heroine

I am Mae Waylander from Halts-Walden, daughter of Robert Wallander, a good man who lost his life saving hers.' I point to Ellen. 'And I am the girl who has saved your brother's life on numerous occasions in the Waerg Woods - who fought off a wood nymph, a psychotic pre-adolescent prophet, and a determined flock of killer birds - only to have your father shoot an arrow in my side because I wouldn't let him kill my stag.

Give her books, where other people did all the running around and courting; it was far easier to read about such matters than to experience them herself.

Sitting in the brightly lit library, surrounded by books, in total silence, that was ma personal zenith.

When she turned I could see her face was plain and outwardly unremarkable, yet possessing of a bearing that showed inner strength and resolve. I stared at her intently with a mixture of feelings. I had realised not long ago that I was no beauty, and even at the age of nine had seen how the more attractive children gained favour more easily. But here in that young woman I could see how those principles could be inverted. I felt myself stand more upright and clench my jaw in subconscious mimicry of her pose

It has been said that Shakespeare, the great delineator of human character, has failed in distinguishing his principal women__nd that such as he meant to be amiable are all equally gentle and good. How difficult then it is for a novelist to give to one of his heroines any very marked feature which shall not disfigure her! Too much reason and self-command destroy the interest we take in her distresses. It has been observed, that Clarissa is so equal to every trial as to diminish our pity. Other virtues than gentleness, pity, filial obedience, or faithful attachment, hardly belong to the sex.

We like the wrong sorts of girls, they wrote. They are usually the ones worth writing about.

The thought of talking about it made Pueblo's gut ache, but then he thought of everything that Amy had been through _ not that she'd told him her version yet. She had balls of steel, he thought with a smile. And what did he have? Three pairs of loin cloths going crisp on the radiator.

Letti wasn__ born to pass through the world. She had been born to sit atop of it.

It's hard to know what's right in this life,' she said. 'We do what we can, but what we really need is mercy. Do you know who taught me that?' A grin. 'You.

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.

I'm a damsel, I'm in distress, I can handle this. Have a nice day!

She wasn__ going to back down. She knew that. She communicated that. She was here until the death.

I've done nothing for the past five years but try to be the hero who protects her. The problem? Heroines don't need protecting.

I've never liked being looked at like I was a hero. I always wind up letting someone down. Sometimes I get lucky. Sometimes the only person who gets hurt is me.

Dear Diary, the Heroine never cries.

Anyone can be a hero, even those who cannot. They just have to believe.

Don't you agree? Swordplay is a dance of sorts, an understanding of the logical, most sophisticated next step. Except that in a fight, one must take the unexpected step. In dance it is all about taking the right, expected step.

And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion - to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's rest in the course of the next three months.