Unknown Artist football

Unknown Artist footballUnknown Artist Aeneas Carrying Anchises by Carl van LooPablo Picasso BULLFIGHT DEATH OF THE TOREADOR La corridaAlbert Bierstadt Quiet PondAlbert Bierstadt A Quiet lake
of fly specks.
‘Nothing here at all,’ he said, peering closer. ‘Just the sea. And‑‘ he squinted ‑ ‘The Holy Wood. Mean anything?’
‘Isn’t that where the alchemists all went?’ said the Bursar:
‘Oh, them.’
‘I suppose’, said the Bursar slowly, ‘they wouldn’t be doing some kind of magic out there?’
‘Alchemists. Doing magic?’
‘Sorry. Ridiculous idea, I know. The porter told me they do some sort of, oh, shadow play or something. Or puppets. ,’ he said.
‘They wouldn’t dare,’ he said.
‘Not magic. Surely not?’ he said.Or something similar. Pictures. Or something. I wasn’t really paying attention. I mean . . . alchemists. Really! I mean, assassins . . . yes. Thieves . . . yes. Even merchants . . . merchants can be really devious, sometimes. But alchemists ‑show me a more unworldly, bumbling, well‑meaning . . . ‘His voice trailed off as his ears caught up with his mouth.‘They wouldn’t dare, would they?’ he said.‘Would they?’The Bursar gave a hollow laugh. ‘No‑o‑o. They wouldn’t dare! They know we’d be down on them like a ton of bricks if they tried any magic round here . . . ‘ His voice trailed off again.‘I’m sure they wouldn’t,’ he said.‘I mean, even that far away
‘I’ve never trusted those grubby‑handed bastards!’ he said. ‘They’re not like us, you know. They’ve got no idea of proper dignity!’

Vincent van Gogh Olive grove I

Vincent van Gogh Olive grove IVincent van Gogh Madhouse garden of St-RemyVincent van Gogh Landscape at Auvers in the RainVincent van Gogh The Plain at AuversVincent van Gogh The Night Cafe in the Place Lamartine in Arles
What are you talking about?’ demanded Dibbler. ‘We’re building it for Blown Away!’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Silverfish soothingly. ‘And then afterwards, we can-’
‘Afterwards? There won’t be any afterwards! Haven’t you read the script? Detritus, show him the script!’
Detritus obligingly dropped the bed between them.
‘It’s your bed, Throat.’
‘Script, bed, calmly.
‘In a word – im-possible!’
‘That’s two words,’ said Dibbler.
‘There’s no way I can work on something like this,’ said Silverfish, ignoring the interruption. ‘I’ve tried to see your point of view, haven’t I? But you’ve taken moving pictures and you’re trying to , what’s the difference? Look . . . here . . . just above the carving . . . ‘ There was a pause while Silverfish read. It was quite a long one. Silverfish wasn’t used to reading matter that didn’t come in columns with totals at the bottom. Eventually he said, ‘You’re going . . . to . . . set it on ‘It’s historical. You can’t argue with history,’ said Dibbler smugly. ‘The city was burned down in the civil war, everyone knows that.’ Silverfish drew himself up. ‘The city might have been,’ he said stiffly, ‘but I didn’t have to find the budget for it! It’s recklessly extravagant!’ ‘I’ll pay for it somehow,’ said Dibbler

George Inness Delaware Water Gap

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scratched his ear vigorously.
‘Woof,’ he said quietly. ‘In tones of low menace,’ he added, after Detritus had gone.
The slope of the hill was already alive with people when Victor arrived. A couple of tents had been erected. Someone wasyou, Tom!’ Dibbler was saying. ‘I mean, how many people in Holy Wood can call themselves Vice-President in Charge of Executive Affairs?’
‘Yes, but it’s my company!’ Silverfish wailed.
‘Right! Right!’ said Dibbler. ‘That’s what a name like Vice-President of Executive Affairs means.’
‘It does?’
‘Have I ever lied to you?’
Silverfish’s brow furrowed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘yesterday you said-’ holding a camel. Several cages of demons gibbered in the shade of a thorn tree. In the middle of all this were Dibbler and Silverfish, arguing. Dibbler had his arm around Silverfish’s shoulder. ‘A dead giveaway, is that,’ said a voice from the level of Victor’s knees. ‘It means some poor bugger is about to be taken to the cleaners.’ ‘It’ll be a step up for

John William Waterhouse The Siren

John William Waterhouse The SirenJohn William Waterhouse The Lady ClareJohn William Waterhouse FloraJohn William Waterhouse Circe offering the Cup to UlyssesJohn William Waterhouse Boreas
Nonono. ‘S not blister. ‘S what you say when you’ve discovered something. You goes running out into the street shoutin’,’ said the smouldering figure urgently. ‘S’pecial word,’ it added, its brow creasing under the soot.
The crowd, reluctantly satisfied that there were going to be no more explosions, gathered around. This might be nearly as good.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said an elderly man, filling his pipe. ‘You runs out shouting "Fire! Fire!" ‘ He looked it off the alchemist’s smouldering hat, ‘I for one don’t see why people in this city need to go round shouting heathen lingo just ‘cos they’ve had a bath. Anyway, look at him. He ain’t had a bath. He needs a bath, yes, but he ain’t had one. What’s he want to go round shouting foreign lingo for? We’ve got perfectly satisfactory words for shoutin’.’
‘Like what?’ said Cut-me-own-Throat: triumphant. ‘ ‘S not that . . . ‘ ‘Or "Help!" or-’ ‘No, he’s right,’ said a woman with a basket of fish on her head. ‘There’s a special word. It’s foreign.’ ‘Right, right,’ said her neighbour. ‘Special foreign word for people who’ve discovered something. It was invented by some foreign bugger in his bath–’‘Well,’ said the pipe man, lighting
The pipe-smoker hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘like . . . "I’ve discovered something" . .

Franz Marc Tiger

Franz Marc TigerFranz Marc StablesFranz Marc FoxesFranz Marc fighting formsFranz Marc Fate of the Animals
younger people with fresh ideas. You could tell them that they are outmoded. You could tell them all that.'
'They'll kill me!'
'Would they be that anxious for your eternal company, I wonder?'
'You're still rage.
He raised the staff, and the carved wooden snakes looked unusually alive in the flat light.
The gods of the Disc - and here is meant the great consensus gods, who really do exist in Dunmanifestin, their semi-detached Valhalla on the world's impossibly high central mountain, where they pass the time observing the petty antics of mortal men and organising petitions about how the influx of the Ice Giants has lowered property values in the celestial regions - the gods of Disc have always been fascinated by humanity's incredible high priest!' 'Why don't you talk to them?' said Dios. 'Don't forget to tell them that they are to be dragged kicking and screaming into the Century of the Cobra.' He handed Koomi the staff. 'Or whatever this century is called,' he added. Koomi felt the eyes of the assembled brethren and sistren upon him. He cleared his throat, adjusted his robe, and turned to face the mummies. They were chanting something, one word, over and over again. He couldn't quite make it out, but it seemed to have worked them up into a

Paul Gauguin The Vision After the Sermon

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Teppic waved a hand at the model on its podium.
'Yes,' he said uncertainly. 'Well. Good. Four walls and a pointy tip. Jolly good. First class. Says it all, really.' There still seemed to be too much silence around. He plunged on.
'Good 'Sire?'
'I seem to remember once, my father said that, you know, when he died, he'd quite like to, sort of thing, be buried at sea.'
There wasn't the choke of outrage he had expected. 'He meant the delta. It's very soft ground by the delta,' said Ptaclusp. 'It'd take months to get decent footings in. Then there's your risk of sinking. And the damp. Not good, damp, inside a pyramid.'
'No,' said Teppic, sweating under Dios's gaze, 'I think what he meant was, you know, in the seashow,' he said. 'I mean; there's no doubt about it. This is.. . a. . . pyramid. And what a pyramid it is! Indeed.' This still didn't seem enough. He sought for something else. 'People will look at it in centuries to come and they'll say, they'll say . . . that is a pyramid. Um.' He coughed. 'The walls slope nicely,' he croaked. 'But,' he said. Two pairs of eyes swivelled towards his. 'Um,' he said. Dios raised an eyebrow.

Andy Warhol Portrait of Maurice

Andy Warhol Portrait of MauriceAndy Warhol Page from Lips BookAndy Warhol One Blue PussyAndy Warhol MarilynAndy Warhol Flowers Red 1964
took off the crown and turned it over and over in his hands. There wasn't much metal in it, but it felt heavy. He wondered how heavy it would get if you wore it all the time.
At the head of the table was an empty chair containing, he had been assured, the ghost of his real father. It would have been nice to report that he had experienced anything more, when being introduced to it, than an icy doubled as Lancre's beadle, town clerk and gravedigger, 'we've all lost fifteen years.'
'No, we've all gained them,' said the mayor. 'It stands to reason. Time's like this sort of wiggly road, see, but we took a short cut across the fields.'sensation and a buzzing in the ears.'I suppose I could help father pay off on the Dysk,' he said.'That would be nice, yes,' said Hwel.He spun the crown in his fingers and listened glumly to the talk flowing back and forth over his head.'Fifteen years?' said the Mayor of Lancre.'We had to,' said Granny Weatherwax.'I thought the baker was a bit early last week.''No, no,' said the witch impatiently. 'It doesn't work like that. No-one's lost anything.''According to my figuring,' said the man who

Cao Yong cao yong Red Umbrella

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ain't going to curse anyone,' said Granny firmly. 'It hardly ever works if they don't know you've done it.'
'What you do is, you send him a doll of himself with pins in.'
'No, Gytha.'
'All you have to do is get hold of some of his toenails,' Nanny persisted, enthusiastically.
'No.'
'Or some of his hair or anything. I've got some pins.'
'No.'
'Cursing people is morally unsound and extremely bad for your karma,' said Magrat.
'Well, I'm going to curse him anyway,' said Nanny. 'Under my breath, like. I could of caught my death in that for a bit of a holiday. I've nothing against ghosts. Especially royal ghosts,' she added loyally. 'But my cottage isn't the place for them. I mean, there's some woman in a chariot yelling her head off in the washhouse. I ask you. And there's a couple of little kiddies in the pantry, and men without heads all over the place, and someone screaming under the sink, and there's this little hairy man wandering around looking lost and everything. It's not right.'dungeon for all he cared.''We ain't going to curse him,' said Granny. 'We're going to replace him. What did you do with the old king?''I left the rock on the kitchen table,' said Nanny. 'I couldn't stand it any more.''I don't see why,' said Magrat. 'He seemed very pleasant. For a ghost.''Oh, he was all right. It was the others,' said Nanny.'Others?'' "Pray carry a stone out of the palace so's I can haunt it, good mother," he says,' said Nanny Ogg. ' "It's bloody boring in here, Mistress Ogg, excuse my Klatchian," he says, so of course I did. I reckon they was all listening. Ho yes, they all thinks, all aboard, time

John William Waterhouse Boreas

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Magrat sized up the door. The oak was old, centuries old, but she could sense just a little sap under a surface varnished by the years into something that was nearly as tough as stone. Normally what she had in mind would require a day's planning and a bagful of exotic ingredients. At least, so she'd always believed. Now she was prepared to doubt it.
If you could conjure demons out of washtubs, you could do anything.
She in the wood must know that. Or if it had forgotten, it must be told.
She put her palms flat on the door again and shut her eyes, tried to think her way out through the stone, out of the castle, and into the thin, black soil of the mountains, into the air, into the sunlight . . .
The Fool was merely aware that Magrat was standing very still. Then her hair stood out from her headbecame aware that the Fool had spoken.'Oh, I expect I heard it somewhere,' she said vaguely.'I shouldn't think so, I never use it,' said the Fool. 'I mean, it's not a popular name with the duke. It was me mam, you see. They like to name you after kings, I suppose. My grandad said I had no business having a name like that and he said I shouldn't go around—'Magrat nodded. She was looking around the dank tunnel with a professional's eye.It wasn't a promising place. The old oak planks had been down here in the darkness all these years, away from the clock of the seasons . . .On the other hand . . . Granny had said that somehow all trees were one tree, or something like that. Magrat thought she understood it, although she didn't know exactly what it meant. And it was springtime up there. The ghost of life that still lived

Thomas Kinkade Pinocchio Wishes Upon a Star

Thomas Kinkade Pinocchio Wishes Upon a StarCao Yong CatalinaUnknown Artist Lazlo Emmerich KenyaDiego Rivera Night of the RichLeroy Neiman Femlin
Starring Three Witches, also kings, daggers, crowns, storms, dwarfs, cats, ghosts, spectres, apes, bandits, demons, forests, heirs, jesters, tortures, trolls, turntables, general rejoicing and drivers alarums.)
The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder rolled back and forth on the chessboard of fate. In the middle of this elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel's eye. It illuminated three hunched figures. As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: 'When shall we three meet again?'
There was a pause.
Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: 'Well, I can do next Tuesday.'

Through the fathomless deeps of space swims the star turtle Great A'Tuin, bearing on its back the four giant across the dark, rain-lashed hills.The night was as black as the inside of a cat. It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which gods moved men as though they were pawns

Pino THINKING OF YOU

Pino THINKING OF YOUPino THE DANCERPino SWEET DREAMS
ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION.
'Oh, yes. What is that, exactly?'
Death had I COULD TELL YOU HOW MANY IF YOU LIKE.
Keeble, fighting to breathe, managed to shake his head.
DO YOU WANT ME TO GET YOU A GLASS OF WATER, THEN?
'nnN – nnN.'had enough.THIS, he said.For a moment, just for a moment, Mr Keeble saw him clearly. His face went nearly as pale as Death's own. His hands jerked convulsively. His heart gave a stutter.Death watched him with mild interest, then drew an hourglass from the depths of his robe and held it up to the light and examined it critically.SETTLE DOWN, he said, YOU'VE GOT A GOOD FEW YEARS YET.'Bbbbbbb —'

John William Waterhouse The Lady Clare

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'On the other hand,' he said calmly, 'how would you like it if I made yon a present of this rather fine horse?'
It wasn't hard to find the entrance to the castle. There were guards there, too, and they had crossbows and a hope in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right. He wanted to tell her about himself and everything he wanted to be. He wanted to find out which was her room in the castle and watch it all night until the light went out. And so on.
A little later a blacksmith, in one of the narrow streets that looked out on to the castle walls, glanced up from his work to see a tall, gangling young man, rather red in the face, who kept trying to walk through the walls. considerably more unsympathetic , in any case, Mort had run out of horses. He loitered a bit until they started paying him a generous amount of attention, and then wandered disconsolately away into the streets of the little city, feeling stupid.After all this, after miles of brassicas and a backside that now felt like a block of wood, he didn't even know why he was there. So she'd seen him even when he was invisible? Did it mean anything? Of course it didn't. Only he kept seeing her face, and the flicker of

Edward Hopper Western Motel

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and stroked them gently.
After a while something like grey smoke curled up from the kittens and formed three small cat-shaped clouds in the air. They billowed occasionally, unsure of their shape, and blinked at Mort with puzzled grey eyes. When he tried to touch. He stood up.
the corner of God Street and Blood Alley, but only with the cream of society – at least, with those people who are found floating on the top and who, therefore, it's wisest to call the cream. Fragrant bushes planted among the tables nearly concealed the basic smell of the city itself, which has been likened to the nasal equivalent of a foghorn.
Mort ate ravenously, but curbed his curiosity and didn't watch to see how Death could one his hand went straight through it, and tingled.YOU DON'T SEE PEOPLE AT THEIR BEST IN THIS JOB, aid Death. He blew on a kitten, sending it gently tumbling. Its miaow of complaint sounded as though it had come from a long way away via a tin tube.They're souls, aren't they?' said Mort. 'What do people look like?'PEOPLE SHAPED, said Death. IT'S BASICALLY ALL OWN TO THE CHARACTERISTIC MORPHOGENETIC FIELD.He sighed like the swish of a shroud, picked the kittens out of the air, and carefully stowed them away somewhere in the dark recesses of his robe

Edvard Munch Puberty 1894

Edvard Munch Puberty 1894Unknown Artist Heighton After HoursUnknown Artist Brent Lynch Evening Lounge
Their eyes met. Mrs Whitlow might have had her weaknesses but she was quite tough enough to rule the below-stairs world of the University. However, Granny could outstare a snake; after a few seconds the housekeeper's eyes began to water.
"Yes, Aye "Yes, and some silk."
Granny wasn't sure she approved of silk, she'd heard it came out of a caterpillar's bottom, but black velvet had a powerful attraction. Loyalty won.
"Put it on one side, I may call again," she shouted, and ran down the corridor.expect you are," she said meekly, and fished a handkerchief from the recesses of her bosom. "Well then," said Granny, sitting back and replacing the teacup in its saucer. "There are plenty of opportunities here for a young woman willing to work hard," said Mrs Whitlow. "Aye myself started as a maid, you know." "We all do," said Granny vaguely. "And now I must be going." She stood up and reached for her hat. "But -" "Must hurry. Urgent appointment," said Granny over her shoulder as she hurried down the steps. "There's a bundle of old clothes -" Granny paused, her instincts battling for mastery. "Any black velvet?"

Joseph Mallord William Turner Rain, Steam and Speed - The Great Western Railway

Joseph Mallord William Turner Rain, Steam and Speed - The Great Western RailwayGustave Courbet MarineGustave Courbet Woman with a Parrot
a barren plateau, hemmed in by the orange cliffs.
She didn't stop until she was good and lost but the anger still burned brightly. She had been angry before, but never she would show them.
Esk sat down under a low-spreading juniper bush at the foot of a steep, sheer cliff, her mind seething with plans and anger. She could sense doors being slammed before she had barely begun to open them. Treatle was right; they wouldn't let her inside the University. Having a staff wasn't enough to be a wizard, there had to be training too, and no one was going to train her.like this; normally anger was like the red flame you got when the forge was first lit, all glow and sparks, but this anger was different-it had the bellows behind it, and had narrowed to the tiny bluewhite flame that cuts iron. It made her body tingle. She had to do something about it or burst. Why was it that, when she heard Granny ramble on about witchcraft she longed for the cutting magic of wizardry, but whenever she heard Treatle speak in his high-pitched voice she would fight to the death for witchcraft? She'd be both, or none at all. And the more they intended to stop her, the more she wanted it. She'd be a witch and a wizard too. And

Salvador Dali The Rose

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right to your head?"
The smith nodded again and, aware that he wasn't making a major contribution to the dialogue, added, "That's right."
"That's the difference," said Granny.
"The difference from what?"
Granny sighed. "The difference between witch magic and wizard magic," she said. "And it's found her, and if she doesn't control it, then there are those who will control her. Magic can be a sort of door, and there are unpleasant things on the other side. Do you understand?"
The smith nodded. He didn't really understand, but he correctly surmised that if he revealed this fact Granny would start going into horrible details.
"She's strong in her mind and it might take a while," said Granny. "But sooner or later they'll challenge her."
Smith some advantages. After all, Granny wouldn't last forever, and being father to the area's only witch might not be too bad, at that.
"All right," he said.
And so, as the winter turned and started the long, reluctant climb towards spring, Esk picked up a hammer from his bench, looked at it as though he had never seen it before, and put it down again. "But," he said, "if it's wizard magic she's got, learning witchery won't be any good, will it? You said they're different." "They're both magic. If you can't learn to ride an elephant, you can at least learn to ride a horse." "What's an elephant?" "A kind of badger," said Granny. She hadn't maintained forest credibility for forty years by ever admitting ignorance. The blacksmith sighed. He knew he was beaten. His wife had made it clear that she favored the idea and, now that he came to think about it, there were

Leonardo da Vinci Madonna with Flower

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chittering noises he had been hearing grew in volume, and there were other sounds behind them – leering sounds, beckoning sounds, sounds made by the voices of unimaginable horrors that Trymon found it all too easy to imagine. As he ran across the Great Hall and up the main staircase the shadows began to move and reform and close in around him, and he also became aware that something was following, something with skittery legs moving obscenely fast. Ice formed on the walls. Doorways lunged at him as he barrelled past. Underfoot the stairs began to feel just like a tongue . . .
Not for nothing had Trymon spent long hours in the University's curious equivalent of a gymnasium, building up floor were scuffed as if something had danced on them, and the air was full of a smell unpleasant even by Ankh-Morpork's broad standards. There was a hint of sulphur to it, but that underlay something worse. It smelt like the bottom of a pond.mental muscle. Don't trust the senses, he knew, because they can be deceived. The stairs are there, somewhere – will them to be there, summon them into being as you climb and, boy, you better get good at it. Because this isn't all imagination. Great A'Tuin slowed.With flippers the size of continents the skyturtle fought the pull of the star, and waited. There would not be long to wait . . . Rincewind sidled into the Great Hall. There were a few torches burning, and it looked as though it had been set up for some sort of magical work. But the ceremonial candlesticks had been overturned, the complex octograms chalked on the

William Blake The Resurrection

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won't take long,' said Twoflower firmly, and rapped on the side of the box. A tiny door flew open and the imp poked his head out.
'Bloody hell,' it said. 'Where are we?'
'It doesn't matter,' said Twoflower. The clock first, I think.'
The demon squinted.
'Poor light,' he They both turned. Ysabell was standing in the archway, smiling faintly. She held a scythe in one hand, a scythe with a blade of proverbial sharpness. Rincewind tried not to look down at girl holding a scythe shouldn't smile in that unpleasant, knowing and slightly deranged way.
'Daddy seems a little preoccupied at the moment but I'm sure he wouldn't dream of said. Three bloody years at f8, if you ask me.' He slammed the door shut. A second later there was the tiny scraping noise of his stool being dragged up to his easel.Rincewind gritted his teeth.'You don't need to take pictures, you can just remember it!' he shouted.It's not the same,' said Twoflower calmly.'It's better! It's more real!''It isn't really. In years to come, when I'm sitting by the fire —''You'll be sitting by the fire forever if we don't get out of here!''Oh, I do hope you're not going.'

Leroy Neiman Ferrari on the Beach

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mantlepiece and thought longingly of pickled onions.
And far away, but set as it were on a collision course, the greatest hero the Disc ever produced rolled himself a cigarette, entirely unaware of the role that lay in store for him.
It was part of a tribe who had pitched their felt tents in the sweltering heatwave of a mere -3 degrees and were going around with peeling noses and complaining about heatstroke.
The barbarian chieftain said: What then are the greatest things that a man may find in life?' This is the sort of thing you're supposed to say to maintain steppe-cred in barbarian circles.
The man on his right thoughtfully drank his cocktail of mare's milk and snowcat quite an interesting tailormade that he twirled expertly between his fingers because, like many of the wandering wizards from whom he had picked up the art, he was in the habit of saving dogends in a leather bag and rolling them into fresh smokes. The implacable law of verages therefore dictated that some of that tobacco had been smoked almost continuously for many years now. The thing he was trying unsuccessfully to light was, well, you could have coated roads with it.So great was the reputation of this person that a group of nomadic barbarian horsemen had respectfully invited him to join them as they sat around a horseturd fire. The nomads of the Hub regions usually migrated Rimwards for the winter, and these were

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which sailors marooned on the Circumfence were turned into slaves, and usually had their tongues cut out. After some interjections at this point he spoke, in a friendly way, on the futility of force, the impossibility of escaping muted night-roar of the Rimfall only served to give the silence a heavier texture.
The rocking chair started to creak again. Tethis seemed to have grown alarmingly during the monologue.
"There is nothing personal in all this," he added. "I, too, am a slave. If you try to overpower me I shall have to kill you, of course, but I won't take any particular pleasure in it."
Rincewind looked at the shimmering fists that rested lightly in the troll's lap. He suspected they could strike with from the island except by boat to one of the other three hundred and eighty isles that lay between the island and Krull itself, or by leaping over the Edge and the high merit of muteness in comparison to for example, death.There was a pause. The