#crynwr

“A fortune-teller in the market grabbed my hand, unbidden, to read my fate. Went very quiet, and gave it back, and said no charge. No charge. I’ve never in my life had a Breton decline coin that was going spare. So either she saw the gallows in my palm, or a mugger, or something with rather more imagination than either, and hadn’t the stomach to bill me for it. I tipped her anyway. Felt only right. A woman who’ll work for free out of sheer horror at your future has earned a drink, and I’d hate for the one honest read I ever got to leave her out of pocket.” — Morach recounting an odd encounter with complimentary glimpse of his destiny.

“It’s not so grim as your lot make it. Nimeria’s not a thief at the door. She’s who carries you over when your legs won’t. You’d want kind hands at the end, wouldn’t you? We’ve got the kindest there is. You just have to stop being so bloody frightened of the dark to see it.” — Morach, trying to explain the Spirit-Queen to a Breton who’d called his faith ghoulish.

“Worst that happens, they hang me, and I’ll tell you, I’ve made my peace with a deal worse than a quick drop. I’ve near frozen, near starved, near been gutted in a lane by a man with a knife. A rope’s fast. Almost considerate, by comparison. And here’s the thought that keeps me warm on a cold job: the Spirit-Queen carries you over either way, noose or no noose, and she’ll not turn her nose up at a thief. She’s seen worse through her door than me. She’s no bloody magistrate.” — Morach, finding comfort in the one judge he reckons won’t hold his trade against him.