Nicholas Eames Quotes

The druins were brilliant craftsmen and powerful sorcerers, who ruled with the liberty of gods over the then-primitive tribes of men and monsters. But as with anything that grows too big for its own good - ambitious spiderwebs, for instance, or those giant, late-harvest pumpkins - it became something altogether monstrous, and eventually collapsed on itself. The

The ghoul cracked a smile like a coffin's lid sliding ajar. "I'm glad you found me, too," he said. "It will be my honour to tell your story. It has been vastly entertaining thus far. I do hope it has a happy ending, though."
"It won't," Matrick murmured.
"It will," Gabe assured them.
"It might," Clay said.

The ship, which appeared to belong to another band, was just passing by for a look. She was bigger than the Old Glory, but not by much. The words Lucky Seven had been painted on her belly, but the seven had been crossed out, as had the six below it. The word five was scrawled underneath, but Clay only spotted four people at the rail and wondered silently if the ship was due for another paint job.

Who says vanquish anymore?" Moog breathed.
People who vanquished things, Clay supposed.

Lucky," said Gabriel. Clay glanced at him sidelong. "I'm not sure that word means what you think it means." "We

Well, you see how big he was. Apparently he broke through a latrine seat and drowned in the sewage below." A shitty way to go,

The world is big, the young are restless, and girls just want to have fun.

You should write a book," Matrick suggested.
Kit snorted. "Who wants to read the self-pitying lamentations of an old revenant?"
"There's your title right there," said Ganelon.

WHEN WE SEEK TO RULE ONLY OURSELVES, WE ARE EACH OF US KINGS.

He considered going for his hammer, which lay just out of reach, or maybe diving for Ganelon instead, since waking the warrior was probably his best hope of survival.

As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way

(...) Clay knew better. He and Gabriel had been friends for thirty-five years, and Gabe had been talking him into doing recklessly stupid shit for damn near all of them. He was a charismatic craftsman: every heart a furnace, every soul a blade.

For a while no one spoke, because in the roundabout
course of thirty-some years they had said just about
all there was to say to one another, until finally Clay
could bear the silence no longer and cleared his throat.
"I love you guys," he said, and gods-be-damned if his
voice didn't sell him out at the end and crack like a
boy of twelve summers.

Among them is a renegade king, he who sired five royal heirs without ever unzipping his pants. A man to whom time has imparted great wisdom and an even greater waistline, whose thoughtless courage is rivalled only by his unquenchable thirst.

At his shoulder walks a sorcerer, a cosmic conversationalist. Enemy of the incurable rot, absent chairman of combustive sciences at the university in Oddsford, and the only living soul above the age of eight to believe in owlbears.

Look here at a warrior born, a scion of power and poverty whose purpose is manifold: to shatter shackles, to murder monarchs, and to demonstrate that even the forces of good must sometimes enlist the service of big, bad motherfuckers. His is an ancient soul destined to die young.

And now comes the quiet one, the gentle giant, he who fights his battles with a shield. Stout as the tree that counts its age in aeons, constant as the star that marks true north and shines most brightly on the darkest nights.

A step ahead of these four: our hero. He is the candle burnt down to the stump, the cutting blade grown dull with overuse. But see now the spark in his stride. Behold the glint of steel in his gaze. Who dares to stand between a man such as this and that which he holds dear? He will kill, if he must, to protect it. He will die, if that is what it takes.

"Go get the boss," says one guardsman to another. "This bunch looks like trouble."

And they do. T

Clay pushed his body off him and mumbled another apology - because, enemy or not, when you hit a man in the nuts with a magic hammer the least you could say was sorry.

Because even a misspent life, he reasoned, was worth remembering.

Conthas burned to the ground. Apparently, this is a regular occurrence. Every few decades or so a fire goes unchecked and razes the entire city to ash. The locals think of it as a time of renewal. A chance to start over, to sweep away the old and build something new.

New taverns, for instance. New pubs, new scratch-dens; new gambling holes and fighting pits. New ale-houses, dice-houses, tap-houses, and whore-houses. From what I understand, Conthas is like some drug-addled, sex-crazed, booze-swilling phoenix that refuses to stay dead.

I think it may have pierced his heart."

"The heart is on this side," Rose pointed out.

"Is it?" The wizard frowned and placed a hand on his own breast. "Gods, you might be right.

Matrick plied his knives like a parade drummer, his rhythm so fast his enemies didn't know he'd murdered them until their god asked them if they took milk in their tea

Despite this, his prejudice against helmets remained unchanged. You had your pride, Ganelon had told him once, or you had nothing.

The pool," said Kallorek, pointing. "The pool, right there."
"You mean the pond?"
"I mean the pool," growled the booker. "Get in. Swim." He accompanied these words with effusive gestures that set his jewellery ringing.
Clay examined the pond. "Swim to where?" he asked.
"What do you mean swim to where?" Kallorek's brow deepened.
"Is it a healing spring?" Gabe asked. He flexed his arm, wincing as he extended it fully. "Because I think my elbow - "
"Listen, fuck your elbow!" Kallorek blew up. Clay had forgotten how short the booker's fuse was. That big toothy smile one moment, and the next …"It ain't a spring, or a pond, or a godsdamned sea nymph's bathtub. It's a fucking pool. Just a pool! You swim around in it to relax.

A tiger, however fearsome, could be hunted into a corner. It fought alone, so it died alone. But to hunt a wolf was to constantly look over your shoulder, wondering if others were behind you in the dark. "Lost?

Judge them for what they wished to be," he begged the Father of Gods, "not what the world made of them.

What's that, honey? What was I doing while Uncle Gabe was dueling a god with all of civilization at stake? Why, I was wrestling in the muck with an exceptionally tenacious cow.

Her smiles were shorter. Her laugh was louder. She became distracted at times, and would stare at nothing with a look of shattered sorrow that passed like a cloud the moment someone spoke her name. She loved less quickly, but more fiercely, and made certain that those she cared for knew it well. Sometimes she wept when it snowed.

We slept beside them, fought beside them, bled beside them. We trusted them to watch our backs and save our asses – which they did, time and time again. And somewhere out there, between one gig and the next, something changed. We woke up one day and realized that home was no longer behind us. That our families were with us all along. We looked around at these miscreants, these motley crews, and knew in our hearts there was nowhere we'd rather be than by their side.

Gods fuck me," said Roderick, managing the impressive feat of swearing and praying at the same time.

they passed through the wide-open gates into the city whose parents had hired a prostitute as a babysitter and never come home. The

… a woman cuts, hacks, slashes, and strikes – a whirling storm of fire and steel. Born in shadow, her destiny eclipsed by the brightest of stars. What else can she be but a comet, burning bright enough to draw every eye as she streaks toward some unfathomable fate?

At first the two of them stumbled along, but soon enough they were flying, soaring wing to wing and riding the music's current until, inevitably, they ran out of sky.