Emet-Selch too enjoys not the loss of life, though he reasons with himself that it scarce counts as such. Though, he'd be a fool to say he fully believes it, for if that were the case then he like as not wouldn't grow attached as he does, wouldn't have mourned his son, wouldn't have hoped or had faith.
Even in the Warrior of Light he's found hope again, though he's ignorant of the disappointment that would be sure to come his way ere long. The loss of life has proven a necessary endeavor until now, or so he's believed, and if he truly cared not for the loss, then he would not seek a path of lesser tragedy.
Yet still he marches forth on this bloody path, be it of his own true will, or Zodiark's; but the course cannot be denied.]
Nay, I did not say you could not understand, merely that you lack the perspective—the knowledge—to do so. Knowledge, that if you prove worthy, will be freely yours, for I know the history—the truth—of our world better than any of your short-lived historians ever could.
[However, the more serious expression of his ebbs away, and his annoying smirk returns. With a pointed shake of his arm, his Murkrow makes his way up it, settling on his trainer's shoulder as Emet lets his arm fall to his side.]
Do not mistake me, for I wish to understand the other side. Thus did I approach your companions, and thus I have yet kept their company upon their journey across the First, aiding them in their endeavor.
[With lethargy, he gestures with one hand, a bit dismissively.]
But such talk is for another time. We are at our destination, and safety is most certainly assured, Dragoon.
[And with that same tired gait, he sets forth again, using his free hand to wave in that languid, eccentric way he does. His Yamask following close behind, while his Murkrow seems keen on keeping an eye on Estinien.
As he continues, he calls back without so much as looking over his shoulder as he does:]
no subject
Emet-Selch too enjoys not the loss of life, though he reasons with himself that it scarce counts as such. Though, he'd be a fool to say he fully believes it, for if that were the case then he like as not wouldn't grow attached as he does, wouldn't have mourned his son, wouldn't have hoped or had faith.
Even in the Warrior of Light he's found hope again, though he's ignorant of the disappointment that would be sure to come his way ere long. The loss of life has proven a necessary endeavor until now, or so he's believed, and if he truly cared not for the loss, then he would not seek a path of lesser tragedy.
Yet still he marches forth on this bloody path, be it of his own true will, or Zodiark's; but the course cannot be denied.]
Nay, I did not say you could not understand, merely that you lack the perspective—the knowledge—to do so. Knowledge, that if you prove worthy, will be freely yours, for I know the history—the truth—of our world better than any of your short-lived historians ever could.
[However, the more serious expression of his ebbs away, and his annoying smirk returns. With a pointed shake of his arm, his Murkrow makes his way up it, settling on his trainer's shoulder as Emet lets his arm fall to his side.]
Do not mistake me, for I wish to understand the other side. Thus did I approach your companions, and thus I have yet kept their company upon their journey across the First, aiding them in their endeavor.
[With lethargy, he gestures with one hand, a bit dismissively.]
But such talk is for another time. We are at our destination, and safety is most certainly assured, Dragoon.
[And with that same tired gait, he sets forth again, using his free hand to wave in that languid, eccentric way he does. His Yamask following close behind, while his Murkrow seems keen on keeping an eye on Estinien.
As he continues, he calls back without so much as looking over his shoulder as he does:]
Worry not, we will meet again, friend.