“You must also fear the wrath of your gods,” he says finally, “if you dare to stray from their righteous path.” “No,” I reply, taken aback. “Our gods don’t ask us for perfection.” Just as we don’t expect rhyme or reason from our gods. They’re fickle and stubborn and heedless and indulgent, like us. The only difference is that they burn whole forests to the ground in their rage, and drink entire rivers dry in their thirst. In their joy, flowers bloom; in their grief, early winter frost edges in. The gods have gifted us a small fragment of that power, and in turn we inherited their vices. From
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