S.G. Night Quotes

I am owed a debt of Human blood. Your share is overdue. God made me your creditor, Hammon. You are mine to do with as I please. Tonight, I am judge. I am jury. I am executioner." - Rachel Vaveran

I owe nothing to anyone, I swear it! Who hired you? I can pay, just tell me who hired - "
"God hired me!" Rachel's rebuke was like the crack of a toxic whip. Like poisoned thunder. "Humanity owes my kind a debt of flesh for every drop of blood we shed for you. For every one of us that died to save you.

Thinking," Vrag interrupted. "Is not your prerogative, dog. That is my calling. You go where I tell you to go, you take what I tell you to take, and you kill what I tell you to kill - do I make myself plain?

I am the Penitent God. And tonight, I have begun my battle. My siege. The hundred-thousand Ink-borne arrows, flying forth from my flaming pen, to assault the walls of tyrannical Cold that hold this man in awful rapture. My campaign for my friend's very soul. My war of Ice, Ink, and Ember.

This," Racath shouted to them. "Is freedom! Feel it, let it carry you!

Please. Don't try and play games with me. It's belittling. I'm not stupid - I can spot a wolf in sheep's clothing when I see one - and your claws are showing. -Enoch Michelson

Why don't you just do it, then?" Racath hissed. "Just kill me. I dare you."

Now, I assume you know what this is. You've seen this before in other stories - the part where the disgruntled villain stands over the hero. He is triumphant, the hero now at his mercy. But when commanded to slay him, he hesitates. He lowers his sword. And he says: "I cannot."

If you are to take away but one thing from the words I have spoken, let it be this: there is a world of difference between "I Cannot" and "I will not".

"I cannot" is a surrender. It implies a lack of options. Someone who says such a thing does so only because they have no other choice. They do not WISH to relent - in fact, they usually want to obey their mandate and destroy the hero at their feet. But they cannot, because the guilt is too unbearable. But that does not make him a better man; all that a man who says "I cannot" has done, is given in to the compulsion to repent.

Allow me to make myself perfectly clear - I HAD other options. Easy options. Simple options. I could have killed Racath Thanjel that day. I could have killed him and all the others, too. I could have left them dead and bloody on that grassy hill, and gone trotting back to the Imperator's lap. I could have shrugged off the attrition that had dogged my every step, thought better of my disenssion, given up on all hope of absolution and accepted my damnation. And I could have spent the rest of eternity destroying God'

Azrael's hand is on your shoulder, Human. I am here for your soul." - Racath Thanjel

I am here on behalf of the people of the west. I speak for the Burrows."
"Ohh," the Demon said, mockery dripping from the word. It made an exaggerated bow, its movements smooth as flowing magma. "An emissary! How quaint. I would expect introductions are in order, then. I am called Briz'nar, Greater Demon, Hand to the Duke of Milonok, and Commander of the Guard."
"That's delightful," Racath scowled. "You can call me Azrael.

It's difficult to explain…you see, I have met her, and so I know that same powerful aspect in her eyes that Racath saw that night. But it is not easily put into words, not so easily described to someone who hasn't seen it. It was just…something.
Liken it to meeting a star. You do not know the star, have never spoken to it before, nor have you ever picked it out of the sparkle of its sisters in the night sky. But the star knows you. It has spent your whole life watching you from the sky. You can keep no secrets from it. It knows every thought in your mind, every move you have ever made, every flaw you have hidden, every pain you have felt. Like the millennia it spent before you were born were years in waiting. Waiting for you and only you, like you are what gives it purpose. Like watching over you is the dedication of its entire life. So it knows you better than you know yourself.
And while the star is bright, a twinkling gem that brims with youth and beauty, there is an intangible wisdom to it. It is undeniably experienced. But not old. It may have lived for a thousand of years before you were born, counting every second until you were brought into the world. But, for a star, a thousand years is still very, very young. Young enough to kiss.
That feeling, that meeting with a star, is what pierced Racath's heart when Nelle looked into his eyes. She was starlight, nightfire on an ebon velvet sky. Rapture.

His stride was long, tall, and proud. He wore a mask of proprietary disinterest, as though everything before his eyes belonged to him and his whimsy. He looked arrogant.
He fit right in.

Whistling. The Human was whistling to himself, off-key and wretched. Whistling! Like he hadn't a care or a clue about the poverty and decay around him. Like he was above it all. Like nothing was wrong with the world.

Westward Trade doesn't have stalls, sire.

No one really knew who (or what) the Curator actually was, nor could anyone guess as to where he came from or why he stood guard over this gate. He was like the rainclouds outside or the sun behind them: you didn't question where they came from or what they were doing, simply because they had always been there. Some of the more sociable Genshwin had tried several times to wring some interesting answers out of him, but no one had ever been able to get past his enigmatic grin.
It made Rachel uncomfortable. As a youth, she had often tried to provoke him to anger without success. He would just laugh and shake his head at her like a patient father ignoring a petulant child. He was too patient, and she resented that; he was intentionally cryptic and she hated him for it. And the Curator knew it, too.

They were silent for a second. The whispers of the candlelight were the only sounds, and the light outside the window began to fade to night. After a moment, Rachel opened her eyes back up and looked down at her chest, lips pursed.
"Do I really have small breasts?"
Notak seemed to freeze solid in his chair. Stiffly, he turned his piercing blue eyes onto Rachel, his face intensely blank. "I do not how to answer that."
She frowned at him. "Yeah, you probably aren't the best person to ask…" she said, almost to herself.
"Indeed," Notak said dubiously. "Do I even want to know what prompted such a question?"
Rachel shrugged and put her head back again. "No, not really."
"I shall not ask, then.

Racath tapped the offending Goblin's shoulder. Growling, the creature reluctantly turned away from the woman to face him. It did not release her arm.
"What?" it growled, baring its teeth threateningly.
The Genshwin said nothing in reply. He just stood there, towering over the mongrel, a pillar of black shadow and burning eyes. He had more than a full head of height in his favor.
The Goblin snarled impatiently. "You gots sumthin' you wants to say, whelp?"
"No." Racath's voice was lethal-flat. "I just wanted you to see this coming."
He straight-punched the Goblin in the snout.

No." The word shattered Felsted's question like an ugly, stained-glass window. "I chose poison because you deserved it. Because I wanted to watch you wriggle while the fear turns your brain to paste. That fear of death that drove you to the Demons door? I wanted to watch it betray you and eat you from the inside you. This is what comes of people like you, Felsted. I will not abide the folly of your peers' betrayal. By every drop of blood on my hands, I swear that every single one of you who turned to the Dominion - for power, money, fear, I don't care - will wither, break, and die. Azrael is coming for you and your friends, Felsted. The angel of death is here.

Their lives had no value; killing a Goblin was like killing a rabid dog - everyone was better off for it.

Well, then. I guess I'll make my way over towards Redborough and the houses of ill repute." Rachel grinned impishly.
Notak did not take his eyes off the street, but a grin found his face. "The brothels? If you are looking for new employment, then you definitely should not have dressed like that.

I do not believe that the Duke will find those terms acceptable. Might I convince you to reconsider - "
"Dear God, go faul yourself, you self-important gecko!

Rachel scowled. "You've known Mrak longer than anyone alive. You know what I know - the things he's done, the things he hides from everyone else."
The Curator's smile did not wane as he shrugged. "Indeed I do. But judge-jury-executioner is not my calling. I'm just the gatekeeper.

Genshwin?" Jax called after him. "A moment, if you please?"
Racath looked back over his shoulder at the Duke.
"I'd like your name, if you'd be so kind."
Beneath his hood, Racath smirked, then continued toward the tunnel. "I told you," he called over his shoulder. "My name is Death.

They invented words like scum and slime for people like him."
"My friend tells me that they invented whores for the same reason.

Racath's eyebrows drew together. "Terms?"
"Yes, terms," Briz'nar replied, a forked tongue dancing behind its sharkish teeth. "Conditions for the riots to cease. The rabble must have some sort of price if they are sending one of your kind to do the bargaining. What is it, then? Coin? Food? Perhaps a much needed bath?" Some of the Arkûl chuckled.
Racath rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to negotiate with anyone!" he answered incredulously. "The only terms I have are that you die, this Bridge is destroyed, and the Dominion never even thinks about looking at the Burrows ever again.

If you were to look on him fleetingly, to spare him only a passing glance, you would see only a man. If you looked a moment longer, you might get the feeling that there was something about him, something distinctly different. You might notice something peculiar about his eyes, might spot something strange about the tattoos running the length of his arms. Something out of place, something you cannot quite put your finger on….But to you, he still would be just a man.
But a clever eye…a clever eye could see him for what he truly is.
A clever eye would notice how his pupils taper at their tops and bottoms. A clever eye would see that his irises are no natural color. A clever eye would see that the patterns coiled on his arms, like blackened tongues of roiling flame, are not sunken into his skin like a tattoo's Ink, but gently beveled at their edges - a part of his flesh. A clever eye could tell that, no, he is not just a man. Not just a Human.
He is a Majiski - one of my people.

-The Penitent God

That brought Rachel up short. Getting any sort of response out of Notak was hard enough. She could count one hand the times she had ever seen him actually hurt by something. It was like seeing a mountain cry. Something you really didn't want to see.

My palm connected with the final looking-glass. A wave of brittle fractures rippled outward from the place my sanguine hand had struck. It shattered. I watched the pieces of my former life
the reflection of this monster I'd become - fall about my feet in a hailstorm of blood, tears, and broken mirrors. My attrition was complete. And now dissension boiled in my veins. I would find my penance. Even if God could not forgive me, even if she could not forgive me ... maybe I could at least find the power to forgive myself.

It will be a battle, then. A siege. A hundred-thousand Ink-borne arrows, flying forth from my flaming pen to assault the walls of tyrannical Cold that hold this man in awful rapture.
It will be campaign for my friend's very soul. A war of Ice, Ink, and Ember.
So be it.
My pen scratches the icy parchment once more. A second Ember joins the first.
The War begins.
-The Penitent God

Ah, good day, friend. Nice of you to drop in on my little corner of the world. How might I assist you on this delightfully dreary day?" - Enoch Michelson

P-please…I beg you, don't do this…you c-can't, you can't do this to me…"
"Yes, I can.

Someone's life is always in danger. That's the nature of tyranny." -Mrak

If he'd judged Felsted correctly, he was the kind of man who checked all the locks in his house every night. Twice. Probably for fun.

Unlike the rain-slicked streets of Oblakgrad, Dírorth was a stir of activity. The streets were lined with vendors selling greasy meat pies to passersby. The clogging crowd of Humans cramped together as they pushed past one another, rushing from one errand to the next. The shouting of a thousand voices melted together into a perpetual buzz, like a great swarm of bees hovering over the street.
And yet a strange silence hung over the city. It filled in the background, inhabiting dark corners where the din of the crowd could not squelch it. It had a strange omnipresence, like something that you are subconsciously aware of, but do not consciously see with your eyes.
It was a silence ignored, hidden by the façade of hectic traffic. You wouldn't really notice it, not unless you were looking for it. Not unless you actually stopped to listen.
If the city folk had stopped, frozen, if they had stilled themselves for a moment, the silence would have gaped wide open like a dark, hungry maw. But they ignored it. For the past century, they had covered that silence with the commotion of everyday life, refusing to let it control them. To define them. They did not hear it. They would not hear it.
I myself did not hear it for years and years, not until the day that I actually stopped to listen.
Can you hear it, now? Can you hear it in the words your reading, the words I say to you? Listen. Hear its empty resonance across the cobbles. Feel it in the dust beneath Notak

I clench my teeth and push forward. My pen grinds out the first and eldest word: an Ink-borne lance of black fire, scratched into a sheet of ice.
-The Penitent God

The Arkûl don't come down this road, Human. No one does. There's no one to hear you scream. No one except for me." - Rachel Vaveran

This will do," Notak said. "I need to meet my colleague to discuss details. How much do you want for the map?"
"Go ahead and take it. No charge. One map is a small price to pay to help put Hammon in the ground. Hell, you can have the pencil too.

She was always like that - it's what I remember most about her. There was always something…wrong with Rachel. She was always permeated with some terrible resentment, like a cloak she wore around herself. In a way, it was fascinating. Beautiful…but terrifying. Make no mistake: I have seen greater power than hers, before and since. But hers…hers was different. And I feel no shame in admitting that I was always afraid of Rachel Vaveran.

-The Penitent God

Rachel gestured toward the city beyond the alley. "The people out there? Humans who spend every day under the Demons' heels? They've given their share. They've made up for the blood of my kin with their sweat and their agony. Their debt is paid.
"But you," she pointed a damning finger down at him. "You have given nothing. You've shed no blood, and you've suffered no pain. Your debt is unpaid, Hammon. I am here for compensation.

His is the name of fire, the name that rides the whisper of the candlelight. His name was ... is ... Racath Thanjel. And this is his story.
-The Penitent God

Hmm," Joseph shrugged. "Good point. Who needs a caravan guard when you've got a Genshwin?

All that was left now was for him to get out, and for Rachel to kill Hammon.
She would have fun with that, Notak was sure of it. He was glad to let her have that little savage pleasure. He had no objection with her taking the blood onto her hands this time. Or any time. There was always plenty of blood to go around. And he didn't want any more of it than was absolutely necessary.

Look, you don't have to believe me," Nelle told him. "Hell, you can even try and resist fate if you want. But God has a plan for you, Racath Thanjel. Fate has a plan for you. Sooner or later your own choices will bring you into that plan.

This is your first lesson." He went from Arkûl to Arkûl, taking spears, belt knives and shortswords from their corpses. When he was finished, he tossed the weapons into the crowd.
"A man without a weapon is a subject," he said to them as they snatched up the new tools. "A man with a weapon is a citizen!

I see you are still unnerved by my presence," the Curator noted. He was still smiling. "My apologies.

All the blood drained from Hammon's face. "No…"
"Yes."
"But…that's not possible…." Hammon's voice was weak, and he sounded like he was talking more to himself than to Rachel. "It can't be…I thought they were all - "
"Dead?" Rachel's eyes flashed with ire so cold it could have frozen the ocean. "Do I look dead to you?

This is not my story.
-The Penitent God

An upright spine is more valuable to me than favor." - Racath Thanjel

He and Alexis had met on his first day in Velik Tor. He had been eleven, she ten. They had bonded almost instantly, and had been like brother and sister ever since. They were, after all, the only family they really had.

Mother of heaven…" Rachel breathed as she crouched next to Notak in the darkness of their roost across the street. "You said this place was guarded, not that it was entrenched. Faul, that's not a warehouse, that's a garrison that likes to hold crates in its spare time!

You'd be surprised how much you can learn from men selling maps in the dark corners of the world." -Enoch Michelson

If you'll excuse me, I have better things to do than watch you die." - Rachel Vaveran