[ He can't possibly know all the reasons why sentiment charms her. The fact that she's so ancient that her own birth came before humans had written history, back when all they had was storytelling. And how they told them. Around the fire, out in the crisp night air of the steppe. How they sang about gods and spirits, life and death. Listening to Ortus talk brings back a sense of distant nostalgia — a bittersweet longing for the old days.
She's the only one left of her people now. Has been, for a long time. And she can't remember much of what they were or what they had. It's all become dust, except for a few scattered memories. A few last songs and stories. ]
A poet and a flatterer. [ Wryly: ] You say that, but you haven't even seen me fight. For all you know, drinking is all I'm good for.
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She's the only one left of her people now. Has been, for a long time. And she can't remember much of what they were or what they had. It's all become dust, except for a few scattered memories. A few last songs and stories. ]
A poet and a flatterer. [ Wryly: ] You say that, but you haven't even seen me fight. For all you know, drinking is all I'm good for.