The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, Perrin. We've become what we needed to become."- Rand Al'Thor

If you have a sword, and the Aielman has his bare hands, it is an even fight. If you're good.

A pig painted gold is still a pig.

Women," Mat declared as he rode Pips down the dusty, little-used road, "are like mules." He frowned. "Wait. No. Goats. Women are like goats. Except every flaming one thinks she's a horse instead, and a prize racing mare to boot. Do you understand me, Talmanes?" "Pure poetry, Mat," Talmanes said, tamping the tabac down into his pipe.

As the Wheel of Time turns, places wear many names. Men wear many names, many faces. Different faces, but always the same man. Yet no one knows the Great Pattern the Wheel weaves, or even the Pattern of an Age. We can only watch, and study, and hope.

Always something new, always something I didn't expect, and sometimes it isn't horrible.

We rode on the winds of the rising storm, We ran to the sounds of the thunder. We danced among the lightning bolts, and tore the world asunder.