Fist Of Legend Quotes

And what is a man? He is someone who rises when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop--and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate. That man may never win. But when he sees himself reflected, he can be proud of what he sees. For low he may be in the present scheme of things: peasant, serf, or dispossessed. But he is unconquerable

And unlike the rest of you, he hasn’t yet time to ruin his career or his mind." "Then he won’t do. Send him home. Get us another lunatic." "Excuse me!" [hopping up to stand in his seat] "Elassar Targon, master of the universe, reporting for duty!" "I withdraw my objection.

Every great legend begins with that one person who raises an angry fist to the sky and flips off the gods in defiance. Acheron

James “Knockout Jimmy” O’Brien, Granite Fall’s very own boxing legend—a title he held until a young groupie poked holes in the condom she made him wear “for protection.” My brother was born nine months later, fists already swinging.

Cuteness should be preserved.

Alex clenched and unclenched his fists. And just before he turned to leave, he did something he knew was completely, utterly wrong. He wound up and punched Aaron smack in the jaw.

You can’t reduce sapient lives to numbers and exchange them like credits.

The guards hate the priest. To them, men like the priest paper the sky with romantic tissue-paper legends, but down here below the earth, in this enchanted place, we know life cannot be contained on a slogan or a prayer tablet. We know that kindness rules with the fist and chains rule with a turn to the sky, that all humans require penance and without it we all seek punishment, over and over again, until the body and mind are satisfied and we die.

Gabriel? Are you implying Gabriel had something to with Thompson’s death?” Francesca sounded somewhere between outraged and amused. “You can’t be serious, Brice.” “He crushed his hand, Francesca. Your Gabriel did that. Crushed his fist with one hand. I watched him do it and he wasn’t even straining. I never even saw him come into the room. He was just there. There’s something not quite right about him. His eyes. They aren’t human. He’s not human.” Francesca stared at him wide-eyed. “Not human? As in what? A phantom? A ghost that flies through the air? A gorilla? What? Maybe he lifts weights. Maybe he’s strong because he lifts weights and his adrenaline was pumping. What are you saying?

There was carpet under Blanchefleur’s feet and the scent of clean and delicate things in her nostrils—perfume, babies, soap, and tea. Homesickness hit her like a clenched fist; this was worse than memory.

She must continue to live life one day at a time. Neither the past nor the future existed for Eva. She clenched her fist around her reins, drilling in the words she must never forget: 'there can only be the now.

What are you?’ His grip on my arm made me hiss in pain, and I punched him, or I would have if he hadn’t grabbed my fist and pulled me closer. His pupils widened when he pressed me to his body. I could feel his breath quicken, ‘Fuck. What are you, woman?

I’ve discovered that Kell has a pleasant tenor singing voice, and Runt is actually an accomplished mime, a skill that few know is widespread on his homeworld of Thakwaa. By integrating modern holographic technology with traditional song-and-dance routines, we could capture the warlord’s attention—” By now the other Wraiths were snickering. Wedge caught Face’s eye and glowered. “Perhaps you could give us the set of conclusions you turned in to me, Loran?” Face had the gall to look surprised. “Oh, those. Sorry.” He sobered. “I

I ran over to the students and I was just so angry, I drummed my fists into their goddamn table and I said, “You stupid bastards! You stupid fucking assholes! Blame Johnson if you like. Blame Kennedy. Blame Eisenhower or Truman or fucking goddamn Roosevelt. But don’t you blame that kid. Don’t you dare blame any of those kids. They served! Jesus, the kid lost his arm. I mean what the hell is happening to this country? The first concrete sign of The Green Berets was a December 29, 1965, letter from Wayne to the distinguished director George Stevens. “My company and I want to make a motion picture about the war in

Two-hands,” Zak said more emphatically. Matron Malice motioned for him to continue, unable to deny the grace of her youngest son’s display. “Could you do it again?” Zak asked Drizzt. With each hand working independently, Drizzt soon had the coins stacked atop his index fingers, ready to flip. Zak stopped him there and pulled out four more coins, building each of the piles five high. Zak paused a moment to study the concentration of the young drow (and also to keep his hands over the coins and ensure that they were brightened enough by the warmth of his body heat for Drizzt to properly see them in their flight). “Catch them all, Secondboy,” he said in all seriousness. “Catch them all, or you will land in Sorcere, the school of magic. That is not where you belong!” Drizzt still had only a vague idea of what Zak was talking about, but he could tell from the weapons master’s intensity that it must be important. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then snapped the coins up. He sorted their glow quickly, discerning each individual item. The first two fell easily into his hands, but Drizzt saw that the scattering pattern of the rest would not drop them so readily in line. Drizzt exploded into action, spinning a complete circle, his hands an indecipherable blur of motion. Then he straightened suddenly and stood before Zak. His hands were in fists at his sides and a grim look lay on his face. Zak and Matron Malice exchanged glances, neither quite sure of what had happened. Drizzt held his fists out to Zak and slowly opened them, a confident smile widening across his childish face. Five coins in each hand. Zak blew a silent whistle. It had taken him, the weapons master of the house, a dozen tries to complete that maneuver with ten coins. He walked over to Matron Malice. “Two-hands,” he said a third time. “He is a fighter, and I am out of coins.” “How many could he do?” Malice breathed, obviously impressed in spite of herself. “How many could we stack?” Zaknafein shot back with a triumphant smile.

Your own name isn’t half-bad. Bet you don’t know what Loretta means.” Rachel folded the dough over, then glanced up with a teasing grin. “Your momma and me picked it, mainly for the meaning.” “It’s a variation of Laura, isn’t it? Laurel wreath or something?” “That’s the common meaning. But in your ma’s name book, there was another.” “Well? Give over.” Loretta waited, watching her aunt. “What’s it mean? Flat-chested and scrawny?” Rachel threw back her head and chuckled. “Flat-chested and scrawny? Loretta Jane, I swear, no one can say you have too high an opinion of yourself. It means little wise one.” The color washed from Loretta’s face, and she planted her feet on the floor to stop the chair from rocking. “It means what?” “Little wise one.” Rachel’s smile faded. “You feelin’ peaked? What’s wrong?” Loretta set her sewing aside and pushed to her feet. “Nothing, Aunt Rachel. N-nothing.” Glancing dazedly around the room, Loretta pressed the back of her wrist to her temple, a feeling of unreality surrounding her. “I, um, think I’ll get a breath of air.” After hurrying from the house, Loretta struck off across the yard to lean on the fence, her favorite spot because it afforded her a view of the rise. Little wise one. Still numb with shock, she stared off into the distance, remembering the night Hunter had recited his song to her. The People will call her the Little Wise One… She studied the rise, truly believing, for the first time, that she and Hunter were destined to be together. She tried to remember all the words to his song. They came to her in snatches. Between them will be a great canyon that runs high with blood. A silly legend, she had once called it. Now she knew better. Too much of it had already come to pass for her to scoff. A canyon of blood. Loretta curled her hands into fists. Hunter would return to her. She didn’t know when, or how, but suddenly she felt certain the song, once the bane of her existence, had become her greatest hope.

The greatest battles are not always fought with swords and fists.

There are two methods of delivering a blow. First is a boxing-like movement, and the second is the traditional karate strike. While equal in force, the boxing-style strike has a greater range and is easier to execute. The boxing-style strike uses gravity and shift of weight to support the strike, while the traditional karate-style strike uses a sudden tightening of your body’s muscles to deliver a short blow. The longer range of the boxing blow facilitates greater acceleration to a higher speed and is more efficient in creating a knockout effect. The traditional karate-style strike is more suitable for breaking boards of wood, but the composition of wood fibers is quite different from the human body's protective tissues. The traditional straight karate strike takes longer to execute and requires slight preparation. Since even a split second is of the essence and the force used is more efficient with the boxing style, it has won popularity in the martial arts field. From the split second you decide to move your body and deliver the strike, all you need is to aim at the opponent’s chin. You then need to accelerate your arm to maximum speed, and maintain that speed as your fist lodges in your opponent’s face. The opponent’s skull will then shake the brain and nerves to a concussion. The ancient Olympics had fighting sports. Sparta is believed to have had boxing around 500 BC. Spartans used boxing to strengthen their fighters’ resilience. Boxing matches were not held since Spartans feared that it would lead to internal competitions, which could reduce the morale of the losers. Sparta did not want low morale on the battlefield. For many years the question of Bodhidharma’s existence has been a matter of controversy among historians. A legend prevails that the evolution of karate began around 5 BC when Bodhidharma arrived to the Shaolin temple in China from India, and taught Zen Buddhism. He introduced a set of exercises designed to strengthen the mind and body. This marked the roots of Shaolin-style temple boxing. This type of Chinese boxing, also called kung fu, concentrates on full-body energy blows and improving acrobatic level. Indian breathing techniques are incorporated, providing control of the muscles of the whole body while striking. This promotes self-resistance that helps achieve balance and force when striking and kicking. Krav Maga shows that it is not the most efficient approach. It is certainly forceful, but cannot be mastered quickly enough, and also does not promote a natural and fast reach to the opponent's pressure points, nor does it adhere to the principle of reaction time.

Sassy and Esis were still on the platform. They ran back and forth, throwing little pebbles and coral that had washed up on the wood at Thalassa to get her attention. Obviously, she gave them none. Esis got tired of being ignored. He jumped off the platform and onto Thalassa’s tail, running up her back and avoiding the little spines. He wove this way and that, avoiding Baine as he reached her head and beat his tiny little fists into Thalassa’s temple. “Esis!” Sophia shouted. “Get back here!” He didn’t listen to her and kept ramming her on the forehead. Thalassa’s eyes crossed to look at him, as if he was an annoyance. The brave little fucker. I was honestly impressed.

Fantastic.” I gesture to Denim, who straightens his spine, his hands tightening into fists. “I’ll let him tell you what this is all about.” He doesn’t answer as every pair of eyes settle on him, curiosity almost palpable until he’s forced to talk. “She squirted me with syrup.” “Oh, no no no, Denim. Don’t be shy. Tell the fine people why I treated you like the off-brand frozen waffle that you are.” I look around and shrug when he doesn’t answer. “Vicuna here thought it would be cute to exclude me from the funeral because he thinks I shouldn’t have been the heir.

His first assignment was to insert hinge-pins into the lids of newly assembled metal flasks. The walrus-faced foreman strode across to inspect the work. By beating his fists against his forehead and swearing mightily, he was able to hint that Gagarin had installed his pins completely the wrong way round. ‘The next day we all made better progress,’ Gagarin recalled. By his own admission, this was typical for him. He had no particular knack for getting things right the first time. He had to work quite hard at his tasks, practising them repeatedly. In a brief interview given many years later, Gorinshtein said:   At first Yura struck me as too small and frail. The only vacancy I had available was in the foundry group, which meant a lot of smoke, dust, heat and heavy lifting. I thought it would be beyond him. I can’t remember why I eventually ignored all these negative points and accepted him. It must have been the determination you could feel in him. Was he special? No, but he was hard-working.5

I’m not going to marry Denny.” He paused. “You have told him this?” “Not yet. I will tell him soon.” “When did you decide?” “Last night.” She lifted her face to his and read pure male arrogance in the set of his brow, the little quirk at the corner of his lips. How like him, to think that disastrous kiss had changed everything. “No, not in the drawing room. I knew it later, in the forest.” He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Cecy. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the werestag? I fear he will make you a prickly husband.” “Don’t be absurd. And stop deriding me for my honesty, while you hide behind that ironic smirk.” His eyes hardened, and he set his jaw. Curse him, he still wouldn’t let her in. Exasperated, she pushed back the piano bench and stood. “Of course I do not mean to wed a werestag,” she said, crossing to the window. “But that encounter showed me what I truly desire. I want the man who will be there when I need him. The man who will protect me, fight for me.” “I have fought for you, Cecily.” His voice was low, and resonant with emotion. “I have fought for you, protected you. I have suffered and bled for you.” He approached her, covering the Aubusson carpet with a lithe grace that made her weak in the knees. For a moment, she was reminded of the majestic white stag: the innate pride that forbade him to heed her commands; the sheer, wild beauty of his form. They were so alike, he and Luke. Cecily’s breath caught. What did he mean, he had fought for her, bled for her? Was he referring to last— “I have fought for you,” he repeated, thumping a fist to his chest. “Risked my life on battlefields— for you, and for Denny, and for Brooke and Portia and every last soul who calls England home. Is that not enough?” Mere inches separated them now. She swayed forward, carving the distance in half. Her heart drummed in her breast as she whispered, “No.” His eyes flared. “Cecy . . .” “It’s not enough.” She lifted one hand to his neck, curling her fingers into the velvety hair at his nape. Yes, every bit as soft as it looked. “I want more.” If their game was taunting, victory was hers. Grasping her by the hips, he crushed her to the wall and kissed her with abandon.

Was there anything in it?” she asked, not bothering to wipe the tear tracing the rim of her nose. “Our summer here, all those long walks and even longer conversations? When you kissed me that night, did it mean anything to you?” When he did not answer, she took three paces in his direction. “I know how proud you must be of those enigmatic silences, but I believe I deserve an answer.” She stood between his icy silence and the heated aura of the fire. Scorched on one side, bitterly cold on the other— like a slice of toast someone had forgotten to turn. “What sort of answer would you like to hear?” “An honest one.” “Are you certain? It’s my experience that young ladies vastly prefer fictions. Little stories, like Portia’s gothic novel.” “I am as fond of a good tale as anyone,” she replied, “but in this instance, I wish to know the truth.” “So you say. Let us try an experiment, shall we?” He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, his expression one of jaded languor. His every movement a negotiation between aristocratic grace and sheer brute strength. Power. He radiated power in every form— physical, intellectual, sensual— and he knew it. He knew that she sensed it. The fire was unbearably warm now. Blistering, really. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but Cecily would not retreat. “I could tell you,” he said darkly, seductively, “that I kissed you that night because I was desperate with love for you, overcome with passion, and that the color of my ardor has only deepened with time and separation. And that when I lay on a battlefield bleeding my guts out, surrounded by meaningless death and destruction, I remembered that kiss and was able to believe that there was something of innocence and beauty in this world, and it was you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Almost. Warm breath caressed her fingertips. “Do you like that answer?” She gave a breathless nod. She was a fool; she couldn’t help it. “You see?” He kissed her fingers. “Young ladies prefer fictions.” “You are a cad.” Cecily wrenched her hand away and balled it into a fist. “An arrogant, insufferable cad.” “Yes, yes. Now we come to the truth. Shall I give you an honest answer, then? That I kissed you that night for no other reason than that you looked uncommonly pretty and fresh, and though I doubted my ability to vanquish Napoleon, it was some balm to my pride to conquer you, to feel you tremble under my touch? And that now I return from war, to find everything changed, myself most of all. I scarcely recognize my surroundings, except . . .” He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly framed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Except Cecily Hale still looks at me with stars in her eyes, the same as she ever did. And when I touch her, she still trembles.” Oh. She was trembling. He swept his thumb across her cheek, and even her hair shivered. “And suddenly . . .” His voice cracked. Some unrehearsed emotion pitched his dispassionate drawl into a warm, expressive whisper. “Suddenly, I find myself determined to keep this one thing constant in my universe. Forever.” -Cecily & Luke

How can I explain? You know my parents died several years ago. I’ve no siblings, very few relations. And it didn’t take but one dusty skirmish in Portugal for me to realize— if I died on that battlefield, there would be no one to mourn me, but a handful of old school friends.” He touched her cheek. “No one but you. I did think of you. Constantly. I did remember that perfect, sweet kiss when I was bleeding and starving and pissing scared. It was the thought that kept me going: Cecily Hale cares whether I live or die. I couldn’t risk asking word of you, don’t you understand? I didn’t want to know. Surely I’d learn you’d married one of those twenty-six men queuing up for the pleasure of your hand, and I would have nothing left.” “But I didn’t marry any of them. I waited for you.” “Then you were a fool.” He gripped her chin. “Because that man you waited for . . . he isn’t coming back. I’ve changed, too much. Some men lose a leg in war; others, a few fingers. I surrendered part of my humanity. Just like the ridiculous werestag you’re out here chasing.” “I’m out here chasing you, you idiot!” She buffeted his shoulder with her fist. “You’re the one I love.” -Luke & Cecily

I can’t believe I’m here. I’m so frustrated. I took my anger out on this tree and hit it with my fist. It turned into a small block. This is great!

You can't measure what a boy did in innocence against what a man has to do for the rest of his life.

Little wise one. Still numb with shock, she stared off into the distance, remembering the night Hunter had recited his song to her. The People will call her the Little Wise One… She studied the rise, truly believing, for the first time, that she and Hunter were destined to be together. She tried to remember all the words to his song. They came to her in snatches. Between them will be a great canyon that runs high with blood. A silly legend, she had once called it. Now she knew better. Too much of it had already come to pass for her to scoff. A canyon of blood. Loretta curled her hands into fists. Hunter would return to her. She didn’t know when, or how, but suddenly she felt certain the song, once the bane of her existence, had become her greatest hope.

We are future memories. When our flesh is dust and our dreams faded we will be ghosts living in a land of legends, made real only by the memories of others. What we take with us into that realm of the dead, what we are remembered for, that will be the truth of our lives.’ – Solomon Voss, from The Edge of Illumination

That’s what I get when people talk about him anyway. He’s a legend over in Logan’s Beach. The people I know are loyal to him because over the years he’s been loyal to them. But he’s a loner. That’s pretty much all I know.” I rest my chin on my fist. “Interesting. He makes it seem like he puts mountains between him and the rest of the world.” Nine laughs and leans forward with his elbows on the counter. “He does. The thing is, my people, our mutual friends? They’re really fucking good climbers.

The blows are inflicted in a smooth order, at various angles; These blows are based on the principle of shifting the weight of the body from foot to foot, combined with the torsion of the torso. With the right hand, the weight of the body is transferred to the left leg, the torso turns left; the right hand, bent at the right angle at the elbow, performs a short, semicircular movement in the horizontal plane (or slightly from the bottom upwards or from the top downwards); fist twisted half a turn of his fingers towards the body.

Janson gave an eloquent shrug. “Myn, I’m living on borrowed time. I’ve nearly been killed more times than, than, well, more times than you’ve been slapped, certainly. If I wait until some imaginary distant point in my life to start enjoying it, I’ll be dead before I get there. But if I get killed tomorrow, at least I can be pretty sure that I enjoyed myself more than whoever’s killing me. You understand?

Tonin decided that it might be a good thing to be the King of the Droids. He was now a mighty leader, in command of hundreds of utility droids aboard Iron Fist.

fill pauses in the fight, thus keeping the initiative in your hands. An experienced boxer can disorganize the tactics of the most reasonable opponent, teasing him with numerous, accurate, repeated, still straight blows. A long straight blow to the head is relatively safe for the one dealing with him, because the boxer's body stays at a sufficient distance from the opponent and is not directly exposed to his short counter-attacks. Twisting the right torso protects the boxer, to some extent, from the opponents' right-hand counter-strikes. The blow is dealt directly from the boxing position from a distance. The weight of the body before the blow evenly spreads to both legs, or slightly moves to the right leg. With the right leg, the boxer sends the body forward towards the opponent. The left leg performs a sliding step forward. In this way, the body moves forward, the reflection with the right leg gives the movement even more dynamism. The left hand, directed before the blow to the enemy, quickly moves forward, fist into the target. The speed increases further thanks to the torsion of the trunk from the left to the right, harmonized with the simultaneous general movement forward. At the last moment of dealing a blow, his sharpness increases by the ending, rapid movement of the hand dealing the blow. The fist, when it touches the target, should be turned in half-turn revolving downwards, with the forearm in the intermediate system between pronation and supination.

The left hand touches the target at the moment when the weight of the body has been transferred to the left leg, preventing further movement of the body forward. This position of the body in the final phase of the blow, while at the same time resting on the front of the foot, makes it possible to simultaneously maintain the balance in the event of a miss. When dealing with single, fast, attacking blows from a distance, it is possible for accidents when the fist reaches the target earlier than the leg reaching will find a point of support. The right leg, after pushing away, at the very moment of the blow, pulls slightly to the left, at a distance indispensable for maintaining balance. Thanks to this, a stable balance is achieved, both at the time of striking and after the blow. The right hand, at the moment of dealing a blow, protects the chin with the open hand and the elbow of the torso down. Regardless, you should cover the chin with the left shoulder. Assurance (defense) from counter-blows should in some way be organic to be combined with an attacker's attack and ensure the safety of the blow to the assailant.

In order to ensure the defensive position of the chin, which should be carefully protected from impacts, the head is slightly inclined downwards; the fist of the left hand on the level of the shoulder joint, the elbow lowered, the hand should be held without tension, bent in the elbow joint; a fist with the back surface of the metacarpal bone in half a turn on the outside and up. In relation to the forearm, the fist takes a typical position for the moment of dealing a blow.

In order for the blow to reach the target effectively, a few left-handed blows are performed with the left hand, reducing the tightness of the opponent's defense and helping to choose the right moment to attack. When striking a step forward, the movement begins to obtain the necessary distance by the reflection of the right leg, sending the body forward, combined with the simultaneous twist of the trunk from the right to the left. The left leg is performed with a sliding pace towards the opponent, putting it at a distance from which you can deal that blow without a step. The right hand from the starting position (with the hand at the chin and the right side of the elbow lowered) violently protrudes fist forward, along a straight line to the target (without prior assault), not being behind the movement of the torso. The right leg, after bouncing, pulls up to the required distance to the left to maintain balance, or is left behind. When the weight of the body was transferred to the left leg, the muscles of the right leg relax, and the leg itself pulls up to the left somehow spontaneously, to the necessary distance and rotates on the fingers from right to left. This is indispensable, so that the right side of the torso, restrained by the strained muscles, goes forward, providing the blow with the greatest possible distance. Counter-attacks protect the left hand by covering the head with the hand; abandoned elbow - torso.

The tilt of the torso with the right-hand turn to the left and the forward fist move simultaneously. At the moment of the blow, the left leg is half-bent in the knee joint and rests on the front floor; part of the foot. It is indispensable not to lose balance in the case of a miss when the opponent leaves the back. In contrast to the straight left punch in the torso, usually used as a punctured punch, the right straight line is the strongest. After the right blow in the torso (as in the case of a blow to the head), it is possible to develop the attack with a left blow, with a reflection of the left leg. The counter-light curtain should be especially careful, because the left torso of the torso reveals parts of the body, nothing is secured from the opponent's right-hand strike. The left hand should cover the left side of the head with the palm of the hand and the torso with the lowered elbow. To protect himself from a counterattack, the boxer who missed should first of all take a defensive position, facing the opponent.

At the time of the blow, the torso turns to the right and straightens simultaneously. The hand, dealing a blow, bent at the elbow at an acute angle, performs a fast movement from bottom to top at the blow (forearm directed in a straight line to the target). The fist, with fingers pointing towards each other, touches the target with the heads of the metacarpal bones. The right hand protects the chin with the open hand, and the elbow is lowered - the right side of the torso.

Yes, sir. I think this plan is marginally better than dying of asphyxiation or starvation out in empty space, and it has the virtue of novelty. Implacable couldn’t anticipate we’d do it. Only crazy people could anticipate we’d do it.

Several strands of my long hair were cut. I watched the strands as they fluttered to the ground before being blown away by a breeze. Turning while still keeping low to the ground, I found a pair of legs directly in front of my face. I looked up to see another cloaked individual. “Hup!” Using the strength of my legs to push off the ground, I leapt up at a speed that was too fast for this person to keep up with. His foot missed as I moved backward. I came back in and swung my fist upward. A satisfying cracking noise echoed around the empty street as my fist slammed into the underside of this person’s chin. A garbled cry of pain emerged from the cloaked figure’s mouth as my attack sent the guy into the air. Blood and a tooth shot out of the cloaked person’s hood. My opponent flew backward in a parabolic arc, struck the ground hard, bounced several times, and rolled to a stop several meters away. “ALF!” a cry came from the first cloaked individual who attacked me. “You bastard!!” “It’s rich calling someone a bastard for fighting back after you attack him,” I muttered, though it seemed my attacker wasn’t paying any attention to what I said.

Players always talk about glitches and what they would do if they saw one, but I don’t think anyone really does ever get to see them. We have an opportunity to become legendary.” “Shut up.” It was Otis. He had come out of the house and had overheard that last bit. “You have no idea what legendary is. You wouldn’t know it if it hit you in the face.” “I sure would,” Pro said, balling his fists defiantly. Otis walked over to him, reached up, and slapped him in the face. “So?” Pro’s face turned beetroot red with anger, but then the redness subsided and he started to laugh. “You’re saying that you’re legendary?” “I know I’m legendary. Even the annoying Warrior over there is legendary, though he’s probably more legendary than he deserves.” “Hey!” I said, feeling insulted. Pro continued to laugh. “It’s alright Otis, I’ll be happy to call you the Little Legend, if you’d like.” Otis snarled. “Otis will be fine.” He reached into his inventory and pulled out a jar of applesauce and a spoon began eating.

Apple smiled at Hunter. And then—yes—she batted her eyelashes. He put a fist on his hip. “Of course! I—” “But no shirt-ripping, if you please,” Raven said. “Just the chopping.

salivating wolf was in hot pursuit of Lizzie Hearts, who kept shouting, “Off with its head! Off with its head!” “I’ll help you!” Hunter rushed toward Lizzie Hearts, pausing first to rip off his shirt, place his fists on his hips, and strike a bold pose. Out of nowhere, trumpets played a heroic fanfare. “Oh!” Cupid said in surprise. The winged, pink-haired girl had transferred to the school just that year. “I didn’t realize there would be so much trumpeting and tearing of shirts at Ever After High.” “Hunter does that,” Raven whispered to Cupid. “The shirt thing. We’re not really sure why.