The Earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations.

For what use are books to anyone whose days are like a rook's nest with every twig a duty.

There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe.

Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.

His was not the hatred that arises suddenly like a storm and as suddenly abates. It was, once the initial shock of anger and pain was over, a calculated thing that grew in a bloodless way.

The moon slid inexorably into its zenith, the shadows shrivelling to the feet of all that cast them, and as Rantel approached the hollow at the hem of the Twisted Woods he was treading in a pool of his own midnight.

It was not certain what significance the ceremony held... but the formality was no less sacred for it being unintelligible