I'm trying to have a moment o' existential dreed here, right? Crivens, it's a puir lookout if a man canna feel the chilly winds o' fate lashing aroound his netheres wi'out folks telling him he's deid, eh?

Most modern fantasy just rearranges the furniture in Tolkien's attic.

I can't be talking to a tree. If I was talking to a tree I'd be mad, and I'm not mad, so trees can't talk.

If per capita was a problem, decapita could be arranged.

Priests were metal-reinforced overshoes. They saved your soles. This is an Assassin joke.

Either dragons should exist completely or fail to exist at all, he felt. A dragon only half-existing was worse than the extremes.

When I was a kid, I read the science-fiction shelves, and I read the fantasy shelves.