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Quote by Richelle E. Goodrich

“I’ve worn Niki’s pants for two days now. I thought a third day in the same clothes might be pushing it.” Ian shrugged with indifference. “It might send Derian through the roof, but it doesn’t bother me. Wear what you want to wear.” Eena wrinkled her nose at him. “Do you really feel that way or are you trying to appear more laissez-faire than Derian?” “More laissez-faire?” “Yes. That’s a real word.” “Two words actually,” he grinned. “Laissez faire et laissez passer, le monde va de lui même!" He coated the words with a heavy French accent. Eena gawked at him. “Since when do you speak French?” “I don’t.” Ian chuckled. “But I did do some research in world history the year I followed you around on Earth. Physics was a joke, but history—that I found fascinating.” Slapping a hand against her chest, Eena exclaimed, “I can’t believe it! Unbeknownst to me, Ian actually studied something in high school other than the library’s collection of sci-fi paperbacks!” He grimaced at her exaggerated performance before defending his preferred choice of reading material. “Hey, popular literature is a valuable and enlightening form of world history. You would know that if you read a book or two.” She ignored his reproach and asked with curiosity, “What exactly did you say?” “In French?” “Duh, yes.” “Don’t ‘duh’ me, you could easily have been referring to my remark about enlightening literature. I know the value of a good book is hard for you to comprehend.” He grinned crookedly at her look of offense and then moved into an English translation of his French quote. “Let it do and let it pass, the world goes on by itself.” “Hmm. And where did that saying come from?” Ian delivered his answer with a surprisingly straight face. “That is what the French Monarch said when his queen began dressing casually. The French revolution started one week following that famous declaration, right after the queen was beheaded by the rest of the aristocracy in her favorite pair of scroungy jeans.” “You are such a brazen-tongued liar!”

Quote by Richelle E. Goodrich

Book:Eena, The Companionship of the Dragon's Soul
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Eena, The Companionship of the Dragon's Soul

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Richelle E. Goodrich

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“Rescuing Derian would mean suffering the wrath of the immortal governing body. It would mean breaking their abiding rules, facing another trial where her fate would be determined by beings compassionless to the mortal effects of time. It would quite possibly mean a dire sentence for Eena, and worse, the fulfilling of Ascultone’s prediction about her. Even so, there was no way she could abandon Derian, not now that she knew for certain he was alive. She could not turn her back on the man who had sacrificed every bit of his life for her, the man who had done nothing but remain loyal and undaunted in pursuing and protecting her since the day she was born.”

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“Nightfall was the best part of everyday life. When the sun began to sink behind a rolling horizon, everything came to a halt. If Ian didn’t ride up the hill with Sevenah and Paka, he would be there waiting when she arrived. There they sat and watched the sunset, a ritual shared faithfully every night, settled side-by-side below the drooping branches of her favorite weeping willow tree. Sometimes they discussed the day. Sometimes they simply stared out at a fiery sky and said nothing at all. Regardless, Ian was always at her side. Always. Except for today. “Where are you, Ian? I could really use you now.”

LoveRichelle GoodrichSunsetRichelle E GoodrichBest FriendFantasy SeriesRomance BooksHarrowbethian Saga
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“It was adrenaline that took over, giving her the ability to continue. Her feet automatically obeyed his command, sprinting ahead despite how bleak their hope of escape appeared. There seemed no logic in believing the hill would offer any protection. Surrender looked like the only realistic hope for survival. Even if it was temporary survival.”

SurvivalRichelle GoodrichRichelle E GoodrichEscapeBook QuoteHarrowbethian SagaBook SeriesBook Excerpt
Book:Eena, The Dawn and Rescue
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“The instant the rear door slid open, a monstrous-looking furball sprang out and jumped up on the captain’s chest. On hind legs the animal stood near identical to the man’s height. One sniff at the air turned the creature’s attention to Sevenah. The beast went right after her, bounding to the table on lion-like paws. She screamed and scrambled to the top of her chair. The animal had a body shaped something like an earthly buffalo—a bulky chest, heavily-hunched shoulders, a thick neck—but on a smaller scale. The frightened girl screamed again, climbing onto the tabletop just as the hairy creature perched its front paws on her empty chair. It stretched its neck to examine her. With nose in the air, it made a loud, awful howl. “Hhhrrroowwww!” Dark eyes as big as saucers stared up from a face that was nothing but a thick mass of fur. The same long hair draped over the creature’s entire body, patched in browns and ivory with shadows of black and maroon. From the top of its head protruded two tiny horns positioned behind ears that spiked rigid with every curious sound. An oversized mouth spanned the width of its face, baring a lion's share of sharp teeth. The creature howled once again and then scrambled after its target, following her right onto the table.”

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“Between concentric pavement ripples glide errant echoes originating from beyond the Puddled Metropolis. Windowless blocks and pickle-shaped monuments demarcate the boundaries of patternistic cycles from those wilds kissed neither by starlight nor moonlight. Lethal underbrush of razor-like excrescence pierces at the skins of night, crawls with hyperactive sprouts and verminous vines that howl with contempt for the wicked fortunes of Marshland Organizers armed with scythes and hoes and flaming torches who have only succeeded in crafting their own folly where once stood something of glorious and generous integrity. There are familiar whispers under leaves perched upon by flapping moths. They implore the spirit again to heed the warnings of the vines and to not be swayed by the hubris of these organizing opportunists. One is to stop moving at frantic zigzags through gridlocked streets, stop climbing ladders altogether, stop relying on drainage pipes where floods should prevail, stop tapping one’s feet in waiting rooms expecting to be seen and examined and acknowledged. Rather, one is to eschew unseemly fabrications and conceal oneself beneath the surface of leaves—perhaps even inside the droplets of dew—one is, after all, to feel shameful of the form, of all forms, and seek instead to merge with whispers which do not shun or excoriate, for they are otherwise occupied in the act of designating meaning. Yet, what meaning stands beyond the rectitude of angles and symmetry, but rather in wilds among agitated insects and resplendent bogs and malicious spiders and rippling mosses pronouncing doom upon their surroundings? One is said to find only the same degree of opportunism, and nothing greatly edifying that could serve to extend beyond the banalities of self-preservation. But no, surely there is something more than this—there absolutely must be something more, and it is to be found! Forget what is said about ‘opportunism’—this is just a word and, thusly, a distraction. The key issue is that there are many such campaigns of contrivance mounted by the taxonomic self-interest of categories and frameworks ‘who’ only seek primacy and authority over their consumers. The ascription of ‘this’ may thusly be ascribed also with that of ‘this other’ and so it cannot be ‘that precisely’ because ‘this’ contradicts another ‘that other’ with which ‘this other’ surely claims affiliation. Certainly, in view of such limiting factors, there is a frustration that one is bound to feel that the answers available are constrained and formulaic and insufficient and that one is simply to accept the way of things as though they are defined by the highest of mathematics and do not beget anything higher. One is, thusly, to cease in one’s quest for unexplored possibility. The lines have been drawn, the contradictions defined and so one cannot expect to go very far with these mathematical rules and boundaries in place. There are ways out: one might assume the value of an imaginary unit and bounce out of any restrictive quadrant as with the errant echoes against the rippling pavement of this Puddled Metropolis. One will then experience something akin to a bounding and rebounding leap—iterative, but with all subleaps constituting a more sweeping trajectory—outward to other landscapes and null landscapes, inward through corridors and toward the centroid of circumcentric chamber clusters, into crevices and trenches between paradigms and over those mountain peaks of abstruse calculation.”

AuthorityParadigmTranscendentalismOpportunismTaxonomyTangibilityMathematics And PoetryCentroidLimiting Factors
Book:Inward and Toward
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