Religion was a strange entity as far as Sal was concerned. Like many staples of Mizaharian life; the perils of the surrounding wilds, the necessity it seemed for all svefra to curse every other word, and the challenging spiciness of the local cuisine, religion had always assumed its role as part of the status quo. The gods themselves were many, some more present than others. But for the most part, Sal found it particularly interesting how one's faith could be largely influenced by their place of birth. Some gods were more universal of course, gathering followers the world over no matter the language spoken or the practices of their culture.
But then there were the more meddlesome of gods, ones who had taken it upon themselves to pick out various individuals and summon their obedience. The gnosis mark was for all intents and purposes a label of ownership, branded upon individuals in the same manner a tailor labeled his designer jackets. With ownership assumed by such unopposed and celestial beings, what chance, rights, or even freewill remained for the marked? As Sal saw it, he was in some way a servant to Ivak. Though as he recalled, this fact had never actually been spoken, merely implied.
That being said, despite Sal's personal reservations when it came to identifying and embracing his position as disciple, acolyte, or whatever one chose to regard it as, he could not ignore an underlying yet compelling need to carry out his unspoken duties. It was like a current that, at first thought, meandered casually through his head, not imposing or forceful, but freely seeping in between a rocky stream as it went along its way. But if he did stop and think, that stream began to gather pace, lapping at the banks of the stream as the inert force of building water hurried it along faster still. He suspected if he followed the journey, it most likely would climax at a crushing waterfall that plummeted into a grand lake of understanding, mists of knowledge and wisdom smoking up where falling water crashed against the lake surface.
Yet for now, he could not. Perhaps it was an as yet unlabelled fear of where that path would take him that prevented him from pursuing it. Sal was more the kind of person to just let things unfold when they were ready, with only a little prodding and poking from himself to help it along. As far as he was concerned, life trundled along whether you wanted to be part of it or not. Accepting that ultimately a person had very little influence on life in general, it thus became more an exercise of how you dealt with what life would inevitably throw at you. Perhaps within that there was some influence to exert after all. One person might fold after the first punch, where others would soak it up and move on. You just had to decide, when those moments came along, which kind of person you were going to be.
His meandering thoughts were snapped in two as the young konti wrapped up her answer. It seemed the time for their visit was at an end, the girl offering polite farewells as she vacated the table, unfinished drink in tow. He watched her go absentmindedly, his thoughts still lingering somewhat on the mark on his hand, the god who had put it there, and finally on Alses once more as he wondered how she had seemed to read him like an open book. She had been alarmingly perceptive, in a penetrating way that made him feel somewhat naked. In truth, he had welcomed her departure for the simple reason that with her gone, he had recaptured his anonymity. Yet in tandem with that thought, he also lamented the premature end to an otherwise welcome and engaging conversation.
And like that, he watched Alses glide off from his life as quickly as she had entered it, unknowing of the fact that soon enough - though under a different guise - she would be popping up in his life again.
But then there were the more meddlesome of gods, ones who had taken it upon themselves to pick out various individuals and summon their obedience. The gnosis mark was for all intents and purposes a label of ownership, branded upon individuals in the same manner a tailor labeled his designer jackets. With ownership assumed by such unopposed and celestial beings, what chance, rights, or even freewill remained for the marked? As Sal saw it, he was in some way a servant to Ivak. Though as he recalled, this fact had never actually been spoken, merely implied.
That being said, despite Sal's personal reservations when it came to identifying and embracing his position as disciple, acolyte, or whatever one chose to regard it as, he could not ignore an underlying yet compelling need to carry out his unspoken duties. It was like a current that, at first thought, meandered casually through his head, not imposing or forceful, but freely seeping in between a rocky stream as it went along its way. But if he did stop and think, that stream began to gather pace, lapping at the banks of the stream as the inert force of building water hurried it along faster still. He suspected if he followed the journey, it most likely would climax at a crushing waterfall that plummeted into a grand lake of understanding, mists of knowledge and wisdom smoking up where falling water crashed against the lake surface.
Yet for now, he could not. Perhaps it was an as yet unlabelled fear of where that path would take him that prevented him from pursuing it. Sal was more the kind of person to just let things unfold when they were ready, with only a little prodding and poking from himself to help it along. As far as he was concerned, life trundled along whether you wanted to be part of it or not. Accepting that ultimately a person had very little influence on life in general, it thus became more an exercise of how you dealt with what life would inevitably throw at you. Perhaps within that there was some influence to exert after all. One person might fold after the first punch, where others would soak it up and move on. You just had to decide, when those moments came along, which kind of person you were going to be.
His meandering thoughts were snapped in two as the young konti wrapped up her answer. It seemed the time for their visit was at an end, the girl offering polite farewells as she vacated the table, unfinished drink in tow. He watched her go absentmindedly, his thoughts still lingering somewhat on the mark on his hand, the god who had put it there, and finally on Alses once more as he wondered how she had seemed to read him like an open book. She had been alarmingly perceptive, in a penetrating way that made him feel somewhat naked. In truth, he had welcomed her departure for the simple reason that with her gone, he had recaptured his anonymity. Yet in tandem with that thought, he also lamented the premature end to an otherwise welcome and engaging conversation.
And like that, he watched Alses glide off from his life as quickly as she had entered it, unknowing of the fact that soon enough - though under a different guise - she would be popping up in his life again.
