I think it's pretty bloody obvious. Doesn't take a genius to see that our heavenly father is just as shitty as the earthly bastards he stick us with. I could start listing examples, but I've got things to do and I'm not in the mood to sit around and bitch and moan about it.
[If John knew that, well, there'd be the queen mother of all shitty bad-things-happen-to-good people whinefests, curated just for Murmur. The greatest feast of them. Perhaps even the Vitellius’ Feast of whinefests. But thankfully he doesn't, so he won't purposefully be a pain in the arse about it.
Besides, he's got things to do that are far more important than that. His mind is set on war, and he's going to bring out the troops shortly.
John isn't entirely hateful towards Murmur and his kind. John understands the roles of angels, and in his heart he knows that they don't have a great time of it either. He knows they're just another shitty creation in a whole host of shitty creations. It's the self-righteous arrogance of them that really leaves John seething, though. None of them are worth a thing, none of them valuable, most of creation are just sad sods trying to get by. He figures they're all cut from the same worthless cloth, demons, angels, humans.
All of them god's anything but perfect creations.
But even if John is just another worthless bastard, he's a bastard that's going to do something. And the rage is giving way to excitement, John's heartbeat runs faster now, his eyes bright with malicious mischief. He hasn't had an excuse to go all out in a long time. So even if he hates the circumstances, a part of him is gleeful at the chance to weave destruction out of intentions.]
I don't know if I've got it in me to take out the prophet blighter on my own, no clue how strong he really is, but I'm sure as hell able to make things very inconvenient for him and anyone who serves him. Golems are special like that. They don't hurt, don't feel, don't need to stop and breathe. So every weakness that those bodies held in life? Gone. [He snaps his fingers, magic sparking in a dull golden glow between them.] Just like that. Imbue a little extra magic, twist a ritual, and at the end of their second lives they go out with a bang. [He takes a breath, and rifles through a pocket for a cigarette. He needs the nicotine, and badly.] So that's that. I can have a small explosive army at the ready in forty-five minutes or less, I figure. And then all I have to do is send them out, and follow after to dish out a little hell of my own.
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[If John knew that, well, there'd be the queen mother of all shitty bad-things-happen-to-good people whinefests, curated just for Murmur. The greatest feast of them. Perhaps even the Vitellius’ Feast of whinefests. But thankfully he doesn't, so he won't purposefully be a pain in the arse about it.
Besides, he's got things to do that are far more important than that. His mind is set on war, and he's going to bring out the troops shortly.
John isn't entirely hateful towards Murmur and his kind. John understands the roles of angels, and in his heart he knows that they don't have a great time of it either. He knows they're just another shitty creation in a whole host of shitty creations. It's the self-righteous arrogance of them that really leaves John seething, though. None of them are worth a thing, none of them valuable, most of creation are just sad sods trying to get by. He figures they're all cut from the same worthless cloth, demons, angels, humans.
All of them god's anything but perfect creations.
But even if John is just another worthless bastard, he's a bastard that's going to do something. And the rage is giving way to excitement, John's heartbeat runs faster now, his eyes bright with malicious mischief. He hasn't had an excuse to go all out in a long time. So even if he hates the circumstances, a part of him is gleeful at the chance to weave destruction out of intentions.]
I don't know if I've got it in me to take out the prophet blighter on my own, no clue how strong he really is, but I'm sure as hell able to make things very inconvenient for him and anyone who serves him. Golems are special like that. They don't hurt, don't feel, don't need to stop and breathe. So every weakness that those bodies held in life? Gone. [He snaps his fingers, magic sparking in a dull golden glow between them.] Just like that. Imbue a little extra magic, twist a ritual, and at the end of their second lives they go out with a bang. [He takes a breath, and rifles through a pocket for a cigarette. He needs the nicotine, and badly.] So that's that. I can have a small explosive army at the ready in forty-five minutes or less, I figure. And then all I have to do is send them out, and follow after to dish out a little hell of my own.