i made a thing

Reaper’s Gale

For a minute there, I was happy. Then it all came crashing down.

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tigerofsummer:

“…the girl couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. The exception was her eyes, which held the dull glint of weathered onyx – they looked ancient, every emotion eroded away into extinction.” -GotM, UK Trade, p.44

Ziyi Zhang as Apsalar

Lay of the Birdgeburners by Kitsmusic

crying omG EVERYONE LISTEN TO THIS MORE PROOF THAT MALAZAN È SOPRA TUTTO 

BLESS THIS MAN

Seren Pedac and Trull Sengar

The only death I fear is dying ignorant.

Tattersail, Gardens of the Moon (via quotablephrases) —

[…] purity was an unpleasant concept, and to imagine worlds defined by purity filled him with fear. An existence held to be pure was but the physical corollary of a point of view bound in certainty. Cruelty could thrive unfettered by compassion. The pure could see no value among the impure, after all. Justifying annihilation wasn’t even necessary, since the inferiority was ever self-evident.

Steven Erikson, “Toll of the Hounds” (via paintedpain) —

The Bonehunters

After having avoided the ending of this book for a few days I finally finished it last night. Massive spoilers ahead.

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She glanced over at him. ‘You are so unsuited to be a god, Cotillion, did you know that?’
‘Thank you for the vote of confidence.’
She reached up with one hand and brushed the line of his jaw, the gesture close to a caress. She caught the sudden intake of his breath, the slight widening of his eyes, but he would not look at her. Apsalar lowered her hand. ‘I’m sorry. Another mistake. It’s all I seem to make these days.’
‘It’s all right,’ he replied. ‘I understand.’
‘You do? Oh, of course you do.’
‘Complete your mission, and all that is asked of you will end. You will face no more demands from me. Or Shadowthrone.’
There was something in his tone that gave her a slight shiver. Something like … remorse. ‘I see. That is good. I’m tired. Of who I am, Cotillion.’
‘I know.’
‘I was thinking of a detour. Before my next task.’
‘Oh?’
‘The coastal road, east. Just a few days by Shadow.’
He looked across at her, and she saw his faint smile and was unaccountably pleased by it. ‘Ah, Apsalar … that should be fun. Send him my greetings.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. He needs a little shaking up.’ He straightened. ‘I must leave. It’s almost dawn. Be careful, and do not trust those ghosts.’
‘They are bad liars.’
‘Well, I know a High Priest who employs a similar tactic to confound others.’Iskaral Pust. Now it was Apsalar who smiled, but she said nothing, for Cotillion was gone.
The east horizon was in flames with the rising of the sun.

-The Bonehunters | Steven Erikson —

The notion that a writer can just leave the work at the end of the day is nonsense: writing is all about being haunted, without respite, until the tale is told. This series has haunted me for about twenty years, all told. I’m still numb with the sudden silence.

Steven Erikson, author of The Malazan Book of the Fallen (via ekkolalia)

(Source: fantasyhotlist.blogspot.com)

Midnight Tides

I finished it last night. Took me exactly one month, which isn’t too bad really. So, finishing the book I cried but then I was happy again and then of course I cried one more time because, lol, Erikson refuses to give me a happy ending again after Gardens of the Moon. Some cool things I want to talk about and some heartbreaking stuff and surprisingly some SanSan feels? I am such a fangirl and I hate myself… Anyway, lots of Trull meta forthcoming among other things. Enter at your own spoilery risk.

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As he made his way onto the bridge, Trull Sengar saw the Acquitor. She was standing midway across the bridge, motionless as a frightened deer, her gaze fixed on the main road leading through the village. Trull could not see what had snared her attention.
He hesitated. Then her head turned and he met her eyes.
There were no words for what passed between them at that instant. A gaze that began searchingly, then swiftly and ineffably transformed into something else. That locked contact was mutually broken in the next moment, instinctive reactions from them both.
In the awkward wake, nothing was said for a half-dozen heartbeats. Trull found himself struggling against a sense of vast emptiness deep in his chest.
Seren Pedac spoke first. ‘Is there no room left, Trull Sengar?’
And he understood. ‘No, Acquitor. No room left.’
‘I think you would have it otherwise, wouldn’t you?’
The question brushed too close to the wordless recognition they had shared only a few moments earlier, and he saw once again in her eyes a flicker of … something. He mentally recoiled from an honest reply. ‘I serve my emperor.’
The flicker vanished, replaced by a cool regard that slipped effortlessly through his defences, driving like a knife into his chest. ‘Of course. Forgive me. It is too late for questions like that. I must be leaving now, to escort Buruk the Pale back to Trate.’
Each word a twist of that knife, despite their being seemingly innocuous. He did not understand how they – and the look in her eyes – could hurt him so deeply, and he wanted to cry out. Denials. Confessions. Instead he punctuated the break of that empathy with a damning shrug. ‘Journey well, Acquiror.’ Nothing more, and he knew himself for a coward.
He watched her walk away. Thinking on his life’s journey as much as the Acquitor’s, on the stumbles that occurred, with no awareness of their potential for profundity. Balance reacquired, but the path had changed.
So many choices proved irrevocable. Trull wondered if this one would as well.

Midnight Tides | The Malazan Book of The Fallen | Steven Erikson

Kalam Mekhar by Shaadan