( the mental and emotional scope of mortals — and those that are formerly mortal, in this case — will always be limited by their feeble sensibilities of responsibility and morality. it's why, filtered through him as its active extension, the Eye is not only very limited but also strongly directed by john as its avatar. as much as it would likely love nothing else than to seize a complete hold over him and dictate his actions purely to its own betterment, it can do little more than nudge and restrain; its twin powers of the "carrot" and the "stick" wax and wane with its fleeting attention (as in: with how much he keeps it fed and satiated), but they are the full extent with which it can overlay a more eldritch mindset over john's own. a disappointment, perhaps. when a man is posed with the moral quandary of choosing between thousands of lives or that of a parent, a child, a friend, a lover, they would be naturally predisposed towards choosing what is illogical: the one over the many, regardless of the cost. one might consider it a beautiful flaw, a lovely mutation of social evolution.
from john's perspective, he is making the hard choice — the choice that few people would make — in leaving his world behind to slump into what he hoped was a peaceful Oblivion. though, yes, he would admit that his own prerogative at gathering the shards of those he felt closest to, the most responsible for, was being performed due to his own human weakness.
regarding rudbeckia de borgia, he feels as though he cannot expect any better response from set on the matter. he doesn't comment on it, even though there's something in having what he chooses to do being called "ideologically righteous" when he feels anything but — when he feels more and more that the only way he can correctly identify himself as is "evil" by extension, regardless of how much he personally wishes to be anything but. it had wounded him deeply when set had questioned his nature and his dependability not because he felt it was inaccurate, but because he feared that might end up being the case — especially away from a place like this, where the Eye's influence felt more even distant than normal.
truthfully, he tires of set's presence, but there's nothing more he can do to send him away. he weathers his words in unhappy silence, head bowed. the only thing he can think to be grateful for is that he is not egregiously delusional about either john's ideological convictions or how he feels about them, even if the level of his deific grandeur makes john feel embarrassed after the fact about how grandiloquently he might have gone off about certain things in the past.
he would have been happy to let him speak himself to a point of contentment and then wander off to whatever next would capture his capricious attention.
but he just had to press him.
john goes perfectly still, his jaw setting. indignant anger rekindles in the hearth of his chest, and he tries to keep it down. he wants to say nothing. he wants set to leave him to the heaviness of his own thoughts, now with little more to do than to wait for the Oracle's judgment. but he can't. he pushes him, and perhaps set does it knowingly, and if that's the case john is darkly furious to dance at the end of the strings he pulls upon.
slowly, the Archivist raises his head, dark eyes looking up to the war god through a few strands of hair that have fallen across his face. they seem to have their own gravitational force, hungrily drawing in light and attention and knowledge and all out to their crushing and infinite depths. )
You would allow me?
( something dangerous stirs within the timbre of the Archivist's voice, like the enormous darkened shape of a leviathan stirring in the deep; his eyes might be the source of his power, but his voice is application of it. he might not be able to compel here, but even still, a bizarre sensory distortion seems to creep into his words, warbling on a frequency just beyond the range of what one can feasibly hear, dull in its insistent mental pressure. )
You condescend to me about the quaintness of what I choose to do, only to deign offer me an alternative that would likely only infect another world with the same fate as mine? ( the gloom of the cavern is already pervasive, but now it feels oppressive, roiling with something animate and unknowable. ) Do not insult me, Set.
no subject
from john's perspective, he is making the hard choice — the choice that few people would make — in leaving his world behind to slump into what he hoped was a peaceful Oblivion. though, yes, he would admit that his own prerogative at gathering the shards of those he felt closest to, the most responsible for, was being performed due to his own human weakness.
regarding rudbeckia de borgia, he feels as though he cannot expect any better response from set on the matter. he doesn't comment on it, even though there's something in having what he chooses to do being called "ideologically righteous" when he feels anything but — when he feels more and more that the only way he can correctly identify himself as is "evil" by extension, regardless of how much he personally wishes to be anything but. it had wounded him deeply when set had questioned his nature and his dependability not because he felt it was inaccurate, but because he feared that might end up being the case — especially away from a place like this, where the Eye's influence felt more even distant than normal.
truthfully, he tires of set's presence, but there's nothing more he can do to send him away. he weathers his words in unhappy silence, head bowed. the only thing he can think to be grateful for is that he is not egregiously delusional about either john's ideological convictions or how he feels about them, even if the level of his deific grandeur makes john feel embarrassed after the fact about how grandiloquently he might have gone off about certain things in the past.
he would have been happy to let him speak himself to a point of contentment and then wander off to whatever next would capture his capricious attention.
but he just had to press him.
john goes perfectly still, his jaw setting. indignant anger rekindles in the hearth of his chest, and he tries to keep it down. he wants to say nothing. he wants set to leave him to the heaviness of his own thoughts, now with little more to do than to wait for the Oracle's judgment. but he can't. he pushes him, and perhaps set does it knowingly, and if that's the case john is darkly furious to dance at the end of the strings he pulls upon.
slowly, the Archivist raises his head, dark eyes looking up to the war god through a few strands of hair that have fallen across his face. they seem to have their own gravitational force, hungrily drawing in light and attention and knowledge and all out to their crushing and infinite depths. )
You would allow me?
( something dangerous stirs within the timbre of the Archivist's voice, like the enormous darkened shape of a leviathan stirring in the deep; his eyes might be the source of his power, but his voice is application of it. he might not be able to compel here, but even still, a bizarre sensory distortion seems to creep into his words, warbling on a frequency just beyond the range of what one can feasibly hear, dull in its insistent mental pressure. )
You condescend to me about the quaintness of what I choose to do, only to deign offer me an alternative that would likely only infect another world with the same fate as mine? ( the gloom of the cavern is already pervasive, but now it feels oppressive, roiling with something animate and unknowable. ) Do not insult me, Set.