you can't take it with you

"Minoth..."

Mythra's voice takes on that refined, percurious quality, thrown from back in her throat, that Cole shouldn't be able to say he knows, so rare as it was back then, but does, because he can't help but study so closely - any subject, but particularly one so golden and dynamic as her.

The heartful, simple question, borne of Pyra, is "Are you sure?" The cloaked, not entirely generous presentation, forged into the clean-breath clarity that Pneuma represents, is "I don't know if I understand."

(That's what the vocal quality's about: deciding that they understand, and elucidating; boldly, calmly, righteously. To compose, one must have something to say. To speak, one must have something to mind.)

Such a wise one, she is. To put a stop on it, like that.

But he's wise, too. Oh, it's so, so easy.

"What is any Blade but a collection of transient memories rebuilt in a body that stays, stays, stays? If we don't deny ourselves that truth."

Cole draws himself up, steps into Minoth. The Core rolls, gleams, glistens in green-gloved hand.

"Who do you know that's better suited to take those memories and transmute them; to keep staying, and staying, and going again?"