What doyouthink?
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502 pages, Paperback
First published February 21, 2017
“As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way”
“Life was funny, and fickle, and often cruel. Sometimes the unworthy went on living, while those who deserved better was lost.
Or not lost, he considered, since they lingered on in the hearts of those who loved them, who love them still, their memory nurtured like a sprig of green in an otherwise desolate soul. Which was, he supposed, a kind of immortality, after all.”
"And then came the cyclops."
"Cyclops?"
Gabriel looked at him askance. "Big bastards, one huge eye right here on their head?"
Clay leveled a glare of his own. "I know what a cyclops is, asshole."
"Then why did you ask:"
"I didn't..." Clay faltered. "Never mind. What about the cyclops?"
“As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way.”
“But I need you to believe in one more story, Rose.”If Gabe’s voice had been stone before, now it was harder, colder, the mask of ice on a mountain’s wind-scarred face.“I am coming to Castia,”he said.“I am going to save you.”
“Life was funny, and fickle, and often cruel. Sometimes the unworthy went on living, while those who deserved better were lost.”
“You’d be surprised how many choices one makes due to the intrinsic nature of self-preservation”
“This moment, is when you step out from the shadow of the past. Today you make your name. Today your legend is born. Come tomorrow, every tale the bards tell will belong to you, because today we save the world!”
"And so it goes, thought Clay. Life was funny, and fickle, and often cruel. Sometimes the unworthy went on living, while those who deserved better were lost."
"What Clay mistook for the mating cry of some forest creature turned out to be Moog’s quiet cackle."
As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way.
“The place was a hovel, but not the cozy hovel of the sort inhabited by poets and scribes, crammed with bookshelves, candles, and antique curios. Nor was it the sparse kind of hovel, occupied by little more than a ragged blanket and a straw-stuffed mattress: It was a kubold’s hovel, and that meant shithole.”
“But what does a mirror know? What can it show us of ourselves? Oh, it might reveal a few scars, and perhaps a glimpse—there, in the eyes—of our true nature. The spirit beneath the skin. Yet the deepest scars are often hidden, and though a mirror might reveal our weakness, it reflects only a fraction of our strength.”
"Get the boss, this bunch looks like trouble."
'And they do. They do look like trouble, at least until the wizard trips on a hem of his robe.
He stumbles, cursing, and fouls the steps of the others as he falls face-first onto the mud-slick hillside.'