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‘Everyone hates you, you know,’ Grub said. ‘Seems fair,’ Kindly replied.
Giving advice to a child is like flinging sand at an obsidian wall. Nothing sticks. The brutal truth is that we each suffer our own lessons—they can’t be danced round. They can’t be slipped past. You cannot gift a child with your scars—they arrive like webs, constricting, suffocating, and that child will struggle and strain until they break. No matter how noble your intent, the only scars that teach them anything are the ones they earn themselves.’
‘If you was any less ugly,’ a voice said, ‘I’d a killed you for sure.’
Justice without compassion was the destroyer of morality, a slayer blind to empathy.
It’s easy to listen and even easier to hear wrongly, so pay attention.
Being optimistic’s worthless if it means ignoring the suffering of this world.
Is there anything more worthless than excuses?
When robbed, the rich cry out for protection and prosecution. When stealing, they expect the judiciary to look the other way.
But Rythok was not yet done. Dying would have to wait.
‘Flee. Your hunters shall know the privilege of meeting the last soldiers of the only army the Jaghut ever possessed.’
Onos T’oolan faced southeast. And then set out. He had a people to kill.
And this, she now realized, was the reason why the gods did nothing. Proof of their omniscience. After all, to act was to announce awful limitations, for it revealed that chance acted first, the accidents were just that—events beyond the will of the gods—and all they could do in answer was to attempt to remedy the consequences, to alter natural ends. To act, then, was an admission of fallibility.
‘Our gods shall sing and so summon us all through the veil.’ Bakal bared his teeth. ‘Our gods would be wise to wear all the armour they own.’
‘Are you a god?’ ‘More or less, Toblakai. Does that frighten you?’ Ublala Pung shook his head. ‘I’ve met gods before. They collect chickens.’ ‘We possess mysterious ways indeed.’
The key, I think, is to hold true to your own aesthetics, that which you value, and yield to no one the power to become the arbiter of your tastes.
‘The one for Stormy’s got the saddle around the wrong way. How’s he going to stick his head up the Ve’Gath’s ass, where he’ll feel at home?’
‘Humans, welcome us. The K’Chain Che’Malle have returned to the world.’
