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“Didn’t ask for nothing in return, neither,” said the farmer. “He got a rather large estate in Andarun, as I recall.” The farmer got a sly look in his good eye. “Ah, but he didn’t ask for it, see? ’Cause he was a true hero.” “Well, I’m a professional one. Just pay your bill, sir.”
“And then you come in, you ruin my farm, you take all the food in my stores and you tell me that’s the loot! You rob me, give me half my stuff back, and charge me for it!” “No, the Goblins in your basement robbed you,” corrected the warrior. “We took it from them. That’s what loot is.” “It came from my house!” “Where else do you think loot comes from?”
Gorm was the best of bad options.
He was sick of drinking, and sick of being sober, and regretting that those were essentially the only two options he, and everyone else, ever had.
“He’s not an NPC until he gets a job.”
Scribkin are known for their ingenuity, not their practicality.
The images of the first conflicts between the Al’Matran and Tandosian temples showed Tandos trapped in a spider’s web yet still striking at the All Mother with a large mackerel.
“You know, saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t count for much after saying something really offensive.”
The brothers of the Order of Adchul once famously saved a town from flooding by drafting a cease-and-desist letter to the river.
it was said that the only thing that could outlast Dwarven craftsmanship was a Dwarven grudge.
“That’s the song of the Warbling Slateclaw. Wherever ye go, there ye are. Try to find the comfy chair.”
The choices we make shape our lives. For example, poor judgment can make a life remarkably shorter.”
Success wasn’t a certainty, but it was a possibility, and that was better than he’d had a couple of nights ago.
It dawned on Gorm that a surprisingly large portion of heroic jargon centered on demeaning, if not killing, Shadowkin, and for once he was glad that Gleebek probably had no idea what he was saying.
Nobody ever stopped inter-party violence just by askin’.
That night, Heraldin Strummons, the Bard, went to the room of Kaitha of House Tyrieth, for he held a Great Fire in his pants. And he did profess his desire for her.
But yon Elf made it clear that she was Not Interested. And in so doing, they awoke Gorm, Son of Inger.
And Gorm did correct Heraldin Strummons, and tell him to Behave Professionally.
With much emphasis.
Not all who wander are lost; some are on quests.
“You can make a name for yourself killing horrible monsters, but it’s loot that pays the bills,”
“Because if they get them, that would mean somebody recognized them. That the king, or his chosen champion or whoever, picked the Shadowkin over the Lightlings. It’d make them somebody. And then we Kobolds, all the Gnolls really, and the Goblins and the Gremlins, we’d all be a little more somebody too, you know?”
“I’m somebody as long as I got these thrice-cursed papers,” said the Kobold, pulling a tiny green booklet from his coat. “I’m somebody as long as a washed-up princess wants me in her purse! We ain’t like you Lightlings, waking up every morning and wondering what you want to do, where you think you should go. I wake up every morning and wonder what they’ll let me do, what I can get away with. ’Cause any day I cross them, they’ll take away my papers and then I’m nothing again. Fodder for some hero’s license, a dead dog walking.
unless that reason is to die as a spectacular example of how not to pursue a career in professional heroics, I suggest we gear up.
Gorm waved a hand out at the retail armory. “This here is the chemistry part. This is where ye get the right team filling the right roles and wearing the right gear; it’s all got to come together in this strange alchemy that fuses a small mob of sell-swords into a company of heroes.”
If you’re not careful, you give yourself away for less than you’re worth.
I know the sting of harsh words. You must not listen to them. When people insult you, remember that they don’t know you, not in your fathoms. Only you know what powers echo there.”
“Protecting casters is well and good, but I prefer tactics that don’t designate me as the meat shield,” Heraldin told the mages.
Questions flooded her mind as she crossed the garden, treading lightly on brilliant mosses. Where was she? How could such a garden, beautiful enough to rival the greatest of House Tyrieth’s palatial grounds, be growing in the heart of the Myrewood? Who could conceive of a place like this, let alone grow and maintain it? Was it the work of a man, or a god? And if it was a man, was he single?
There is a law to the universe, and among its many precepts is the certainty that when an Elven princess sings, small animals will be drawn to the song. Even if the princess was technically disowned centuries ago, and had since become a washed-up hero of somewhat ill-repute, and even if the only animals nearby were hardened and battle-scarred from a lifetime of fighting for survival in a death swamp, the law still held true.
In the Myrewood, the enemy of your enemy might just be very hungry.
“I suppose an abduction makes a poor start to building a foundation of trust,”
The ruins of Ebenmyre were empty, save for a pile of boulders that briefly flashed him a thumbs-up.
“It’s a useful lie, so I believe it. It’s better than reality. Like telling yourself there’s justice in the world, or that we can make a difference. They’re probably not true, but we’ll be better people if we pretend they are.
“I sit close enough to smell the fire, to hear your voices, and it’s like I’m among friends. And we laugh and talk, and I belong. I’m where I should be. Even if it’s just a daydream, it’s mine.”
The truth is that mankind needs to be defended from monsters, and doing as much takes stone-hearted killers. There ain’t no honor in it. It’s a job. Sometimes, the ones who are best at it ain’t much better than the monsters themselves.”
“So, that’s it? We run around killing and looting just to line our pockets and marginally improve people’s disposition.”
“I ain’t in the habit of flattering anybody. People think I’m special because I punched an Elf for Tib’rin, but I treated that Goblin like the dirt on me boots when first we met. It took me days before I’d look him in the eye. And the first time ye met him, ye were as kind to him as ye’d be to anybody. Ye may not be a better hero than me, Niln, but I’ll have Baedrun’s boots if ye ain’t a better person. In the end, maybe that’s worth more than all me strength.”
“Well, that was strange,” said Ignatius. Given that he was living in a pile of crates next to a shrine to the god of death, his accusations of strangeness carried a lot of weight.
There is a critical distinction between fear and desperation. Fear is the knowledge that something dreadful might be, the awareness of a horrible possibility. Desperation is the knowledge that something dreadful isn’t just possible but probable, and that escaping misfortune is becoming increasingly unlikely.
She wanted to honor the dead, but she wanted to be finished even more.
“I’ll spare you the empty rhetoric of promising to let you live if you leave now,” shouted Heraldin. “But I can promise that if you and your army disperse, we probably won’t kill you today.”
“Life is better with bravado.”
The problem with mercenaries, from an employer’s perspective anyway, is that while it is relatively easy to find a man who will fight for money, it’s much less common to find those willing to die for a paycheck.
Everybody’s hero is someone else’s villain, aye? And the other way around. We’ll be a hero to those who don’t have many of them.”
