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“The blade itself incites to deeds of violence.” —Homer
You carry on. That’s what he’d always done. That’s the task that comes with surviving, whether you deserve to live or not. You remember the dead as best you can. You say some words for them. Then you carry on, and you hope for better.
At least it had stopped raining. You have to learn to love the small things in life, like dry boots. You have to love the small things, when you’ve nothing else.
But some things have to be done. It’s better to do them, than to live with the fear of them.
“If a man seeks to change the world, he should first understand it.”
The more you learn, the more you realise how little you know. Still, the struggle itself is worthwhile. Knowledge is the root of power, after all.”
The great wage secret wars for power and wealth, and they call it government.
“Do you smell that? Do you smell that, Master Ninefingers? It smells like…” he rubbed his thumbs and fingertips together as he strode along, searching for the words, “… mystery! Adventure!” It smelled like shit to Logen.
“Treat a man like a dog and sooner or later he’ll bite you, it’s a simple fact. Our role as governors, and as noblemen, is surely to respect and protect the common man, rather than to oppress and scorn him?”
“Kill me?” The Bloody-Nine laughed louder than ever. “I do the killing, fool!”
“What the fuck is this?” he roared, striding into the centre of the room, water dripping from his beard, down through the grizzled white hairs on his chest, off his slapping fruits. It was a strange sight to see. A naked old man confronting three armed Practicals of the Inquisition.
