old-style gods, all wrath and thou shalt not.
“You know them?”
Dean brought in a tray with teapot, honey, cup, spoon. What? Usually he just handed me a mug ready to go. Was he kissing up?
Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are much alike.
“Oh, your head!” Dean said. He was looking straight down at the top of my conk. “No wonder you’re in a black mood. Don’t move. I’ll clean that up.” He bustled out.
Apparently your skull is as thick as I have claimed.
“Huh?”
Your head wound is worse than you realized.
“What did I say? The good news just piles up.” I reflected on what he had sent. “I got a question.”
Yes? I felt a mental smirk.
“Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed logic suggests they can’t exist. I believe you said ‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not provide that which is not needed.’”
That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities, outside the imaginations of those with the will to believe.
“Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You telling me they were scamming?”
That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer in her remarks.
Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my intellect.
Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor. She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn around.
“I’m a little woozy here, Chuckles. How’s about you just hand it to me this time?”
All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter, if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to exist.
“Ouch!” Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet rag. “You mean I wouldn’t have this dent in my head if somebody didn’t believe in the ugly boys?”
Essentially.
Dean asked, “Who sewed this up for you, Mr. Garrett?”
“Sewed what?” And to His Nibs, “But they exist on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me.”
Dean told me, “You have three... six... nine stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad.”
“No wonder I’m so weak. I thought it was a concussion.”
“Might be that, too.”
They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough, on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within the attributes assigned them.
“Careful!” I snapped at Dean. “That’s tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt. Ouch! Damnit!...”
“Don’t be such a pansy.”
“You aren’t digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory is absurd.”
Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.
“I’m just looking to see if there’s any infection,” Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.
I ignored him, told the Dead Man, “There you go splitting hairs.”
“Theory” is a much-abused word, particularly by those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett? To deal with your situation?
My situation. “I take it I need to worry in a big way.” When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.
I
“You know them?”
Dean brought in a tray with teapot, honey, cup, spoon. What? Usually he just handed me a mug ready to go. Was he kissing up?
Only by reputation. They have been marginal pantheons since the beginning, deities of ancient nomadic immigrants. Both religions were too cold and hard to win many converts. They are much alike.
“Oh, your head!” Dean said. He was looking straight down at the top of my conk. “No wonder you’re in a black mood. Don’t move. I’ll clean that up.” He bustled out.
Apparently your skull is as thick as I have claimed.
“Huh?”
Your head wound is worse than you realized.
“What did I say? The good news just piles up.” I reflected on what he had sent. “I got a question.”
Yes? I felt a mental smirk.
“Back when we dealt with that crazy Loghyr you told me Loghyr never found proof of the existence of any gods and claimed logic suggests they can’t exist. I believe you said ‘They are not necessary to explain anything. Nature does not provide that which is not needed.’”
That is correct. There is no concrete proof that any of the deities worshipped in this city exist as independent entities, outside the imaginations of those with the will to believe.
“Who tried to toss me through that coach door, then? You telling me they were scamming?”
That is a possibility deserving of examination. But to your question. For the sake of argument, your interlocuters were indeed Daiged, Rhogiro, and Ringo. Magodor gave you your answer in her remarks.
Oh boy. Here came my favorite part of our relationship, the part where he tries to expand my horizons by forcing me to expand my intellect.
Dean came back with our first aid stuff. I keep a good home medicine cabinet. For a while I had a girlfriend who was a doctor. She fixed me up because I seem to get dinged up every time I turn around.
“I’m a little woozy here, Chuckles. How’s about you just hand it to me this time?”
All the span is gone out of you, Garrett. The very nature of their situation should shriek the answer. If they fall off the Street of the Gods, if they are forced to leave the Dream Quarter, if they lose their last True Believer, they cease to exist.
“Ouch!” Dean was dabbing at my head with a hot, wet rag. “You mean I wouldn’t have this dent in my head if somebody didn’t believe in the ugly boys?”
Essentially.
Dean asked, “Who sewed this up for you, Mr. Garrett?”
“Sewed what?” And to His Nibs, “But they exist on their own. Nobody dreamed what was happening to me.”
Dean told me, “You have three... six... nine stitches here. You must have bled pretty bad.”
“No wonder I’m so weak. I thought it was a concussion.”
“Might be that, too.”
They need only be imagined and believed in fervently enough, on the right level. They assume an existence of their own, within the attributes assigned them.
“Careful!” I snapped at Dean. “That’s tender. They must have given me something to make it not hurt. Ouch! Damnit!...”
“Don’t be such a pansy.”
“You aren’t digging for gold. Old Bones, your theory is absurd.”
Gods are absurd, Garrett. And it is a hypothesis, not a theory. A theory is supported by experimental proof.
“I’m just looking to see if there’s any infection,” Dean grumbled, doing his hurt thing.
I ignored him, told the Dead Man, “There you go splitting hairs.”
“Theory” is a much-abused word, particularly by those in the divinity trades. Be careful, Dean. If those stitches break, his brain may leak out. Have you formed any plans, Garrett? To deal with your situation?
My situation. “I take it I need to worry in a big way.” When the Dead Man sets aside his own self-centered interests, I know he is troubled deeply. It was obvious that he had no problem believing that I could have fallen afoul of real gods and not just sleight-of-hand con folk somehow setting me up.
I
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