Medieval Fantasy Quotes

Every time you take one path, you must live with the memory of the other: of a life left unchosen.

I believe the red stone was kept under lock and key in the dungeon far below Aldene Castle. I know that in 1507, when the Eldest visited Aldene, he was concerned about something dangerous that was held in Aldene’s dungeon.

Humanity today is like a waking dreamer, caught between the fantasies of sleep and the chaos of the real world. The mind seeks but cannot find the precise place and hour. We have created a Star Wars civilization, with Stone Age emotions, medieval institutions, and godlike technology. We thrash about. We are terribly confused by the mere fact of our existence, and a danger to ourselves and to the rest of life.

I said, leave her alone!” Her saviour was a slim young man with blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, and even in the gloom his eyes seemed to burn with ice-cold intensity.

In Esimore, Sulux was returning from tending to the herd as it grazed the summer pastures. The lone traveller was dressed in light blue clothing that shimmered white in the evening sun. The old prophesies had finally been fulfilled.

No, the treasure, if that is the word, cannot be seen. It lies beneath this land. The Dewar is looking to things that lie beneath us in the province of Banora.

Apparently it is also called the ‘Staff of Power’? It is an ancient relic that supposedly was found by the Blair clan in Bala and has been a protected by them over the centuries. Robert Reid – The Son

He now knew that war was not at all like culling deer, and the last one, with the man so close, had been the worst. The shock on the enemy’s face as the arrow halted his run would haunt him always. Robert Reid – White Light Red Fire

Why would an all powerful wizard come to protect Hillfoot? Why would he even be in this part of the Alol? Apart from in stories and folklore did a wizard actually exist anyway?” Robert Reid – The Son

To Audun’s amazement, as he spoke the words the staff came alive and red sparks tumbled down and over the wood. The Empress’s face paled. The courtroom froze in stunned silence, and then erupted with a hubbub of noise.

Master Fry had a parting gift for the boy, a new copy of White Light Red Fire. Raimund had already read the book once and wondered what his role would be in the ongoing story, in what he thought was a strange collision of the past with the present.

Valdin softened slightly. “Ramon you have been very well paid for this trip and I am sure that for a little extra gold the crew will not miss their shore leave. My job is done.” With that the huntsman shook Ramon’s hand and left the ship. Robert Reid – The Son

The two stag men entered the round tent and after a few moments reappeared, followed by a man of medium build who was dressed in light blue. His clothing shimmered, reflecting the firelight. Raimund knew immediately that this was the man from his dreams.

Does it make you brave to stick your hand in a bear's mouth? Would you do it again just because you didn't die?

The man more closely resembled a bear than a beggar. He was huge, with a full red beard and a mane of red hair. He entered the cottage without bothering to knock, and as he did so the cottage was illuminated for a moment by an intense red glow. It was just as in Raimund’s dreams.

She then continued. “All of the iron work was destroyed. Melted lumps of iron lay all round the smithies but there was one fragment that remained whole, a motif from one of the cannons, a dragon’s head. Below the fiery mouth, words were embossed in the metal, ‘Lex Talionis’.” Robert Reid – The Son

Blair continued. “The old man only visits me in dreams. Dressed always in black with amber fire as his companion, he is older than the mountains. He is the fire of othium and he comes with an ancient name, Oien. He demands you take your throne and raise his armies. You will rebuild for him the glory of the second age.” Robert Reid – The Son

Ala Moire let out a scream of agony, but as he fell he released a flame of white from his open hand. Armon was engulfed in a white brilliance and experienced a pain he had never felt before in all his dark life. His black robes fell to the floor, and the tattoos on his face faded to grey. Then Armon dissolved in a sheet of white, gone to join his ancestors.

My Lady, one of the rumours in the inns gives the wizard a name. Adun, a disinherited Aramin child from an ancient myth, supposedly arisen after hundreds of years from his grave in the Doran Mountains. It stuck me as a strange coincidence that the child’s name was so like the name of the Captain of the Swan.” Robert Reid – The Son

The explanation seemed to satisfy Rafe, although it concerned him that perhaps the new King had discovered that some of the trinkets from his warehouse were missing. Raimund was also concerned, although he did not let Rafe know. He could almost feel the red stone he still kept in his pocket rejoicing; its master was searching for it.

The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.

Angus reached the young woman to find that she was shaken more by the sudden fire than by the lion, as she had only seen it as it ran back to the mountain. Sliding from the back of the cob, he took the woman’s hand to calm her shaking. Quietly he introduced himself, and hesitantly she told him that her name was Elbeth, and she was the daughter of James Cameron.

The hunters’ crossbow bolts are capable of bringing down most of the animals they hunt, but not the auroch. To kill an auroch the hunters would fire three bolts into the animal, each of them coated with what they call ‘the juice of the yew’.” Robert Reid – The Son

As Audun detached the orb from the staff he heard the old alchemist’s words echo in his mind. “Your anger is good Audun, your power lies in your anger.” Audun opened his eyes again and lay back down in the wet grass as the words repeated themselves. Robert Reid – The Son

To rule all mankind requires not just power, but men called to do the bidding of that power. Until the rise of the Dewars, no one man could raise the resources necessary. Today, the Dewar can call on human forces that no one else can gather. With the power of othium, the Dewar and Oien will create again the horrors of the Second Age.

Faith continued, “My uncle brought Aleana to the house last autumn, September I think. She didn’t stay long, but she was nice, my mother and I liked her. My mother, Lachlan’s sister, and I both work for my uncle, looking after the house. You must be her friend Raimund. She talked about you and told me to look out for you. She was certain you would come to find her.

Raimund stepped down from the merchant’s wagon that had carried him from Tora, and stood for a moment taking it all in. He soaked in the noise, the smells, and the sights; the transformation of winter yielding its grip to spring, and new life. It was also time to renew his quest. It was time to find Aleana, and that meant he had to find passage to Boretar.

The salt of Elat stored on the deck began to dissolve and the purple colour in the water deepened as it spread out. As the concentration of salt increased around the first transport, the ferocity of the othium fires became more intense. In a few moments the heat and the salt caused the othium to reach critical level, and a huge explosion blew both transports into matchwood. The blasts grew in intensity as rock after rock exploded.

Ala Moire’s voice whispered in Alastair Munro’s head. “Well done, Alastair. The young King’s heart is for good and God is pleased. In future times he will be known as the Peacemaker and will become the greatest of all the Dewar kings.” History would remember Dewar the Third’s reign as the greatest of the age, sixty years of peace and prosperity, of law and order, and most of all, of humility and love. His journey had begun. Robert Reid – White Light Red Fire

Munro reached out towards Raimund and took the orb from him, clasping it between his hands. As soon as the orb was covered, the red fire died. The girls’ chanting reached a crescendo. Munro squeezed his hands together, and as he did so a sudden wind blew from the west. The shadow from the single stone reached out to touch Munro’s shoulder.

The Elder of Ewart spoke out. “Your words are powerful, Ala Moire, yet they will not suffice. The Dewar commands 50,000 troops in Erbea. We are unskilled in war. We have no hope of defeating or even slowing down this invasion. All we can do is hope to treat with them and negotiate some settlement. If this means we bow our heads, so be it. I will not call simple allegiance to a foreign king slavery. Unless the Dewar wants to rape our land, he can have my fealty.

The wizard broke out from his mountain grave As his red fire filled the cave The miners ran to escape their doom All in its path red fire would consume The fire would destroy Sparsholt Before cannons at the Alol melt On Tamin Plain the flax would burn And reveal a name… Arin The time of the wizard is here Destruction, death and fear Some say the world will end Others say a child is seeking revenge I am a minstrel and not a seer All I know is… The time of the wizard is here Destruction, death and fear Robert Reid – The Son

Some twenty-five miles to the north, the army of Bala was making progress as fast as it could towards the Coe Mountains. When the thunderous noise of the destruction in the Pass of Ing reached them, they turned to see the pass erupting like an angry volcano. The flames, even at this distance, were terrifying and shock was etched on every face as each man considered the defiant bravery of the day before, a bravery that could have had them consumed by withering fire. Robert Reid – White Light Red Fire

Valdin had learnt from Noren that there was no known passes over the Coe. Apparently Noren had heard stories about some underground passage that led through the mountains, but he had never visited the site. South of the Coe Mountains and stretching away to the east and the south were the endless grasslands of the Plains. Valdin had no idea how far he was from Bala’s eastern seaboard. From the vista below him it looked as though he had a long ride to catch up with his quarry.

The old man’s eyes sparked. “Elan of Ember, you I know, take me to your King.” He paused. “Now!” The old man spoke like a crack of thunder and red lightning flashed from his open hand. The portal gate beside Elan flashed with fire and disappeared. Without thought, Elan’s sword flew to his hand as he made towards the traveller. But again the red fire flashed. The sword glowed and like the gate, it was consumed by the fire. Elan collapsed, clutching the burnt fragments of his sword in his injured hand. “Take him to the King,” he grunted in pain. The guards did so without delay.

Valdin did not notice the grey stones in the distant rock, although they glinted in the setting sun, nor did he spot the three figures sitting below the rocks. Not that he would have spotted the men even if he had paid close attention. The two Coelete warriors had been instructed by Anaton. They were to look out for a man on a black stallion and follow him until they knew where he was going. The third Coelete would travel back through the passageway to report the sighting to Anaton.

A man inherited a field in which was an accumulation of old stone, part of an older hall. Of the old stone some had already been used in building the house in which he actually lived, not far from the old house of his fathers. Of the rest he took some and built a tower. But his friends coming perceived at once (without troubling to climb the steps) that these stones had formerly belonged to a more ancient building. So they pushed the tower over, with no little labour, and in order to look for hidden carvings and inscriptions, or to discover whence the man's distant forefathers had obtained their building material. Some suspecting a deposit of coal under the soil began to dig for it, and forgot even the stones. They all said: 'This tower is most interesting.' But they also said (after pushing it over): 'What a muddle it is in!' And even the man's own descendants, who might have been expected to consider what he had been about, were heard to murmur: 'He is such an odd fellow! Imagine using these old stones just to build a nonsensical tower! Why did not he restore the old house? he had no sense of proportion.' But from the top of that tower the man had been able to look out upon the sea.

The truth of the matter is the people in the Empire are suffering. I am their princess. If they suffer, I should be in anguish. If they are left out in the cold, I should freeze. If they must endure a wound, I should bleed.

Footfalls in the hallway, outside the door, alerted Audun to the fact that they had company. The steps were light, a woman’s step, Audun suddenly thought. A moment later the woman entered the room. Her light brown hair was tinged with grey, and the rich black velvet gown she wore spoke to her status. The hazel eyes swept the room. In that instant Audun knew with certainty the identity of his visitor. “Good morning, grandmother. Have you come to offer me my crown?” Robert Reid – The Son

Later, back in the Den of Thieves, Rafe explained it all to Raimund. The boy was partially mollified. Rafe did not know about Raimund’s dreams, and Raimund did not enlighten him, so Raimund puzzled by himself. What did it mean? How had Aleana come to be in the prison cell under the protection of the young man from his dreams – in the arms of the young man who was now the occupant of his family’s old cottage? How had the man ended up in prison, and what was his crime? Most importantly, what would happen to Aleana?

As his frustration grew he spoke to the orb. “I have the power, and you will obey me.” A few orange sparks danced down the staff and fizzed out as they hit the wet grass. Frustration turned to anger and Audun slammed the tip of the staff against the ground and shouted. “You will obey me.” In that moment the orb started to glow red and the staff became alive with amber flashes. Audun’s anger seemed to burn like the fire now emanating from the tip of the staff and as he raised the tip toward the first forge the red fire leapt across the open ground and the smithy exploded with a roar like thunder. Robert Reid – The Son

And once upon a time I wondered: Is writing epic fantasy not somehow a betrayal? Did I not somehow do a disservice to my own reality by paying so much attention to the power fantasies of disenchanted white men? But. Epic fantasy is not merely what Tolkien made it. This genre is rooted in the epic — and the truth is that there are plenty of epics out there which feature people like me. Sundiata’s badass mother. Dihya, warrior queen of the Amazighs. The Rain Queens. The Mino Warriors. Hatshepsut’s reign. Everything Harriet Tubman ever did. And more, so much more, just within the African components of my heritage. I haven’t even begun to explore the non-African stuff. So given all these myths, all these examinations of the possible… how can I not imagine more? How can I not envision an epic set somewhere other than medieval England, about someone other than an awkward white boy? How can I not use every building-block of my history and heritage and imagination when I make shit up? And how dare I disrespect that history, profane all my ancestors’ suffering and struggles, by giving up the freedom to imagine that they’ve won for me.

Elbeth and Angus embraced and stepped back to exchange the rings. As the two lovers grasped each other’s right hands the rings shone with white intensity, dimmed and then reappeared on each of their left hands. Between their right hands a silver quaich appeared with the Cameron motto shining brightly: Aonaibh Ri Chéile – let us unite – and united they were. But then, as the couple lifted the ancient wedding cup to their lips, Munro once again heard Ala Moire’s voice from beyond the grave, and this time it carried a warning. “To your right Alastair, evil stalks here in the shadows!” Robert Reid – White Light Red Fire

He assumed that Audun, who obviously knew whether or not he had murdered Holger, believed it was possible that Arvid’s nephew was guilty. There were two problems with this: first, of course, Raimund knew that the blood-soaked clothes came from the unsolved murder of a jeweller four years earlier, a crime that Arvid was guilty of. Secondly, Arvid had not seen the boy since that bloody night in 1505. Back then the boy had been ten years old; now he would be fourteen and probably more man than boy. Arvid wondered if he would recognise Raimund even if he saw him. Nonetheless, given the circumstances, he knew he had better be helpful, not least because he was somewhat scared of the huntsman.

The more one knows, the sooner one grows old.

Some people are destined to be a lighthouse for a lost comrade.

The skies were filled with an unreal fire; blue, burnt with amber, red, orange and yellow. This fire was no natural thing. It clawed across the sky, and below it all life shivered and retreated. The land lay scorched, the mountains and glens trembling. The man stood pale in the false light, a statue, watching. Then he moved, shaking off the stillness, and looked towards the power that shook the world. His clenched fist opened and clean white light leapt to the sky. A huge concussion rocked the mountains. All light was quenched. The sky turned black, then clear and blue. A distant rainbow promised that all was well and God still cared for this lost land. Alastair Munro fell back, the soft heather a safety net, all power gone, all anger lost. Angus Ferguson was beside him as ever, a reassuring voice, a reminder of why Munro was there, why he must go on, why this was his destiny

How do you explain plastic to a medieval forest bard?

Tis said if you will but cast a desire under the crescent moon as stars cross its path, your wish will always come true.

I'm a piece of glass with a crack spreading across me, spidering off in all directions, waiting to shatter me completely.

Youth believes itself immortal. There is a cure for such an attitude, but unfortunately it is a cure from which one never recovers.

You have to hold on and be patient. Pain lasts for a while, but you must leave room for happiness when you find it.

Smart people are always learning something new. Stupid people just stay stupid. Remember that.

Ah, life in medieval times! Yeah, we only have to worry about losing our heads every day.

A bit of fantasy can be good for ones heart

Unfortunately, the world does not always act in a manner consistent with one's plans for it.

So our medieval ancestors were happy because they found meaning to life in collective delusions about the afterlife? Yes. As long as nobody punctured their fantasies, why shouldn’t they?

There were just four things a woman could be (five at most): daughter, wife, mother, widow, and slut. That was it. There were no other roles for them—no free and independent women, no feminism, no selfsufficiency. If you didn’t like it, you could be branded a witch and executed.

All medieval and classic cultures of the ancient world, including those on which Tolkien modeled his elves, routinely exposed their young and marriageable women to the fortunes of war, because bearing and raising the next generation of warriors is not needed for equality-loving elves. Equality-loving elves. Who are monarchists. With a class system. Of ranks. Battles are more fun when attractive young women are dismembered and desecrated by goblins! I believe that this is one point where C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and all Christian fantasy writers from before World War Two were completely agreed upon, and it is a point necessary in order correctly to capture the mood and tone and nuance of the medieval romances or Norse sagas such writers were straining their every artistic nerve and sinew to create. So, wait, we have an ancient and ageless society of elves where the virgin maidens go off to war, but these same virgin maidens must abide by the decision of their father or liege lord for permission to marry? -- The Desolation of Tolkien

What kind of person do you wish to be? A part of those who take action, who try the hardest, or of those who go with the flow?

Life was a destiny waiting to be seized.

She would not cry in front of this man who had torn her world apart. She would wait for an opportunity and kill him.

When the inner light of the soul shone through like that, the shape of nose or ears became unimportant. She was shining, and it looked almost like a miracle.

Even the best-laid plans turn to hell when exposed to reality.

People generally forget the things they are ashamed of, but no one ever forgets an insult.

The first stars had kindled in a sky gone royally violet, and the moon heaved a faint silver curve over the ragged line of palaces.

There are more wicked things on this earth than the Specter King. You only have to know where to look.

It was true. No good ever came from impetuous acts of vengeance or spite. Wise women were patient.

Men prefer to keep power to themselves. They make rules that dictate who gets to use it, and how, and why. I broke those rules when I saved you with my magic, and I’ll never regret it.

A generation of lawyers and statisticians cut their teeth on the to-hit and damage tables of medieval fantasy. File it under yet another ridiculous thing that probably saved somebody’s life.

In retrospect, I would have to recommend against epiphanies. They are difficult on an emotional level, and they also sometimes move you to foolish and inopportune acts, which was what happened in my case.

...while epic fantasy is based on the fairy tale of the just war, that’s not one you’ll find in Grimm or Disney, and most will never recognize the shape of it. I think the fantasy genre pitches its tent in the medieval campground for the very reason that we even bother to write stories about things that never happened in the first place: because it says something subtle and true about our own world, something it is difficult to say straight out, with a straight face. Something you need tools to say, you need cheat codes for the human brain--a candy princess or a sugar-coated unicorn to wash down the sour taste of how bad things can really get. See, I think our culture has a slash running through the middle of it, too. Past/Future, Conservative/Liberal, Online/Offline. Virgin/Whore. And yes: Classical/Medieval. I think we’re torn between the Classical Narrative of Self and the Medieval Narrative of Self, between the choice of Achilles and Keep Calm and Carry On. The Classical internal monologue goes like this: do anything, anything, only don’t be forgotten. Yes, this one sacrificed his daughter on a slab at Aulis, that one married his mother and tore out his eyes, and oh that guy ate his kids in a pie. But you remember their names, don’t you? So it’s all good in the end. Give a Greek soul a choice between a short life full of glory and a name echoing down the halls of time and a long, gentle life full of children and a quiet sort of virtue, and he’ll always go down in flames. That’s what the Iliad is all about, and the Odyssey too. When you get to Hades, you gotta have a story to tell, because the rest of eternity is just forgetting and hoping some mortal shows up on a quest and lets you drink blood from a bowl so you can remember who you were for one hour. And every bit of cultural narrative in America says that we are all Odysseus, we are all Agamemnon, all Atreus, all Achilles. That we as a nation made that choice and chose glory and personal valor, and woe betide any inconvenient “other people” who get in our way. We tell the tales around the campfire of men who came from nothing to run dotcom empires, of a million dollars made overnight, of an actress marrying a prince from Monaco, of athletes and stars and artists and cowboys and gangsters and bootleggers and talk show hosts who hitched up their bootstraps and bent the world to their will. Whose names you all know. And we say: that can be each and every one of us and if it isn’t, it’s your fault. You didn’t have the excellence for it. You didn’t work hard enough. The story wasn’t about you, and the only good stories are the kind that have big, unignorable, undeniable heroes.

How gorgeous this chess set is.' Each piece was a delicate marble fantasy of medieval warfare. The paint had long ago worn off, except for faint touches of red, in the fury of the king's eyes, on the queen's lower lip, in the bishop's robe.

L’erede al trono era morto. Al suo posto, sarebbe salita Kailja Goldrosagon. La donna di ferro.

Lack of movement is a formidable force to overcome.

Once again I felt light-headed, but this time it wasn't from the scent of lilacs; it was from the scent of my own death.

You change the world, but the world changes you, too. There’s no getting around it. I have to survive here, no matter what it costs me.

A last, despairing thought shot through Aliya’s mind, Is this it? I don’t want to die! I want to live! Then everything went dark.

Eventually the old herbalist realized that Jaimie had knowledge to share, as well. Two intelligent people can always find common ground.

In this world, women held a position somewhere between horses and cows. Aristocratic women were slightly better off.

These people don’t even realize how tied down they are by thinking of themselves as either lords or peasants.

Two intelligent people can always find common ground.

It is dangerous to become attached to a du Lac. He will break your heart, and you will not recover.

Are you educated in the art of medicine?” Yeah, the art of Walgreens and Urgent Care. “A bit,” I hedged.

You were bringing me all those flowers when I was sick, like you were wooing me. How could my poor, weak heart resist?

The gesture earned him an exasperated breath. "Of course it will happen again. I have other men to lie to me, Adrian. Now sit and give me truth.

One lives longer knowing less

You know better than me that there are people who serve God and those who serve only their own selves.

The death of a loved one is a terrible thing. Even more terrible is the death of the only dear person; the one who shares your every breath.

So that's how it was. Palaces, kings... and thugs like that, who, like locusts, move from one century to another.

Don't burden yourself, the world is a heavy thing to carry.

A smile is deceptive, I have found. Some are real… and some are false. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.

Even the best laid plans turn to hell when exposed to reality

Don't threaten me with a good time.

A little less civilization would mean a much healthier planet; that’s a fact.

technology should never be allowed to outrun morality.

Which world is more honest?

Her stomach rumbled, and Lily wondered how many calories her diplomacy had burned.

Beauty is skin-deep, young man.

How much do we lose because we are young and stupid?

Time doesn’t really heal all wounds. It just creates a layer of years over something that still pulses and bleeds. When someone cuts a piece out of your heart, it never heals.

Children should not repeat their parents’ mistakes, especially if their parents are around to warn them.

Lily believed that if you don’t take care of your own army, you are essentially taking care of someone else’s army.

A dark shape parts the clouds above and passes over eastern kingdoms, soaring unceasingly and stopping for none. It is coming here, Castian Valinor, and it is coming for you.

Their pain is no longer, their glory remembers. Their names stronger, their honor forever.

Thus Arthur achieved the adventure of the sword that day and entered into his birthright of royalty. Wherefore, may God grant His Grace unto you all that ye too may likewise succeed in your undertakings. For any man may be a king in that life in which he is placed if so he may draw forth the sword of success from out of the iron of circumstance. Wherefore when your time of assay cometh, I do hope it may be with you as it was with Arthur that day, and that ye too may achieve success with entire satisfaction unto yourself and to your great glory and perfect happiness.

She was not the type of woman to keep a lover. A man would have to work hard day and night to even gain her notice. She was intelligent, strong, interesting, and even a little bit mysterious.

Look, I don't have a problem with medieval Europe. I have a problem with modern fantasy's fetishization of medieval Europe; that's different. So many fantasy writers and fans simplify the social structure of the period, monotonize the cultural interactions, treat conflicts as binaries instead of the complicated dynamic tapestry they actually were. They're not doing medieval Europe, they're doing Simplistic British Isles Fantasy Full of Lots of Guys with Swords And Not Much Else. Not all medieval European fantasy does this, of course - but enough does that frankly, they've turned me off the setting.

In her previous life, Aliya had read somewhere that technology should never be allowed to outrun morality. Otherwise, the clock will strike Armageddon, and both God and the Devil will turn tail and run.

Have you ever felt the thrum of the forest in your veins?” Issylte nodded, her eyes wide with discovery and delight. She held Maiwenn’s gaze, nearly breathless with anticipation. “That, Églantine, is power.

I am whatever I need to be to survive. Roles are as interchangeable as clothes and there are enough fools out there for me to live a long and prosperous life. The role I’ll play next is that of executioner,” Rondo replied, grinning at each pause.

Alessandro, in pictures or in person, he made me think of duels and courting, of a time when men carried swords and women concealed daggers. There was a dangerous edge to him, hidden deep in his eyes, and it drew me to him like a magnet. But that Alessandro was a fantasy, born from reading too many books set in medieval Italy with all its wars, glamour, art, and poison. He was a fantasy the way imagining being a secret princess was a fantasy. I knew it wasn’t real, but it was so seductive, I couldn’t let it go.

All people are, at heart, egocentric. We exist at the center of our own little universes. We believe that we are living out our lives as best we can, and that we have our own sphere of influence which exists of both friends and enemies. They in turn have their own friends and enemies with whom they interact. That is a given. But we, each of us, tend to put ourselves ahead of others because we believe that we are significant. We must attend to our own needs, desires, wants, and aspirations, because each of us is our own greatest priority. No one else cares for us as much as we do, no one else can exist in our skin. We think we're important. It is where our sense of self-worth comes up, where our egos reside, where "we" are. And we believe that each of our lives means something.

Yes, women and warriors were more alike than one might expect. After all, the entirety of a woman's life was made of blood. Our wombs seized and shed each month. Our babies were born of such agony and gore men could not comprehend. Both women and warriors were students of pain.

Men love those creatures that need to be taken care of. To be with a strong and wise woman is obliging. If you want to tame a lioness you need to become a lion, not a goat. A doe is easier to keep. You give her a little grass, a little milk, and she is tamed. Who do you think a man would choose?

But she is a woman.” “As am I, pastor. Has it ever occurred to you that women may be just as useful as men in this world? After all, women often have a sincere desire to help those who are suffering and in need. Men defend home and country, and women manage the home so that men have somewhere to return to.

Only in this world of topsy-turvy attitudes could outright stupidity, such as I had displayed, be something that got me high marks. I had an amused glimmering of a notion at that point: If I ever turned out to be a complete and utter fool, I could wind up running the whole kingdom. It was something to consider.

highly in a subjective well-being questionnaire. So our medieval ancestors were happy because they found meaning to life in collective delusions about the afterlife? Yes. As long as nobody punctured their fantasies, why shouldn’t they? As far as we can tell, from a purely scientific viewpoint, human life has absolutely no meaning

You used to be so full of life, so happy, and then— men come back from war bent out of shape all the time, it is a given. But you, you came back to me like a phantom of your former self, you were not just bent out of shape, you were well and truly shattered. On the outside you are as hard as steel, you always have been, but you were a broken man.

The death of a loved one is a terrible thing. Even more terrible is the death of the only dear person; the one who shares your every breath. But the worst thing is when the loved one is slowly dying before your very eyes; when you see and understand everything but cannot help him; when you are prepared to give up your life for his, but they won't take it.

Molds are driven by fantasy and a desire for the spectacular, and our sense of spectacle changes over time. Medieval gingerbread molds, hand carved from wood, might depict harts and does, wild boars and saints. The stock of images available to us now is far larger; but our imaginations are often smaller. In kitchen shops today, you can buy a large cake mold resembling a giant cupcake.

Yes, Lilian Earton was a large woman. She was fat. There was no other word for it. But at the same time, there was something indefinable about her. Was it an inner light? A sparkle in her eyes? The way she spoke and moved and made things move around her? The man couldn’t have said exactly. He didn’t know the word “charisma,” but that was exactly what she had. She had personality that no layers of fat could hide. She was impressive.

But that has nothing to do with gods! It is only about power! And why must it come to a war between this way or that? "Because me are fools." "But you chose a life among men, at a monastery," Angharad pointed out. Brother Thomas did not smile. "And now I am a hermit, living in the woods." "A culdee," she corrected him. "Why did you leave?" "I fell out with the priest there, and I wished to be closer to God. That is all you need know." "You're god or mine?" Angharad asked. Brother Thomas looked amused. "Are they not one and the same?

There was movement in the mists. The valley below them was full of creatures of myth, impossible creatures from the stories Nikias had told Merikh as a child. Pale dogs the size of ponies, hairless and covered in spines, snarled at the shambling corpses of mortohas. Red-eyed leopards disappeared into the mists and reappeared on the opposite side of the valley whenever they wished. Within the center, regarded warily by the rest of the creatures, were creatures of unnatural beauty. Rakshasas. Undead blood drinkers that could hide in humanoid form.

So our medieval ancestors were happy because they found meaning to life in collective delusions about the afterlife? Yes. As long as nobody punctured their fantasies, why shouldn’t they? As far as we can tell, from a purely scientific viewpoint, human life has absolutely no meaning. Humans are the outcome of blind evolutionary processes that operate without goal or purpose. Our actions are not part of some divine cosmic plan, and if planet Earth were to blow up tomorrow morning, the universe would probably keep going about its business as usual. As far as we can tell at this point, human subjectivity would not be missed. Hence any meaning that people ascribe to their lives is just a delusion.

The House of Fantasy is built of stone and wood and furnished in High Medieval. Its people travel by horse and galley, fight with sword and spell and battle-axe, communicate by palantir or raven, and break bread with elves and dragons. The House of Science Fiction is built of duralloy and plastic and furnished in Faux Future. Its people travel by starship and aircar, fight with nukes and tailored germs, communicate by ansible and laser, and break protein bars with aliens. The House of Horror is built of bone and cobwebs and furnished in Ghastly Gothick. Its people travel only by night, fight with anything that will kill messily, communicate in screams and shrieks and gibbers, and sip blood with vampires and werewolves. The Furniture Rule, I call it. Forget the definitions. Furniture Rules.

When Merikh crouched down and carefully pulled the rug back, Loralee instinctively retreated a few steps. Green fog began to emanate from Merikh’s fingertips. It thickened as it touched the ground. After a moment, the fog completed a circle around the stain. Strange glyphs that resembled the ones from the raven scroll ran along the outside rim of the circle. “It would seem a history lesson is in order,” Merikh said...The room went cold. Not the sort of cold that happened when Merikh grew irritable. The sort of cold that cut to Loralee’s bones and made them feel brittle. Her joints ached when she brought her hands to her bare arms. Even when she rubbed her skin, she couldn’t make them warm. It was only after that realization that Loralee came to another one: the room was dark, as if the sun were setting.

The dominant literary mode of the twentieth century has been the fantastic. This may appear a surprising claim, which would not have seemed even remotely conceivable at the start of the century and which is bound to encounter fierce resistance even now. However, when the time comes to look back at the century, it seems very likely that future literary historians, detached from the squabbles of our present, will see as its most representative and distinctive works books like J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, and also George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four and Animal Farm, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies and The Inheritors, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat’s Cradle, Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness and The Dispossessed, Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot-49 and Gravity’s Rainbow. The list could readily be extended, back to the late nineteenth century with H.G. Wells’s The Island of Dr Moreau and The War of the Worlds, and up to writers currently active like Stephen R. Donaldson and George R.R. Martin. It could take in authors as different, not to say opposed, as Kingsley and Martin Amis, Anthony Burgess, Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, Don DeLillo, and Julian Barnes. By the end of the century, even authors deeply committed to the realist novel have often found themselves unable to resist the gravitational pull of the fantastic as a literary mode. This is not the same, one should note, as fantasy as a literary genre – of the authors listed above, only four besides Tolkien would find their works regularly placed on the ‘fantasy’ shelves of bookshops, and ‘the fantastic’ includes many genres besides fantasy: allegory and parable, fairy-tale, horror and science fiction, modern ghost-story and medieval romance. Nevertheless, the point remains. Those authors of the twentieth century who have spoken most powerfully to and for their contemporaries have for some reason found it necessary to use the metaphoric mode of fantasy, to write about worlds and creatures which we know do not exist, whether Tolkien’s ‘Middle-earth’, Orwell’s ‘Ingsoc’, the remote islands of Golding and Wells, or the Martians and Tralfa-madorians who burst into peaceful English or American suburbia in Wells and Vonnegut. A ready explanation for this phenomenon is of course that it represents a kind of literary disease, whose sufferers – the millions of readers of fantasy – should be scorned, pitied, or rehabilitated back to correct and proper taste. Commonly the disease is said to be ‘escapism’: readers and writers of fantasy are fleeing from reality. The problem with this is that so many of the originators of the later twentieth-century fantastic mode, including all four of those first mentioned above (Tolkien, Orwell, Golding, Vonnegut) are combat veterans, present at or at least deeply involved in the most traumatically significant events of the century, such as the Battle of the Somme (Tolkien), the bombing of Dresden (Vonnegut), the rise and early victory of fascism (Orwell). Nor can anyone say that they turned their backs on these events. Rather, they had to find some way of communicating and commenting on them. It is strange that this had, for some reason, in so many cases to involve fantasy as well as realism, but that is what has happened.

Ptolemy's massive compendium of mathematical and astronomical calculations had been rediscovered in 1410, after centuries of neglect. The revival of classical learning pushed aside medieval notions of the world based on a literal--yet magical--interpretation of the Bible, but even though Ptolemy's rigorous approach to mathematics was more sophisticated than monkish fantasies of the cosmos, his depiction of the globe contained significant gaps and errors. Following Ptolemy's example, European cosmologists disregarded the Pacific Ocean, which covers a third of the world's surface, from their maps, and they presented incomplete renditions of the American continent based on reports and rumors rather than direct observations. Ptolemy's omissions inadvertently encouraged exploration because he made the world seem smaller and more navigable than it really was. If he had correctly estimated the size of the world, the Age of Discovery might have never ocurred.

She felt hot tears soaking his shirt as she began to sob. “Forgive you? What king asks forgiveness of a slave?” “Avin…” he gently pushed her away. “I have wronged you. Terribly.” “Yes,” she said sadly. “But we both know it cannot be reversed. Not now. To do so will only throw Windbourne back in turmoil.” She wiped away tears with the back of her hand and looked towards the window. “I can no longer love these people after what they did, but I can acknowledge that they have suffered enough. The long winter was not their fault, but neither was the lie that made them angry. And now simple people have been promised a humbled queen, and you must deliver.” He sighed. “It is too much to ask,” he said. “Then don’t.” Avin gave him the smallest, and saddest of smiles. “You are the king,” she said. “So train me.” The tears came then, and she softened in his arms. “Save me, Xander, lest I never feel again.” “I am sorry,” he said into her hair. “I am sorry I didn’t come. I am sorry I was not the one to kill your father for the hurt he caused you. I am sorry that I caused you even more. I should have known better. I should have never believed the worst.” He put his forehead against hers. “Let me make it better, my love.

I lived in New York City back in the 1980s, which is when the Bordertown series was created. New York was a different place then -- dirtier, edgier, more dangerous, but also in some ways more exciting. The downtown music scene was exploding -- punk and folk music were everywhere -- and it wasn't as expensive to live there then, so a lot of young artists, musicians, writers, etc. etc. were all living and doing crazy things in scruffy neighborhoods like the East Village. I was a Fantasy Editor for a publishing company back then -- but in those days, "fantasy" to most people meant "imaginary world" books, like Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. A number of the younger writers in the field, however, wanted to create a branch of fantasy that was rooted in contemporary, urban North America, rather than medieval or pastoral Europe. I'd already been working with some of these folks (Charles de Lint, Emma Bull, etc.), who were writing novels that would become the foundations for the current Urban Fantasy field. At the time, these kinds of stories were considered so strange and different, it was actually hard to get them into print. When I was asked by a publishing company to create a shared-world anthology for Young Adult readers, I wanted to create an Urban Fantasy setting that was something like a magical version of New York...but I didn't want it to actually be New York. I want it to be any city and every city -- a place that anyone from anywhere could go to or relate to. The idea of placing it on the border of Elfland came from the fact that I'd just re-read a fantasy classic called The King of Elfland's Daughter by the Irish writer Lord Dunsany. I love stories that take place on the borderlands between two different worlds...and so I borrowed this concept, but adapted it to a modern, punky, urban setting. I drew upon elements of the various cities I knew best -- New York, Boston, London, Dublin, maybe even a little of Mexico City, where I'd been for a little while as a teen -- and scrambled them up and turned them into Bordertown. There actually IS a Mad River in southern Ohio (where I went to college) and I always thought that was a great name, so I imported it to Bordertown. As for the water being red, that came from the river of blood in the Scottish folk ballad "Thomas the Rhymer," which Thomas must cross to get into Elfland. [speaking about the Borderland series she "founded" and how she came up with the setting. Link to source; Q&A with Holly, Ellen & Terri!]

The Nazis no longer resorted to hypocritical pretexts about the urgency of opposing and eliminating Marxism. They did not just rob and steal, they gave free rein to every kind of private vengeful instinct. University professors were forced to scrub the streets with their bare hands; devout, white-bearded Jews were hauled into the synagogues by young men bawling with glee, and made to perform knee-bends while shouting “Heil Hitler!” in chorus. They rounded up innocent citizens in the streets like rabbits and dragged them away to sweep the steps of the SA barracks. All the sick, perverted fantasies they had thought up over many nights of sadistic imaginings were now put into practice in broad daylight. They broke into apartments and tore the jewels out of the ears of trembling women—it was the kind of thing that might have happened when cities were plundered hundreds of years ago in medieval wars, but the shameless pleasure they took in the public infliction of pain, psychological torture and all the refinements of humiliation was something new. All this has been described not by one victim but by thousands, and a more peaceful age, not morally exhausted like our own, will shudder some day to read what horrors were inflicted on that cultured city in the twentieth century by a single half-deranged man. For in the midst of his military and political victories, that was Hitler’s most diabolical triumph—one man succeeded in deadening every idea of what is just and right by the constant attrition of excess. Before

So our medieval ancestors were happy because they found meaning to life in collective delusions about the afterlife? Yes. As long as nobody punctured their fantasies, why shouldn’t they? As far as we can tell, from a purely scientific viewpoint, human life has absolutely no meaning. Humans are the outcome of blind evolutionary processes that operate without goal or purpose. Our actions are not part of some divine cosmic plan, and if planet Earth were to blow up tomorrow morning, the universe would probably keep going about its business as usual. As far as we can tell at this point, human subjectivity would not be missed. Hence any meaning that people ascribe to their lives is just a delusion. The other-worldly meanings medieval people found in their lives were no more deluded than the modern humanist, nationalist and capitalist meanings modern people find. The scientist who says her life is meaningful because she increases the store of human knowledge, the soldier who declares that his life is meaningful because he fights to defend his homeland, and the entrepreneur who finds meaning in building a new company are no less delusional than their medieval counterparts who found meaning in reading scriptures, going on a crusade or building a new cathedral. So perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions. As long as my personal narrative is in line with the narratives of the people around me, I can convince myself that my life is meaningful, and find happiness in that conviction.

Many real-world Northwestern endonyms have European origins, such as “Portland,” “Victoria,” “Bellingham,” and “Richland.” To address this phenomenon while also contributing a sense of the fantastic, I chose to utilize a forgotten nineteenth century European artificial language as a source. Volapük is clumsy and awkward, but shares a relationship with English vocabulary (upon which it is based) that I was able to exploit. In my fictional universe, that relationship is swapped, and English (or rather, “Vendelabodish”) words derive from Volapük (“Valütapük”). This turns Volapük into an ancient Latin-like speech, offering texture to a fictional history of the colonizers of my fictional planets. Does one have to understand ancient Rome and medieval Europe and America’s Thirteen Colonies to understand the modern Pacific Northwest? Nah. But exploring the character and motivations of a migrating, imperial culture certainly sets the stage for explaining a modernist backlash against the atrocities that inevitably come with colonization.             The vocabulary of Volapük has also given flavor that is appropriate, I feel, to the quasi-North American setting. While high fantasy worlds seem to be built with pillars of European fairy tales, the universe of Geoduck Street is intentionally built with logs of North American tall tales. Tolkien could wax poetic about the aesthetic beauty of his Elvish words all he wanted, since aesthetic beauty fits the mold of fairies and shimmering palaces, but Geoduck Street needed a “whopper-spinning” approach to artificial language that would make a flapjack-eating Paul Bunyan proud. A prominent case in point: in this fictional universe, the word “yagalöp” forms the etymological root of “jackalope.” “Yag,” in the original nineteenth century iteration of Volapük, means “hunting,” while “löp” means “summit.” Combining them together makes them “the summit of hunting.” How could a jackalope not be a point of pride among hunting trophies?

The Addams dwelling at 25 West Fifty-fourth Street was directly behind the Museum of Modern Art, at the top of the building. It was reached by an ancient elevator, which rumbled up to the twelfth floor. From there, one climbed through a red-painted stairwell where a real mounted crossbow hovered. The Addams door was marked by a "big black number 13," and a knocker in the shape of a vampire. ...Inside, one entered a little kingdom that fulfilled every fantasy one might have entertained about its inhabitant. On a pedestal in the corner of the bookcase stood a rare "Maximilian" suit of armor, which Addams had bought at a good price ("a bargain at $700")... It was joined by a half-suit, a North Italian Morion of "Spanish" form, circa 1570-80, and a collection of warrior helmets, perched on long stalks like decapitated heads... There were enough arms and armaments to defend the Addams fortress against the most persistent invader: wheel-lock guns; an Italian prod; two maces; three swords. Above a sofa bed, a spectacular array of medieval crossbows rose like birds in flight. "Don't worry, they've only fallen down once," Addams once told an overnight guest. ... Everywhere one looked in the apartment, something caught the eye. A rare papier-mache and polychrome anatomical study figure, nineteenth century, with removable organs and body parts captioned in French, protected by a glass bell. ("It's not exactly another human heart beating in the house, but it's close enough." said Addams.) A set of engraved aquatint plates from an antique book on armor. A lamp in the shape of a miniature suit of armor, topped by a black shade. There were various snakes; biopsy scissors ("It reaches inside, and nips a little piece of flesh," explained Addams); and a shiny human thighbone - a Christmas present from one wife. There was a sewing basket fashioned from an armadillo, a gift from another. In front of the couch stood a most unusual coffee table - "a drying out table," the man at the wonderfully named antiques shop, the Gettysburg Sutler, had called it. ("What was dried on it?" a reporter had asked. "Bodies," said Addams.)...

The concentrated structure of musical form, based on dramatic climaxes, gradually breaks up in romanticism and gives way again to the cumulative composition of the older music. Sonata form falls to pieces and is replaced more and more often by other, less severe and less schematically moulded forms—by small-scale lyrical and descriptive genres, such as the Fantasy and the Rhapsody, the Arabesque and the Étude, the Intermezzo and the Impromptu, the Improvisation and the Variation. Even extensive works are often made up of such miniature forms, which no longer constitute, from the structural point of view, the acts of a drama, but the scenes of a revue. A classical sonata or symphony was the world in parvo: a microcosm. A succession of musical pictures, such as Schumann’s Carnaval or Liszt’s Années de Pèlerinage, is like a painter’s sketch-book; it may contain magnificent lyrical-impressionistic details, but it abandons the attempt to create a total impression and an organic unity from the very beginning. [...] This change of form is accompanied by the literary inclinations of the composers and their bias towards programme music. The intermingling of forms also makes itself felt in music and is expressed most conspicuously in the fact that the romantic composers are often very gifted and important writers. In the painting and poetry of the period the disintegration of form does not proceed anything like so quickly, nor is it so far-reaching as in music. The explanation of the difference is partly that the cyclical ‘medieval’ structure had long since been overcome in the other arts, whereas it remained predominant in music until the middle of the eighteenth century, and only began to yield to formal unity after the death of Bach. In music it was therefore much easier to revert to it than, for example, in painting where it was completely out of date. The romantics’ historical interest in old music and the revival of Bach’s prestige had, however, only a subordinate part in the dissolution of strict sonata form, the real reason is to be sought in a change of taste which was in essentials sociologically conditioned.

A small nation’s fight for freedom from tyranny and a deadly foe Robert Reid – White Light Red Fire

He now knew that war was not at all like culling deer, and the last one, with the man so close, had been the worst. The shock on the enemy’s face as the arrow halted his run would haunt him always. Robert Reid – White Light Red Fire

You’ve been forged in despair, Yza, and tempered in hardship. It’s made you considerate in ways many wouldn’t be. That is why we were given a power that could not just feed a nation, but temper it, too. Because you, of all people, will use it for good.

Almost unbearably thicker than normal, sulfur polluted the air, entwining with the fog in an elusive dance. All this chaos woven together into a strange, alien rhythm: the thrill of battle.

He could feel his heart beating rapidly beneath his armor—flames were spreading, dancing to the perverted song of death. Screams of fear harmonized, a demented plea for mercy that would never be given. The song spiraled up with the smoke, polluting the air and stretching over the broken battlefield below.

Laurel let out a shriek of derisive laughter. “Then what do you call the Lux Civil War? Darling, if you want to win me back, work harder!

There’s nothing in the world quite so refreshing as that accomplished feeling of enjoying a big breakfast the day after you slay a dragon.

Haggard and dishevelled, they marched through the night. The cold winds between the dense trees chilled them to the bone; they were not adequately dressed or prepared for this trek. Owls hooted, crows cawed, and bats flittered between the branches. The only sounds that pierced the cold night were the cracking of sticks and rustling of leaves beneath their feet, interspersed with the breaths of the ten; some light, some heavy, some strained.

Many critics have seen Tolkien's writings as a response to the trauma of the First World War, even going so far as to see The Lord of the Rings as a "war novel", rather than as pure high fantasy. Tolkien himself admitted there were connections with the First World War, but denied vehemently there were any to the second: Sauron is not Hitler; the One Ring is not the atomic bomb. There is a middle ground: The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings, along with many other of his writings, was to large degree a therapeutic process in which he faced up to and attempted to purge the trauma inflicted on him and his peers at the Somme.... Who knows, then, what Tolkien might have made of the War of the Last Alliance had he written its tale in full? There are hints of the grandeur and terror it might have achieved: The Somme-like Battle of Dagorlad with the ill-considered charge of the Galadhrim and the swamp of dead bodies left behind in the Dead Marshes; the grueling seven-year siege and the climactic, gruesome duel on the slopes of Mount Doom. What we do have, however, is an intriguing, almost medieval-style chronicle of its main events and manoeuvres - more than enough, then, to feed our imaginations.

Who would we become, he might ask, if we banished the choosing of one's own devotion? Freedom in thought and devotion had always been our way. And we chose our gods, surely the gods chose us, too.

Yes, Angharad. The yoke of destiny is heavy- but it does not ask more than we are able to give. Follow it or shrink from it. The choice is yours. But if you refuse it out of fear, you will never become the woman you are truly meant to be.

If this was the last battle I should ever fight, let it be with the last of the Dragon Warriors. Let it be with my Army of Stags. If this was the last time I would punish with my sword, let me say yes. Yes to freedom. Yes to honor. Yes to death. Theirs or my own.

Given that I write about a time that's so archaeologically elusive, with so slight a body of written texts, I can't argue that some refer to my novels as fantasy. But I would ask readers to consider this: If a Christian character in a historical novel believes in the power of prayer and imagines they see a result, the work is still deemed historical fiction. If a pre-Christian character does the same, the work is deemed historical fantasy.

Stories make no promises of truth- yet through the study of folklore, history, archaeology, and anthropology, I've come to believe that beneath every legend lies a kernel of truth.

The taste of victory enticed me, and the fact that they were led by a squinted-eye lord with a stentorian voice moved me...

Much of our evidence about medieval women derives from the fantasies, certainties, and doubts of the clergy . . . Since much of their knowledge came from books, their portraits were caricatures more than true likenesses.

It’s giving medieval fantasy," Patty mock whispered.

Apropos, you're going to have to learn to sooner or later that you can't just let other people decide what the world around you should and shouldn't be.

There are some for whom the good of mankind is their primary concern, and others who basically put their own considerations before everyone else. I was among the latter.

Noblest. Bravest. What rot. There was no bravery in buying oneself out of difficulty.

The battered and pathetic thing that represented any claim to conscience I might have had turned away from me in disgust. Oddly, I couldn't blame it. I was disgusted myself. Disgusted at my weakness and my lack of resolution, at my refusal to see justice through in the name of the woman who had borne me.

Some time later, I sat in the wine cellar, staring at the walls while cradling a wineskin in my lap like a child, murmuring over and over as if lulling the child to sleep, 'I am shat upon. I am shat upon'.

I guess it really had been brave . . . because it was so bugger-all stupid, and if there was one thing I'd come to realize, ti was that bravery and bugger-all stupidity went hand in hand.

I remember so many things [. . .] The problem is, only half of them are true . . . and the half which is true keeps changing places with the half which is false.

It seemed to me that, no matter what endeavor I was involved in, I was to be something of a sham.

What was once your crown will now be your collar, and you will wear it until you learn what it is to submit.

However, the most popular cultural response to the Wars of the Roses is not a work of history or historical fiction but one of fantasy; George R R Martin's Game of Thrones books, and their TV adaptation, are hugely influenced by the Wars of the Roses. Martin has taken the core of the conflict - a political and personal struggle between two medieval dynasties - and depicted it on an epic scale. Though his version contains monsters and magic, it also contains many incidents based on those of the war, as well as characters based on its protagonists, most notably the noble houses of Stark and Lannister.

Um," I point at his cape and gadgets. "You know you'll stand out, right?" He frowns at me. "You're none better," he says. I look down at my very medieval looking white gown and the two swords I carry. At least Yami is hidden as a dragon necklace. "You're right. I won't blend in either." He freezes. "Right, well, I'll just say it's Halloween." "But it's not." He raises an eyebrow.  "What do you mean?" "You can't just say it's Halloween. It has to be the actual day." "Really? Your human customs are so strange." He turns to the sink to wash his hands. I sigh. "Okay, we can say we're part of a fantasy game reenactment. Cosplay. That should give us a good cover." "Cosplay?" he says, holding the word in his mouth like a foreign thing he's afraid to taste. "Yeah, it's when humans dress up like characters from their favorite… " Ace's eyes are vacant and he looks bored. I sigh again. "Nevermind. Just let me do the talking if anyone questions our choice of clothing." He washes his hands, then gestures at the door. "After you." I lead, entering a place I once called a second home. Everything is familiar, everything makes me feel welcome. Jesus eyeing the naked sculptures. The Neon signs. The baby bottles filled with milk for customers' coffee. "Oh, Ari, sweetie. I didn't see you come in." Sheri runs up to me, wrapping me in a hug. "It's been so long. How have you been? And who's this dashing young man?" Ace raises his cape in front of his eyes. "It's Halloween." "No… no…" I shake my head and pull his cape down. "He's a friend. I'm just showing him the sights.

I beg your pardon. Sometimes, it's true I can be stubborn.' 'Sometimes?' she added derisively. 'Quite often,' he tempered.

Overused Settings All too often, games borrow settings from one another or from common settings found in the movies, books, or television. A huge number of games are set in science fiction and fantasy worlds, especially the quasi-medieval, sword-and-sorcery fantasy inspired by J. R. R. Tolkien and Dungeons & Dragons, popular with the young people who used to be the primary—indeed, almost the only—market for computer games. But a more diverse audience plays games nowadays, and they want new worlds to play in. You should look beyond these hoary old staples of gaming.

The floor is a fifteenth-century revival of medieval Cosmatesque mosaic style. The Cosmati family developed their unmistakable technique in Rome in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This decorating style was a fantasy of geometric shapes and swirls in cut pieces of colored glass and marble (much of which was “recycled” from pagan Roman palaces and temples). Stunning examples of authentic Cosmati floors and decorations can be found in some of the oldest and most beautiful churches, basilicas, and cloisters in Rome and southern Italy.

she was like the merlin in pursuit of its airborne quarry, perhaps the snow bunting or a small meadow pipit; the avian prey is nimble but so is the predatory merlin with its inexhaustible stamina and unparalleled agility – round and round it chases the pipit, and the two flying at speeds almost impossible for the observer to follow.

he said this turning his strong body to face the beautiful, stunning, breathtaking, astonishing, bewildering girl who was a princess and his one true love, Eodwyn. she had hair like raven wings and skin like snow that the dogs haven’t peed on yet and cheeks like cherry blossoms and eyes like a magnificent summer sky.

What has happened to you, Aliya Skorolenok? Who have you become? The reflection said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

As the days wore on, there was less and less of Aliya left in her. She couldn’t remember what Alex’s eyes had looked like, or how her father laughed at off-color jokes, or what the head of surgery said to her the first time she walked into the operating room. It was all gone. Her new reality was the castle, Earton, and these strange people that she had to build a life with.

Richard grimaced. She was attractive, but not to his liking. Something about her reminded him of spoiled meat served in a complicated sauce – it may look good, but it’s inedible.

If she’s lucky, she’ll grow up to be a decent person instead of the wife of a feudal lord.

Do your duty and let the cards fall where they may.

The first thing Aliya felt was pain. And the second. And the third.

Eric thought he could imagine how aristocrats raised their daughters. Like rare flowers, they lived behind high walls, way out in the country where they could remain innocent and tremulous. Knowledge was not something such parents gave their daughters. He had seen enough of this while serving as a mercenary in Avesterra. Girls from wealthy families had little information and even less common sense in their heads. All they knew how to do was embroider and bat their eyelashes (and they weren’t even supposed to do too much of that).

The corner of the witch’s mouth twitched. “My remedy can bring a soul back into the body, but it won’t work if the soul doesn’t want to stay. Do you understand?

it’s the way he uses language—which is nothing like the way fantasists used language before him. There’s no sense of nostalgia. There’s no medieval floridness. There’s no fairy tale condescension to the child reader. It’s very straight, and very clean—there’s no Vaseline on the lens. You see everything clearly, not with sparkles or a flowery sense of wonderment, but with very specific physical details.

Though Gary remained enamored of the medieval-type fantasy genre, it is notable that he actually disliked the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien, author of the overwhelmingly popular The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings series. He would go on to say that Tolkien’s work was “so dull. I mean, there was no action in it.”8

Oh-ho, so you are a witch. More like a witchling, as you're too small to be a full witch.” (Emmerich)

Before she could let herself think, Clara burst from the door and bolted for the table. People just began turning when she grasped the guest and shoved him to the ground, the chair flying backwards. Wine and food spilled everywhere as he flung out his arms. For a moment, she felt a swift pressure, as if her hair was being pulled, before strong hands gripped her, flinging her to the floor. A boot pressed into her back and she felt the cold tip of blade on her neck above her slave's collar.

Gavin scratched his head, idly wondering what his father would tell him right about then. Probably steal the slave and run. Father's solution was always to steal and run. But he had a job to finish. "All right," he said finally, "here's what we'll do. We'll pretend this night didn't happen." That earned another sarcastic look.

The flames of the fire leapt up and surrounded her, consuming her, becoming her. Heat filled and flushed her, breaking the bottle and she soared up and up. She came to stand in a sun's center. But that even faded and she rode pillion with Emmerich as he crossed the field on his black battle charger, her hands gripping his sides. The edges of his chain-mail bit into her skin and she could hear his labored breath. She could smell his particular scent: horse and leather, sweat and musk. Men roared like the ocean and rushed like waves to slam against the opposing force meeting them outside the walls.

Emmerich's heart in his throat, he could only stare down at Monica, who looked up at him with glassy eyes as she shivered with pain and choked on blood.

The tall, thin serious man strode in, his dark cloak billowing so dramatically it threatened to extinguish the lamp flame with its draught. He advanced like a malevolent shadow consuming the dim orange light, filling the room with a presence almost more than human.

You are no monster, my love. Demons are obedient dogs that come when they are called, monsters have no heart. You are, and always will be, my sweet martyr of malice.

They have fought on the frontlines for their people and suffered the consequences. They have lost those that are dear to them and watched lifelong friends take their last breaths in their arms, my sons, Ethelred, will come home from war flying the house banners or they will be wrapped in them, either way, they will come home.

You cannot punish her, she will take the punishment and laugh in your face, then tear the place down afterwards.

You won’t leave? Fine…” Tristan steps over to the desk, picks up an oil lamp, and smashes it off the floor, a shard of glass rebounds, cutting his cheek but he does not so much as blink, “you can burn here,” he announces coldly as the flames begin to spread across the oak floor.

Εκεί έξω υπάρχουν μεγάλοι ήρωες. Ιππότες βασιλείων και αρχόντων που ανάλογα με τις επιταγές της αρετής τους, αποφασίζουν το μέλλον αυτού του κόσμου. Δε χωρούν όλα τα βάσανα των ανθρώπων σε δυο χέρια και οι πλάτες κανενός ανθρώπου δεν μπορούν να τα κουβαλήσουν. Όμως, δύο χέρια με επιρροή και δύναμη μπορούν να αλλάξουν πολλές ζωές.

The golden herb will grant you the means of communication with certain creatures of the Goddess.” The archdruid fixed Tristan with sage eyes, his face withered by wisdom of the ages. “You will be able to communicate wordlessly with birds, dogs, and wolves. Command them with your thoughts. Understand messages which they convey.

You know that mist isn't natural. It never leaves. What weather is unchanging with the seasons?

Before we were born, we are nothing more than an indistinguishable lump of unformed matter. After death, we simply return to that nebulous state. We will become the raw material out of which new beings are fashioned. Will there be pain in this natural process? No! Pleasure..? No! Now, is there anything frightening in this? Certainly not! And yet, people sacrifice pleasure on earth in the hope that pain will be avoided in an after-life. The fools don't realize that, after death, pain and pleasure cannot exist: there is only the sensation-less state of cosmic anonymity: therefore, the rule of life should be ... to enjoy oneself.” - thanks goes to Marquis de Sade

You’ve got to learn how to kiss like that,” she said. “What teeth!” She’d meant to say technique, but “teeth” was an equally good choice of word. “And you are an excellent judge of kissing, are you?” he said, glancing at her, his voice flat. “A better judge than you,” said Katyani.

Fardan bent to peer at her face. “What are you thinking?” She pushed him away, annoyed. “I’m thinking what a fool you are.” “I knew it.” He gave a satisfied smile. “You’re always thinking about me, even when you’re frowning.

His gaze narrowed. “Why do you think the Portuguese are here, so far from their own country?” “Greed,” she said after a moment. “It’s always greed.” He nodded. “Europeans crave spice, are willing to pay its weight in gold.

Commitment is itself a powerful magic.

Kait placed ahand on Agata's forearm. The grip was firm and warm and the comfort of the roughened brown fingers laced around her arm steadied Agata. "We only fail when we give up.

In fact, the conception of a brutal medieval period was an invention of the Renaissance, whose proponents were at pains to emphasize a new spirit, even at the expense of the facts. If a benighted medieval world has proven a durable misconception, it may be because it confirms a cherished contemporary belief—that our species always moves forward to ever better and more enlightened ways of life. This belief is utter fantasy, but it dies hard. It is especially difficult for modern people to conceive that our modern, scientific age might not be an improvement over the prescientific period.