Check out the first entry of the Memoirs here!
One short one to follow up the other because I’ve fallen behind. ALSO. Favorite quote from the Malazan series.
To say he was out of place would not necessarily be wrong, for some of the people fleeing and screaming past him gave the briefest of consideration as to why a drunk homeless man was reclining against the burning tavern’s outer wall, his arms wrapped tightly around a clay jar of sour wine. He drummed his fingers along the container, playing a marching tune that had not been heard in the Protectorate of Hysteria for the last half century. The drunk tipped the jar back and finished the liquid contents, then wiped the alcohol from his lips with a dirty sleeve.
“You told me I would be done with this shit,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Told me I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the,” he spits the next word, “ injustices anymore.” The homeless man smashed the pot upon the cobblestones in anger.
“Gilgamesh!” he shouted at the flames surrounding him. “You asshole, you promised me that if I just sat here and drank to oblivion, I would know peace until the end of my days!” He stood up, wobbling for a moment before finding his balance unaided.
“This is the absolute last fucking time I clean up a mess for this God’s damned empire.”
The suddenly sober man glared down at the tattooed hawk inked onto the inside of his right wrist. In its claws it clutched a desert rose.
“I’m tired of this Hero shit!”, the man screamed.
He exhaled deeply, began to inhale and coughed as the poisonous smoke entered his lungs. Scowling, he spat the toxic taste out of his mouth, then raised his right hand to his mouth. He sank a sharpened canine tooth deep into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezed the wound to let the blood flow freely. The odd man dipped his left index finger into the crimson liquid, then drew a line through the middle of the inked hawk upon his wrist. The blood suddenly boiled against his skin, but he was numb to it after all this time.
At first, only hinted at in the palm of his hand, a tiny sparkle briefly glanced, erupted into a blindingly bright light. He focused the light into a lance that legends had come to name the Ninth Weapon.
The man shrugged his ragged cloak from his shoulders and stood, lean, lithe and naked to the world. The radiance from the lance began to creep, spreading slowly over the hand clutching it. Surrendering to the light, he let the brilliance envelop his entire being.
Shining angelic wings unfurled. The Hero glanced at the five serpentine beasts dominating Hysteria’s flaming horizon.
It would appear, my dear listeners, that one last Hero of the Lily Dynasty had neglected to shirk his duties.