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Telling your tale to random wedding guests is a pretty mild punishment for economy-size cockups.
What information are you lacking, exactly? Surely you are aware of the basic conditions of houndly existence? All the meats are out there, like the truth is out there, and we want to eat them all! Is that sufficient?> “All the meats? Oberon, that’s impossible.” <Is it, though? Is iiiiiiiit?>
What’ll it be?” “Coriander, sir.” He shoots a pleading glance at Brighid, but she looks amused, and I laugh at him. “How about Fuckstick? Aye, that’ll do.” He doesn’t have a ward against me calling him the wrong name. I know it makes me a fecking arsehole, but he’s a far sight more smug than I can stand.
I unbound his undead ass because he came in to threaten me, and he went sploosh in spectacular fashion. People screamed and panicked. One of my regulars thought it was so metal, though, and he’s become one of my favorite people.
I almost ask her, “Short or tall?” but catch myself just in time. She’s an Irish goddess. If I give her a tiny glass of beer she will hurt me.
“Tell me in the old tongue, just between us Druids. If you are in the mood to share, that is. What troubles you?” I count nine seconds of intense glaring before Flidais replies. “I will tell you, even though you are young and unprepared: Men. Are. Shit.”
Her voices catches at the end and I can see her eyes filling and I am struck by so many thoughts at once: Here is a truly ancient person feeling heartbroken and rejected and it’s no different from the heartbreak someone would feel who was born twenty years ago;
“Where’s your hound? I brought sausages.” He held up a greasy bag and I winced in regret. “Oh, he’s going to be upset that he missed seeing you. He’s in Oregon.” “Well, damn. I mostly came to see him.” “Thanks a lot.” “Don’t act like it’s news. He’s always been your better half.”
“I’m here to talk, damn it, not fight! I’m here with a herald! Put your cloak away, Manannan, and let’s spill some whiskey instead of blood!”
“I don’t know, Wukong. Maybe the demons are more important? I can always try bubble tea later.” “Nonsense. Live in the present, Granuaile. Presently my copies can take care of the first wave, and your bubble tea should be at its peak deliciousness.”
Skúfr asked me to relay that the ice sculpture of Jon Snow—“he who knows nothing”—was still standing in the Himalayas, and as far as they could tell he still knew nothing.
Brighid scowled. “When I said ‘money’ I was speaking metaphorically. I did not mean we are using modern systems of payment.” “Then what’s the buy-in? Not favors to be named later, I hope.” “No, it’s…” She paused, sighed, and rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t my idea, all right? Odin insisted, and it’s all your fault.” “Of course it is. Everything’s my fault.” “We’re using Girl Scout Cookies. One thousand boxes, winner chooses what kind.” “Are you joking with me right now?”
yama King Wuguan looks like the sort of fighter that relies on brute strength to win the day. He’ll gladly take some hits so long as he gets in a good one on you, because he thinks one is all it will take. And maybe he’s right. Even if he doesn’t finish me like One-Punch Man—an anime hero I’ve been enjoying recently—he’ll probably do enough damage that he can administer the coup de grâce with little resistance.
A Buddhist wishes to point out that desires are what prevent people from achieving happiness, that materialism is the cause of discord.
He whirls around and it’s a face of blue-eyed madness I see, paranoid testosterone that’s been let out of the barn. Some young punk who’s either never had the shite beat out of him, so he doesn’t understand that there will be consequences for his actions, or who’s been beaten so much and so badly he doesn’t give a blistered tit what happens to him next.
“Malina Sokołowska,” the blond woman says with a charming accent, “leader of the Sisters of the Three Auroras. May I ask what killed the sorcerer? I was occupied and didn’t see clearly.” “Oh, that was a sloth.” “A sloth? You have to be joking. There are no sloths around here, and they don’t move that fast.”
Malina turns to see what’s so funny and the witch says, “We did see something in the divination that hinted at unexpected aid. I think a pumped-up murder sloth qualifies as unexpected.” The whole coven either smiles or chuckles at this.
Humor often shields the mind against fear.
If I stood and fought, it would be in a weakened state, with little to no magic at my disposal to boost speed or strength, and unless I got the proverbial “critical hit” right from the start, my long life would end as a chew toy for a hellhound with a legitimate grudge.
