Kaustubh Dudhane > Recent Status Updates

In the beginning was the Word. Then came the fucking word processor. Then came the thought processor. Then came the death of literature. And so it goes.

By the time the Ousters withdrew ninety-seven days after the FORCE ‘rescue’ of Bressia, Kassad had earned the double-edged nickname of the Butcher of South Bressia. It was rumored that even his own troops were afraid of him.

And Kassad dreamed of her with dreams that were more – and less – than dreams.

Hyperion is a poet’s world devoid of poetry.

I should have let Jael kill him, never taken him as my slave, never thrown him into the pits. I’ve created a monster.

"And then Maquin saw him, a few score men between them.
A Vin Thalun, a half-crushed buckler upon one arm, short sword bloody and notched, a savage glee upon his ring-bearded face as he hacked a man of Ripa to death.

Lykos. Your death is here."

I don't think I am going to sleep tonight 🥲

“You’re a queen; me”—he paused, brows furrowing—“I’m not sure what I am any more. Was a shieldman, then one of the Gadrai, next a slave, then a pit-fighter. Now, I don’t know what you’d call me. Except happy.”
🥲

Before the battle against Gundul’s warband those under Veradis’ authority had been unsure of the shield wall’s capabilities, and worse, considered it unworthy of a warrior.

Staying alive while your enemy dies is a great convincer.

He makes friends in the strangest of places.

She’d recognized something rare in Maquin during their escape through Tenebral: intelligence and strength, and a lack of ego. He had the ability to look at a situation and know what had to be done. And then to do it, with absolute commitment, or die in the trying.

"...sometimes the right thing can be a grim thing, too.”

Feels as if I’ve spent half my life waiting for men to kill. Not sure which part is the worst. The waiting, or the killing.

Depends on who I’m waiting around to kill, I suppose.

'Is it just me, or is there a lot of waiting in war?’ Dath muttered. ‘Aye, you’re right,’ Farrell replied. ‘Usually followed by a lot of dying.'

Sometimes they lead to a pot of gold, other times they get you bitten on the arse, or see you watching your fingers go under the knife, one by one. What I’d give to take him with me, though…

The truth does not often live up to the memory...

‘How did you come by those scars?’ Ulfilas asked Dag, more to break the oppressively monotonous silence than out of any real desire to know.

‘Wife,’ Dag grunted. ‘She came off worse.’

Ulfilas couldn’t imagine much worse than Dag’s disfigured features. ‘I wouldn’t want to meet her in the dark, then.’

‘Not much chance of that,’ Dag said. ‘I killed her.’ 😨

Rath taught it to me, and I’m sure you know the rule well enough; the blow that ends the fight is the one your opponent doesn’t see coming.

He had been stabbed, slashed, kicked. A memory filled her mind–him striding forward into the massed Vin Thalun, carving his way through them like some untouchable demon, always moving, always striking. She had seen the blow that felled him, seen him kill the attacker–his body failing as even then he tried to force a path for her to the tower–saw him collapse.

A fortress is only as strong as its weakest man.

Another pang of guilt spiked at that. But somehow the guilt would always retreat, overcome by another emotion entirely. There was something about riding with this crew that felt different. As if she had been around them all her life.

The last time I saw him he was a clumsy auroch. What’s happened to everyone? I spend the year with my hands tied together, and everyone else has become a warrior.

But one thing I have learned in this world of flesh–mankind is fickle, and nothing is certain.

The world was in flux, constantly changing around him. It was hard for a man to keep up.

For example in Sitapur district, notorious thugs, gangsters and most wanted criminals started voluntarily reporting at the police stations in UP. Some even promised to help the police to speed up their investigations. 😂

Strange how we pray in these times. Even to an absent god. A shred of hope is better than no hope at all, I suppose.

'I know you,’ Corban said. ‘Who are you?’

A friend in a dark place,’ the man said, and smiled.

Kill or be killed. He felt a berserker rage bubbling up inside – rage at what he was being made to do, rage at what he was becoming.

The death of someone close always did things to a person – grief, regret, anger, all left their mark.

Why did it have to be so complicated? Revenge used to be simple.

'If we’re going t’have a crack at sending every last one o’ them across the bridge of swords, then this is better. Me an’ Dath can pick the first ones off with our bows as they come out of the ravine. Once they’re in this bowl you’ll have room t’swing a sword.’ He looked about. ‘This is a good spot.'
To make a last stand, Corban finished for him.

Extraordinary things had been happening, of late, but there was no doubt that would be the strangest of all. Still, he’d learned not to judge. He was happier to sit back and watch, and that is what he would do with this Corban. There was something about him . . .