A muscle in Paul's jaw twitches at the name Mariana, an unacceptable lack of control, but it's shocking to hear thoughts Paul has kept his own counsel on coming from someone else. This place breeds a bizarre complacency; Paul can count on one hand the number of people he's met who have seemed to have any interest in all in understanding what's going on, and none of them have cut so directly to the heart of the matter.
"Exactly," he says, and the mouse on his shoulder rises on her long back legs to press her tiny paws to his jaw. Paul inclines his head to her, eyelashes shading his eyes, and listens to unvoiced words.
"You have to concede your bias," he says to her, and looks back to the stranger, "She says all taboos have a purpose, which is true. Cultural cohesion and storytelling, avoidance of environmental danger, disciplining of the tribe to a shared purpose - but there's always an exception, there has to be, otherwise the taboo can't be reinforced or transmitted. So if I am struck down for my impudence, I'll go to a disciple for absolution, hm?"
That last is directed only at Sophia, who wrinkles her nose and scrambles over his collar to hide inside of it, her tail flicking irritably. Paul tsks, setting his books aside on a stray table. He doesn't presume to sit down, but he does step closer, his interest plain.
"My name is Paul," he says, and he dips his head in greeting, one mind to another, "I should ask you why you're asking questions you know we aren't meant to be asking."
no subject
"Exactly," he says, and the mouse on his shoulder rises on her long back legs to press her tiny paws to his jaw. Paul inclines his head to her, eyelashes shading his eyes, and listens to unvoiced words.
"You have to concede your bias," he says to her, and looks back to the stranger, "She says all taboos have a purpose, which is true. Cultural cohesion and storytelling, avoidance of environmental danger, disciplining of the tribe to a shared purpose - but there's always an exception, there has to be, otherwise the taboo can't be reinforced or transmitted. So if I am struck down for my impudence, I'll go to a disciple for absolution, hm?"
That last is directed only at Sophia, who wrinkles her nose and scrambles over his collar to hide inside of it, her tail flicking irritably. Paul tsks, setting his books aside on a stray table. He doesn't presume to sit down, but he does step closer, his interest plain.
"My name is Paul," he says, and he dips his head in greeting, one mind to another, "I should ask you why you're asking questions you know we aren't meant to be asking."