Now we add the cinnamon,” I said. “Sticks, not powder; broken in half. Three or four should do the trick-” The summery scent had turned autumnal; bonfires and Halloween. Cinnamon pancakes cooked outside. Mulled wine and burnt sugar.
Odin’s empire was built on bluff and the knowledge that no one dared to strike, but our enemies were like wolves around a bonfire: at bay, but let them scent blood, just once, and they’d be on us before we knew it.
I guessed he’d never experienced revenge, a threesome, or Sigyn’s jam tarts.
I’ll be your handmaid, Thor,” I said. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your thunder. You’ll make a gorgeous bride.” Thor growled.
See, this is the thing about history. His story. That’s all it is. The Old Man’s version of events, which basically the rest of us are supposed to accept as the undisputed truth. Well, call me cynical, but I’ve never been one to take things on trust, and I happen to know that history is nothing but spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.
I’ll let you take your pick,” he said. “But on one condition. We’ll stand all our eligible men behind a screen, with only their feet on display. Then you’ll choose. You’ll choose your husband by his feet. Agreed?” I stared at him. I mean, really. His feet? What new perversion was this?
I knew that Freyja was shallow, but until that moment I hadn’t been sure how far she would go for the sake of personal adornment. Well, folks, she went all the way, every way – and not just once, but four times, with four uncouth and demanding men who hadn’t had a woman in years.
But with power comes responsibility. And with responsibility comes fear. And with fear comes violence. And with violence comes Chaos...
After all, words are what remain when all the deeds have been done. Words can shatter faith; start a war; change the course of history.
Weed and wheat cannot grow together in peace.
A devil doesn’t act through evil, but through weakness...
A yielding shepherd could end up with a disobedient, rebellious herd.
Joe often gave out little charms – goodwill charms, he called them – to visitors, and Jay began to do the same: tiny bunches of lavender or mint or pineapple sage, tied with ribbons of different colours – red for protection, white for luck, blue for healing.
People are reserved, pretending indifference though inwardly they burn with curiosity.
A tiny chuckle emerged from the bottle’s throat as the wine filled the glass.
Because art is like love. It goes feral if you keep it to yourself. Art is made to be given away, otherwise, it just rots.
We came on the wind of the carnival.
Vendo sogni, piccoli comfort, tentazioni dolci e innocue per far scendere una schiera di santi che precipitano uno dopo l’altro tra le nocciole e i torroncini...
To belong so often means to exclude;.
Once, we all lived in the sea,” the grandmother had told her. “Its salt runs in our blood; our tears are memories of the ocean.
Evil is not a uniform, or a mark of Cain. Evil is not extraordinary. Evil is someone you know. Someone you could never imagine doing anything wrong, because they’re your friend, and you’re a good guy.