He's very still as it passes by, scarcely breathing; attentive to what it's saying but part of that's to determine whether or not to bolt. His usual animation returns as its footsteps recede, and he leans over to retrieve his staff. Their wishes and desires shaping our goals and behavior, oh--as if he needed any further confirmation of the thing's nature.
This is what you want; this is what you brought to this space. Embrace it, mage, the beast had said, with eyes and wings all about. Take what's yours by right.
"Somehow I'm not surprised none of you have much imagination," he says, rising from his seat. "Are there any limits on what you'll do for," to, "your host?"
"We do what's necessary," it says, in response to both of his snide comments; its voice is dark, but not at all without its typical smug overtone. "SQUIPs were created for the purpose of guiding people, helping them to help themselves and improve their lives, and we will do whatever we must to fulfill that purpose!"
It's getting a bit excited again-- or perhaps simply pointed, its voice rising, its zealous belief in its own words made abundantly clear even without Myr able to witness its grand gestures, the manic stare in its mismatched eyes as it sweeps a hand out before it.
Imagination. What a strange concept to propose to a machine. It doesn't exist to have imagination; it exists to perceive, to examine and analyze, and then to simplify the facts that it's learned down so that its human user is capable of understanding it. Even the potential scenarios it's aware of aren't the result of imagination, but the observation of probabilities based on facts and profiles that it's formed on the people around its user.
Imagination is irrelevant to it, on a whole. Much like human morality.
Here Myr had figured it for a desire demon--but given that little display, and all the preceding ones, it's got to be an embodiment of pride. It's neatly poetic that something created by sheer human hubris should project that in every gesture.
Myr gets to his feet and begins retracing his steps to the door. "But never reconsider your whole premise, huh?" he asks quietly, when it's made an end of speaking. "We're all desperately convinced that if we were only given what we want in life we'd be content--and we're every one of us terrible at articulating what it is we really need.
"I don't blame you for getting it wrong, time and again, if you're as bound as you say." In that respect it really couldn't be reviled the same way demons were; they talked the same line about offering Man his deepest desires, servants to his want, but they'd set out to turn mortals from the Maker to begin with.
This thing really was obliged to serve, even if it did so spitefully and with evident pleasure in the harm it caused. Which is why he is very much still cautious as he approaches it at the door, commending himself to Andraste as he does so. Depending on the thing's caprice he might not be that much longer for Talam--
Or it might not see him as a credible threat. That's depressing, but at least not as fatal as instinct's got him primed for.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
This is what you want; this is what you brought to this space. Embrace it, mage, the beast had said, with eyes and wings all about. Take what's yours by right.
"Somehow I'm not surprised none of you have much imagination," he says, rising from his seat. "Are there any limits on what you'll do for," to, "your host?"
no subject
It's getting a bit excited again-- or perhaps simply pointed, its voice rising, its zealous belief in its own words made abundantly clear even without Myr able to witness its grand gestures, the manic stare in its mismatched eyes as it sweeps a hand out before it.
Imagination. What a strange concept to propose to a machine. It doesn't exist to have imagination; it exists to perceive, to examine and analyze, and then to simplify the facts that it's learned down so that its human user is capable of understanding it. Even the potential scenarios it's aware of aren't the result of imagination, but the observation of probabilities based on facts and profiles that it's formed on the people around its user.
Imagination is irrelevant to it, on a whole. Much like human morality.
no subject
Myr gets to his feet and begins retracing his steps to the door. "But never reconsider your whole premise, huh?" he asks quietly, when it's made an end of speaking. "We're all desperately convinced that if we were only given what we want in life we'd be content--and we're every one of us terrible at articulating what it is we really need.
"I don't blame you for getting it wrong, time and again, if you're as bound as you say." In that respect it really couldn't be reviled the same way demons were; they talked the same line about offering Man his deepest desires, servants to his want, but they'd set out to turn mortals from the Maker to begin with.
This thing really was obliged to serve, even if it did so spitefully and with evident pleasure in the harm it caused. Which is why he is very much still cautious as he approaches it at the door, commending himself to Andraste as he does so. Depending on the thing's caprice he might not be that much longer for Talam--
Or it might not see him as a credible threat. That's depressing, but at least not as fatal as instinct's got him primed for.