6. Build the apron. When you think of your mother, she is wearing an apron. When you think of your mother, she is holding a knife. She is in the kitchen— and the kitchen is the heart of the house, and yours was always bleeding. JOAN TIERNEY / How To Build A Table.
Some say God is where we put our sorrow. God says, Which one of you fuckers can get to me first? RICHARD SIKEN / War of the Foxes.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Let me tell you a story about war. It is not folklore or mythology; a fabled hero who's country awaits their glorious return. It is not an uprising of hope for the masses, the chance to right centuries of wrongs. It is brutal. It is vicious. And it takes no prisoners. Owain Glyn Dŵr is familiar with the savage song of cruelty that is sung by the voice of war. The last true Prince of Wales driven from his homeland by a tyrannical monarchy of Englishmen.
Let me tell you a story about war. It has its repercussions. It crowns the power hungry and the selfish. It gives way for destruction. And it births darkness. Mercy King, the disillusioned daydream Queen, reigning from a long family line of rogue Greywarens, plagued with the black ink stains of tywyll, seeping from their cavities. They are doomed, you see. Damned from the beginning. A line born in darkness, thrusted into a cold universe where birth is the death of them.
Let me tell you a story about Mercy King. Nothing about her is real. Webs of reality thread together at her fingertips like the gossamer string of a spider's web as tywyll pools on her top lip and she laughs without a care. But Mercy King has a destiny, one that she cannot escape. A foretold tale of building the bridge between the monsters and their creators, building the road to an emend. A responsibility to fix a broken bond. To rectify the imbalance.
