weak men, die in the water. ]
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After all, what god would allow a place like Zaun to be in the form it is? Poor, starving, slowly choked out by the fissures and pollution, to the point that clean air is a luxury. Even here, in a garden like this, Silco hated the way it felt, like there was no acrid zest to life, like suffering wasn't a part of every waking moment. That those in Piltover lived like this every day infuriated him. It made him angry, because he'd never known anything else to life. ]
I do not think you understand. Our worlds, beyond whatever lie Cyrus has told you, are gone. He promises to remake them, but in what way would they be remade? Based on our own perceptions? Based on what we see as good?
Can they remain like that? [ Silco knew that Zaun was the product of the world he'd been in. Centuries of being less. ] Can you perfectly recreate every event, every facet that made your world like it is? Can you guarantee that something as chaotic, wild, and free as a place with free will and wild abandon can be replicated, down to the last detail?
[ He scoffed. ] Perhaps it is that I am a mere mortal, but I would rather my home exist in perfection, than try to recreate a sad, rose-colored falsehood. Instead, the rest of these worlds can burn, for the insult that none are quite like my Zaun. Nothing can ever compare, and I will not insult it by holding on to a nice little promise, that has no hope of becoming reality.
[ Silco was hard, perhaps. Cold. He loved Zaun, it had been his dream to see it come to fruition. He was also, however, all too used to letting dreams, and weak men, die in the water. ]