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There are many perks to living for twenty-one centuries, and foremost among them is bearing witness to the rare birth of genius. It invariably goes like this: Someone shrugs off the weight of his cultural traditions, ignores the baleful stares of authority, and does something his countrymen think to be completely batshit insane. Of those, Galileo was my personal favorite. Van Gogh comes in second, but he really was batshit insane.
“Storm clouds are thrice cursed,”
If it pleases me, then it is good and I want more; If it displeases me, then it must be destroyed as soon as possible, but preferably in a way that enhances my reputation so that I can achieve immortality in the songs of bards.
Bronze Age manners are tough to fathom for modern men, by and large, but it’s fairly simple: The guest is to be treated like a god, because he may, in fact, be a god in disguise.
“The legendary Fragarach, the sword that can pierce any armor.
shat kine!”
Cunning is better than running.
I had a death goddess in my Five or My Circle or whatever.
inchoate
“Sybarite,”
“Ascetic,”
bean sidhe
that’s just a flesh wound.”
“The Black Knight always triumphs!” Perry beamed. Monty Python is like catnip for nerds. Once you get them started quoting it, they are constitutionally incapable of feeling depressed.
esurient.
“Airmid,”
vetala.
