Dorian takes a drink of his gin, more to kill time than to do anything else. He's mulling this all over in his head, trying to decide what to say next and how to say it.
"There are always new stories," he points out. "The current stories might be about Sweeney, the miserable drunk, but give it enough time and things might shift to Sweeney, still drunk but less miserable. It's still you. It's still your nature. Just...shifted, somewhat."
Sweeney takes umbrage with being called a miserable drunk. While he is both of those things, they're not mutually inclusive. Besides, before the last few days and this fucking conversation, he had been getting better on both fronts.
Also, he hates that fucking name. Adding insult to fucking injury. Fucking English cunts.
"An' that's my fuckin' point." He rolls his eyes shut and taps his ash.
"Seems if things keep on course, I'll have at least three new stories e'ery year. More if the Floods have anythin' else ta say 'bout it." Like the last one and that fucking Frenchie.
"So what? You're more than your stories," Dorian points out, with a little shake of his head. "If you were entirely dependent on your stories, if you were always something that someone else had made you, the Admiral wouldn't bring you here to begin with."
"Oh, I'm certain that part is because he's an idiot," Dorian says, without any hesitation.
"I mean, think about it. Why the hell would you put someone through all this nonsense if you want them to change themselves? I know the Admiral won't outright say so, but I suspect the man simply can't drive."
"Never attribute to malice what stupidity can perfectly solve on it's own," Dorian points out, with an annoyed little sigh. "Very few people in the universe are out and out cunts. A grand majority of them are goddamn idiots. Also, he's not a god."
His brow lifts at the audacity of the man's words. It's immediate announces that this prick has clearly not spent his extended life in service, specifically to one such cunt god. Sweeney's not gonna argue that a grand majority of folk are idiots. He knows that damn well; he's staring at one.
"How ya know he ain't a god? He tell ya on that intro pamphlet?"
"Gods have much better things to do with their time than worry exclusively about fifty or so people," Dorian says, with a cavalier little shrug. Because they do! Worrying exclusively about fifty or so people, at least in Dorian's mind, is an entirely human thing. Or, at least, a not-god-like thing. He's not going to outright assume the Admiral's human.
Sweeney can't suppress a laugh, short and sharp. He rolls his eyes and takes a drag.
"Met a lotta gods then, have ya?" Clearly, he hasn't.
"Lots are starvin' fer whate'er they can come by in the way of belief. They run diners an' factories an' fuckin' mortuaries. It doesn't take many folk if they believe hard 'nough. Like say, a boat fulla folk that turn ta him fer every fuckin' scrap they need."
"They run diners and factories and mortuaries in your world," Dorian points out. "It seems a bit silly to assume that everything here runs on the same sort of logic as where you're from."
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"There are always new stories," he points out. "The current stories might be about Sweeney, the miserable drunk, but give it enough time and things might shift to Sweeney, still drunk but less miserable. It's still you. It's still your nature. Just...shifted, somewhat."
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Also, he hates that fucking name. Adding insult to fucking injury. Fucking English cunts.
"An' that's my fuckin' point." He rolls his eyes shut and taps his ash.
"Seems if things keep on course, I'll have at least three new stories e'ery year. More if the Floods have anythin' else ta say 'bout it." Like the last one and that fucking Frenchie.
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He takes a drag, his eyes fixed on Dorian.
"That so then?" Are you fucking kidding me? "Then why does he keep shovin' more stories in, if he just wants me ta make my own?"
Sweeney's very curious about his thoughts on the matter.
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"I mean, think about it. Why the hell would you put someone through all this nonsense if you want them to change themselves? I know the Admiral won't outright say so, but I suspect the man simply can't drive."
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"'Cause he's a cunt, like any other god." He releases the rest of his smoke with a roll of his eyes.
"Kid with an ant farm, lettin' us build 'til he gets bored an' shakes the fuckin' thing."
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"How ya know he ain't a god? He tell ya on that intro pamphlet?"
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"Met a lotta gods then, have ya?" Clearly, he hasn't.
"Lots are starvin' fer whate'er they can come by in the way of belief. They run diners an' factories an' fuckin' mortuaries. It doesn't take many folk if they believe hard 'nough. Like say, a boat fulla folk that turn ta him fer every fuckin' scrap they need."
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"Sure. But yer bein' the same sorta shit ta assume that it doesn't." Sweeney takes a drag, his eyes lingering on Dorian.
"You tell me what ya think he is then."
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"When ya say 'a person', whad'ya mean? A human?" Lots of folk around here would classify as 'people'. No reason to assume.