"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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"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.