Atticus "What's this religion going to be called?" Oberon "Poochism" A:"and the name of this holy writ I will be typing for you?" O:"The dead flea scrolls: A Sirius Prophecy.

They'll have to bring in Mulder an' Scully, because there ain't no CSI on the planet that'll ever be able to explain this.

He was a god of rock. He nearly solved all the world's problems with nothing but power chords and anguished cries into a microphone.

Bullshit, as you Americans say. He's Irish. The Irish say bullshit too.

She didn't go all fangirl on anyone, but I suspect that's only because none of them bore the slightest resemblance to Nathan Fillion.

Oh. Oberon looked at me. I know that has to make you sad. But call to me instead, Atticus. I'll always answer. Your fly has been open all this time, by the way, and Granuaile hasn't said a thing. Thanks, buddy, I said silently as I tried to surreptitiously zip up my jeans. See? I got your back AND your front. I deserve a treat.

The Morrigan’s ideas of sport and mine varied widely. As a Chooser of the Slain, she tends to enjoy nothing so much as a protracted war. She hangs out with Kali and the Valkyries and they have a death goddesses’ night out on the battlefield.