fantasy-fiction

He rubbed at his face, as if seeking to awaken the right words from muscle, blood and bone.

Miriva refused to believe that human decency should be a privilege given only to a small few, and when she complained to her mother that she did not want to be a broodmare for the sake of alliances between the villages, her mother slapped her and sent her to the fields to pick mehazi beans

He grappled with anxiety until the early hours, trying to work out the best way to tell her who he really was. But every time he played it out in his head, she always ran off screaming. How could he ask anyone to deal with this? It was his burden and his curse, and he was so afraid it would hurt her. But he was too far in, now, he loved her too much just to walk away. What was he going to do?

Parmida had never believed in unicorns, not until a stroll through the forests of Sunneth Dol convinced her otherwise. She was a young human woman living in a world where magick was dead and magickal creatures a myth. Elves and fae and magickal beasts had long ago shed their skin and left their bones. It was a world where humans alone now existed, walking in the dark of night, always looking over their shoulder for their inevitable extinction, as if nature were waiting to absorb them next back into her soil.

No one wants to rattle the cage of a "crazy" person whose family tends to snap.

P. 294 He said quietly, __ust whisper it.____ have to answer him and if not now, eventually. The truth wouldremain the truth whether I ignored it or not...Should I surrender to whatever this future would bring? I cringedinwardly. When had reality seemed so unreal? After several moments,I gave up and whispered, __ou__e . . . T-R-I-T-O-N,the Triton.__ couldn__ say anything else, it seemed irreverent. He didn__ deny it, hedidn__ laugh, or scoff or make excuses...

Haftor was the Easer to the Easers. This was the most powerful man in Creation. Peder knew trouble was coming, but knew not what it was or how to deal with it.

Just a girl? Hardly. In Hellea, you were a boy, a storyteller, a rogue who infiltrated the deepest cellars of the greatest library in the world. A born trickster as well. Before that, what were you? A warrior trained by a prince, a storyteller's daughter. And more, I should think. But never just a girl, Cassia.

When everything is said and done, the only thing that really matters is the quality of the soul you build during the life you're given.

It was one flickering ember that was almost smothered to death daily. But it just wouldn__ quit_ it was hope.

Demon,_ the woman spat onto the road. __ell, girl, thank you. I grant no one__ wishes and so you mark me __emon._ I grant no wishes and I do as I see fit to be done. I will not answer to you, girl, nor to any one of yours, but I will always look. I am not the one who turns away.

The dead worry the living because their silence reminds us how little the great comedies and tragedies in our lives matter and how little the universe would care if we'd never lived at all._ -- Nara

Zanuta looked into the face of the faithful courier. "I have conquered the world, but I have never killed a man.

Ohlen stood and walked around the clearing, examining the ground as he went. "I see only one set of tracks..." his voice trailed off as he knelt, inspecting the footprints more closely. "I've seen these before. This is the cru__an.__hmahn came over and bent down beside his friend. "Him? Do you mean the scarred one that has Mirra?""Either that or a ferocious rabbit wearing cru'gan boots," Ohlen said sardonically.

Curse us and crush us, my precious is lost!

My strings are being pulled, this time by a different puppet master.

He considered my question for a moment and then ducked his head to kiss me. He tugged me flush up against his chest , pulling me closer than i even though possible, and then his lips touched mine.

Once Errol righted himself into some semblance of horsemanship, they set off at an easy canter. That is, the other horses set off at a canter, while Errol's horse settled into a teeth-shattering trot. After a hundred paces he could feel Horace's backbone through the saddle. The other riders pulled ahead without a backward glance, leaving him to his four-footed torture.