The skin on Alistair’s left hand had turned a gentle grey, a point of interest Aeris noticed just before his blade shattered at the point of contact. Its tip had fallen upon his apprentice’s cheek, knicking it softly, while the rest had become like dust beneath his fingers… a powdery silver: glinting and glittering about the minimal light as it fluttered about the air.
“Alistair… what promise granted you your powers?”
Befallen his face, a look had… one that found its refuge in his eyes as it settled into them; it was something invisible to his old friend: hollowed and dulled, indicative of his shame and regret. “They took that which they desired,” the sudden, devastating realization of each of the not-so-recent enlightenments had subtly interwoven itself into each of his words.
"Claire nodded. “It looks so peaceful out there,” she agreed. “Even with the untamed wild, there seems to be an organized chaos. It’s almost a shame to disrupt it.”
“We’re humans,” Derrin commented. “Disrupting ecosystems is what we do.”
This line occurs near the end of the first chapter. I feel like it’s a nice, reactionary statement that helps set the tone and conflict for the rest of the novel.
“Wha’ the ****?! Norl’s blessed breath Sir!” the gunner grabbed the front of the colonel’s uniform and hauled him down to a crouch. “You can’t be here, Colonel!” he roared in the old man’s face. Too bad the cannon can’t shoot his breath. We’d have won already.
As I snapped up my pack, a vicious low growl filled the room. Glancing toward the door as my hand loosed the Colt from the holster, I saw Max, standing in a statuesque pose. His head was low and his lips were drawn back, with glistening teeth shining in the dark. The black mask of his facial coloring was barely visible in the poorly lit room. Jacked muscles that looked out of place on a puppy were drawn tight, and his hips were coiled. The golden fur was standing along his spine, creating a full mohawk down to his serpentine tail, drawn curled and tense like a scorpion’s before it strikes.
Fire Sale - Death of an Eagle
He handled wood-gathering and fire-building and roasting potatoes. Tir offered to help; Ollie scowled at him until he sat down meekly and got out a book. Bandages remained around slim fingers, catching light under distant stars.
They both knew enough not to go hunting or trapping in the Northern Territories; for one thing, it was impolite, given that some fairies could shapeshift, and for another, nobody really knew what eating too much fairy game or fruit would do to a human. Tir said that the local berries and fruit that almost-but-not-entirely resembled apricots were safe, and anyway they were still on the human side of the border; the fruit would’ve adapted itself to less-magic conditions. Oliver considered the almost-apricot and its potential for sentience and deliberate adaptation, and did not eat it. Tirian rolled eyes, got up and picked two, and threw one at him. “You export these, you know.”
“Well…yeah, but—wait, go sit down!”
“And you make wine out of them. Expensive wine.”
Post-boxes, which should have been filled with cavity-inducing cards and well-wishes, were hushed amongst pamphlets alerting all of Argent to her disappearance. Where there should have been glittering, colorful, posters proclaiming good tidings across the city’s walls, there were dreadful black posters that bore the last photograph ever taken of her. Hundreds of pairs of eyes wandered over hers. They hesitated, as though needing a moment to collect themselves, and upon glossing over the information dotting shops decorated with wreaths, lights, spiralling ribbons, and plump bows that tied themselves, every witch and wizard dusted off their hands, lowered their heads, and silently thought to themselves – ‘What a crying shame.’ Then, they continued about their holiday business, pondering over many life-altering decisions such as whether cranberry sauce was really all that better than cranberry jelly.
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