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“Just be more careful next time,” said Caliban, sighing. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Um, your cloak’s on fire.” “So it is.”
I would know you anywhere. I would recognize you at the bottom of a mineshaft on a moonless light, if I were deaf and blind.
Among the many skills paladins required was the ability to convince people to evacuate dangerous areas. This was sometimes difficult. People were reluctant to admit that, say, the ancestral family farm was now an open portal to hell. There were phrases you used and phrases you very much learned to avoid.
“Prayer is for the one who prays. It would be a monstrous arrogance to think that my prayers might sway the heart of a god.”
He wanted to dance around and laugh hysterically and howl at the moon. He wanted to kiss Slate passionately and yell to random passersby, “She probably doesn’t hate me!”
“We’re living with decisions made by people so long dead we can’t even piss on their bones.”
Slate’s allergies were legendary. Foremost among them was an allergy to pain. Sorry, guys. Sorry, Caliban. We’re not all tragic heroes. Some of us are just tragic.
The torturer folded his arms and frowned down his nose at her. “Was someone in here before me to soften you up?” “No, I’m very soft to begin with.”
Caliban held her and thought, There is a person in this world who feels safe in my arms. It felt like grace.
“But to do all that, I have to sleep in the stables. I cannot spend another night in your bed and then walk away.” He had opened his eyes again, but seemed to be staring at the ceiling.
“I am hopelessly in love with you and the only thing that is keeping me from following you around like a stray dog for the rest of my life is the fact that it would make you hate me even more.”
