Seeker of Thrones 5-54
Chapter: 5
“Kassardis, for his part, could do little but flee to the canyon, carrying the old swordmaster’s weapon and clad in near-rags. Once there, he hid himself among the reeds in a low pool in the bottom of the canyon. It was cool, and shady there, and the coming evening began to wash over the land, and Kassardis felt, for the first time in days, peace enter his heart.
It was with dread then, that he heard the footfalls of his three wives entering the canyon not an hour later, and knew that his time had run out.”
– Tales of the Silver Prince
When the priest went forth again and set his face homeward, the cold had grown more intense and yet was somehow intoxicating. The trees stood up like silver candelabra of some incredible cold candlemas of purification. It was a piercing cold, like that silver sword of pure pain that once pierced the very he of purity. But it was not a killing cold, save in the sense of seeming to kill all the mortal obstructions to our immortal and immeasurable vitality. The pale green sky of twilight, with one star like the star of Bethlehem, seemed by some strange contradiction to be a cavern of clarity. It was as if there could be a green furnace of cold which wakened all things to life like warmth, and that the deeper they went into those cold crystalline colours the more were they light like winged creatures and clear like coloured glass! It tingled with truth and it divided truth from error with a blade like ice; but all that was left had never felt so much alive. It was as if all joy were a jewel in the heart of an iceberg. The priest hardly understood his own mood as he advanced deeper and, deeper into the green gloaming, drinking deeper and deeper draughts of that virginal vivacity of the air. Some forgotten muddle and morbidity seemed to be left behind, or wiped out as the snow had painted out the footprints of the man of blood. As he shuffled homewards through the snow, he muttered to himself: ‘And yet he is right enough about there being a white magic, if he only knows where to look for it.’
– G.K. Chesterton
Are the typos on purpose?
They are due to the time-skips. Pay them no heed.
Immortal, killing time, could hang about for eternity just to gloat for a moment.
Love the artwork, just something special.
Is it just me, or does the voice of Myself remind one of Achewood? I cannot help but call to mind a certain Roast Beef Kazenzakis.
The intertextual effect disturbs me greatly.
That damage to His cell, are his very words caustic?
Apt.
What exactly is Himself?
A very human-like eye peering out of a very human-sized box, that’s all we know. . .
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That speech balloon *curling* around the bars of the cage. What a nasty lil guy! I love him.