En el amor que le tenía –pues realmente era amor– nada había que no fuese noble y espiritual. No era la simple admiración física de la belleza que nace de los sentidos, y se extingue con el cansancio de éstos. Era un amor como lo habían conocido Miguel Ángel y Montaigne, y Winckelmann, y Shakespeare.
“Here’s a good use fer that new brilliance, orc-blood! Go figger out why a sword’s better than that big-arse greataxe o'yours!”
Walking through the Arcane Tower hallways, even as the mocking words echoed in the whirling hallways of his mind, he contemplated their truth… and the clumsy way they were said. Is that what -he- sounded like, before the spells? No matter. Dropping heavily into a chair in the supply room, he reached out for a blade, taking up one of the self-filling goblets.
Examining the cutlass, a weapon he always had thought was weak and pointless… Pointless, a cutlass doesn’t need a point, it slices! His mind leaping on the pun and toying with it like a sparkling rock. A diamond, his memory effortlessly found the word for him. He shook his head for what felt like the millionth time to clear the distractions, and once more to stop wondering what a million really was.
He downed the goblet, ignoring his own mental advice to sip and savor it. He had always drank to get drunk, now he just wanted to slow down his too-busy mind.“