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People don’t pop from pride, which is the only reason why I don’t.
Conjugation in French is a special kind of horror, on par with the sort of things you’d need to do to call up the Old Ones when the stars are right.
“You mean to tell me you haven’t noticed how insufferable they are? The little tin gods who abandon us when they get bored?”
Calamity shrugs. “Maybe she’s got attention deficit disorder?”
Second, they’d have to have tumbleweeds rolling between their ears to do something that would piss you off that much.
“That is the most boring slur I have ever heard.”
Magic is something else, though. Magic is things like witches spinning thread out of moonlight, and using that to weave a cord for binding lies. It’s
I open my math book and gird myself to do battle with binomial equations.
But if you wanna quit the moment it gets hard, then I’ll not cry to see the back of you.”
Open battle is the most honest relationship you can have with somebody. They want to do something bad. I want to stop them. Whoever is stronger gets what they want.
He lands in an enormous white cloud of dust and steam, and I frown, disappointed. I like catching people while they fall. It’s fun.
