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“Well Vin says that there's something behind all this, right? Some evil force of doom or whatever? Well, if I were said force of doom, then I certainly wouldn't have used my powers to turn the land black. It just lacks flair. Red. Now, that would be an interesting color. Think of the possibilities--if the ash were red, the rivers would run like blood. Black is so monotonous that you can forget about it, but red--you'd always be thinking, 'Why, look at that. That hill is red. That evil force of doom trying to destroy me certainly has style.”

“You are out of control, Rand al'Thor,' she declared. I do what must be done,' he said, speaking now from the shadows. He sounded exhausted. ... I hate what you just did, Rand,' Nynaeve snarled. 'No, "Hate" isn't strong enough. I loathe what you've done. What has happened to you?' Test him!' Rand whispered, voice dangerous. 'Before condemning me, let us first determine if my sins have achieved anything beyond my own damnation.”

“At first glance, the key and the lock it fits may seem very different," Sazed said. "Different in shape, different in function, different in design. The man who looks at them without knowledge of their true nature might think them opposites, for one is meant to open, and the other to keep closed. Yet, upon closer examination he might see that without one, the other becomes useless. The wise man then sees that both lock and key were created for the same purpose.”

“What did you put in the fire?" Kaladin said. "To make that special smoke?" "Nothing. It was just and ordinary fire." "But, I saw-" "What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn't live until it is imagined in someone's mind." "What does the story mean, then?" "It means what you want it to mean," Hoid said. "The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think , but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.”

“I don't have much time for stories," Vin said. "Seems that fewer and fewer people do, these days." A canopy kept off the ash, but he seemed unconcerned about the mists. "It makes me wonder what is so alluring about the real world that gives them all such a fetish for it. It's not a very nice place these days.”

“anyone know where Kell is?" "Sleeping," Vin said. "He came in late last night, and hasn't gotten up yet." Ham grunted, taking a bite of baywrap. "Dox?" "In his room on the third floor," Vin said. "He got up early, came down to get something to eat, and went back upstairs." ... Ham raised an eyebrow. "You always keep track of where everyone is like that?" "Yes.”

“They tried boiling books, but that didn't work very well." "I'm surprised they haven't tried boiling one another." "Oh, it's been tried," Galladon said. "Fortunately. something happens to us during the Shaod—apparently the flesh of a dead man doesn't taste too good. Kolo? In fact, it's so violently bitter that no one can keep it down." "It's nice to see that cannibalism has been so logically ruled out as an option," Raoden said dryly”

“Well,” Waxillium said. “Perhaps I should begin by asking after your health.” “Perhaps you should,” Steris replied. “Er. Yes. How’s your health?” “Suitable.” “So is Waxillium,” Wayne added. They all turned to him. “You know,” he said. “He’s wearing a suit, and all. Suitable. Ahem. Is that mahogany?”

“So,” Marasi said, “you traded a dead man’s scarf for another dead man’s gun. But…the gun itself belonged to someone dead, so by the same logic—” “Don’t try,” Waxillium said. “Logic doesn’t work on Wayne.” “I bought a ward against it off a traveling fortune-teller,” Wayne explained. “It lets me add two ’n’ two and get a pickle.”

“What wasdat, sir? What wazzat sir? What wassat, sir?” “Wayne, what are you babbling about?” Waxillium asked. “Practicing my pretzel guy,” Wayne said. “He had a great accent...” Waxillium glanced at him. "That hat looks ridiculous.” “Fortunately, I can change hats,” Wayne said in the pretzel-guy accent, “while you, sir, are stuck with that face.”

“Your insult has offended me. If we were at the Peaks, we would have to duel in traditional alil'tiki'i fashion." "Which is what?" Teft asked. "With spears?" Rock laughed. "No, no. We upon the Peaks are not barbarians like you down here." "How then?" Kaladin asked, genuinely curious. "Well," Rock said, "is involving much mudbeer and singing." “How's that a duel?” "He who can still sing after the most drinks is winner. Plus, soon' everyone is so drunk that they forget what argument was about." Teft laughed. "Beats knives at dawn, I suppose.”