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“You’re God. Can’t you see the future?” “To an extent,” Fuzz said, animated. “But it is cloudy, so cloudy. Too many possibilities.
Fuzz was the infinity of a note held perfectly, never wavering. The majesty of a painting, frozen and still, capturing a slice of life from a time gone by. It was the power of many, many moments compressed somehow into one.
“Who are you?” Kelsier said. “I?” the man said. “I am a drifter. A miscreant. The flame’s last breath, made of smoke at its passing.” “That’s . . . needlessly obtuse.”
Kelsier ran. He needed the urgency, the strength, of being in motion. A man running somewhere had a purpose.
It was a terrible weight to put on the shoulders of one person. He would lift what portion he could.
“Ideas are never original,” Kelsier said. “Only one thing is.” “And what is that?” “Style,” Kelsier said.
“No, be decisive. Bold! A good crewleader is always sure of himself, even when he isn’t. Especially when he isn’t.”
I thought that hatred was why you were so strong.” “Strong like scar tissue,” Kelsier whispered. “Functional, but stiff. It’s a strength I’d rather you never need.”
cloven
Good word
