Marinero chuckles at her reversing his words. Clear is right, and for a moment Marinero does just take the time to enjoy his food, but after that he begins again, having pondered her question.
He's old, he's sure she's noticed. Perhaps to an Elf or a dwarf he really is young, but for an Animalian, he's quite old. In his youth, technomancy had not advanced to the state it was. In the youth of the oldest elves, magic was not presented as they now understand it. There are things that are provably extant now that Marinero could never have imagined existed when he was younger, and yet, they were there.
It would be unwise of him, then, to suggest there is any concept that he knows for sure does not exist. He believes in a very specific fate, though, he'll admit. He doesn't believe that fate is a storyline that everyone must abide to, that lives can be prewritten.
"As Isthus weaves her yarn, does she know what tapestry she weaves?" he asks, which to someone new to Faerun's gods may not sound like much, but Marinero barrels on. He speaks of it in the abstract, anyway; as he continues it's clear his example of Fate as a god is just for illustration.
He doesn't think that Isthus or any other being is aware of Fate's true shape. Fate is simply a clay shaped by the forces that reach out to it. You can't control who or what reaches their hand in on the pottery wheel, but you have control of your own hand, and each way you choose to touch that clay— or to not touch it— influences its form.
no subject
He's old, he's sure she's noticed. Perhaps to an Elf or a dwarf he really is young, but for an Animalian, he's quite old. In his youth, technomancy had not advanced to the state it was. In the youth of the oldest elves, magic was not presented as they now understand it. There are things that are provably extant now that Marinero could never have imagined existed when he was younger, and yet, they were there.
It would be unwise of him, then, to suggest there is any concept that he knows for sure does not exist. He believes in a very specific fate, though, he'll admit. He doesn't believe that fate is a storyline that everyone must abide to, that lives can be prewritten.
"As Isthus weaves her yarn, does she know what tapestry she weaves?" he asks, which to someone new to Faerun's gods may not sound like much, but Marinero barrels on. He speaks of it in the abstract, anyway; as he continues it's clear his example of Fate as a god is just for illustration.
He doesn't think that Isthus or any other being is aware of Fate's true shape. Fate is simply a clay shaped by the forces that reach out to it. You can't control who or what reaches their hand in on the pottery wheel, but you have control of your own hand, and each way you choose to touch that clay— or to not touch it— influences its form.