Fat burn t cămașă


People are always saying that to me. Different languages.

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But always that same phrase, like a ghost that follows me wherever I go. In the Zhuban territories far to the north, a warrior poet everybody in Zhuban claims to be a warrior poet took it much more seriously. His brow furrowed with deep lines as he frowned at me. But he was really telling me to be wise, to be vigilant and, most of all, to be quiet.

If it's real, where's the crease? Dacă e pe bune, de ce nu e îndoită? Nu sunt sigur ca vreau sa stau pe langa un tip care a observat o dunga in pantalonii mei.

Quiet is the part they all agree on. They could probably incinerate all of us with one big spell, but from what I saw, the mages were mostly teenagers. Shh… be a good girl now. Great plan, lady. I feel like telling fat burn t cămașă that no Mahdek would ever tell an eleven-year-old to be quiet. Maybe our problem is that we just never learned to shut up. I hear the battle cry of one of our warriors outside.

They say we use it to awaken infernal beings to slaughter our enemies. How I wish that were true. I know our warrior has died when I hear the thunder crack of an ember spell lighting up the air outside the cave.

I can picture the shower of gold and blue sparks, followed by the scene of early morning after a storm.

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I know I should hate it, but the colours, the lights, the way they move. Too late now.

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I wonder if the warrior who just died was the last of my clan. And was my clan the last of all that remained of the once-great Mahdek tribes?

Am I alone now?

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Fat burn t cămașă one I hate the most is younger, maybe sixteen. His shoulders are broad and unlike the others he looks strong beneath his robes. The others I can hate the way you hate a cold winter or a sharp stone that cuts your foot.

But this one, he knows — some- where inside he cel mai simplu mod de a slăbi în jos that this is wrong.

Like me. But he does it anyway. More spells are starting to ignite the air outside the cave. Different ones this time. Why is it so important to them fat burn t cămașă no trace of us be left behind?

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I can hear some of the mages complaining about the stink of flesh burning from the bones of the dead. A couple of them are vomiting, their spells fat burn t cămașă from the break in their concentration. Then the older one, their leader, shouts at them fat burn t cămașă they begin the process all over again. To find me.

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Not one of my people, of course. One of the villagers who took us in must be pleading for his life. We never lied about who we were.

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Never stay in one place too long. I still remember the looks on their faces, how scared they were. I should be terrified. I should be angry. Instead I feel almost.

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Is that the right word? Maybe I really am a good girl? My bum slides over the dead and then scrapes the cold rocks and dirt.

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We seem to be going deeper into the cave. I look up in the darkness and I can just barely make out two figures. Like demons. Maybe my people really are demon worshippers.

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Something heavy scratches the cave floor, shifting as the bigger demon shoves it with his shoulder. The two of them bend down even lower as they haul me into a narrow tunnel. This man speaks it awkwardly though, like he learned it only recently. His voice is deep, his tone gruff in a way that warns me not fat burn t cămașă argue with him.

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The voice that answers belongs to a woman. No more trudging through deserts under the hot sun or icy forests in the frozen winter. An important one. And we are. After a second the man mumbles something to her and she nods.

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Yes, we are warriors-of-honour. Do you understand me? I feel bad for the man and the woman who came here thinking they could save me.

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The light I saw was the sun in the sky above, not magic. Soon I find myself being gently rocked to sleep as four fine horses pull us along, first down a dirt path and then onto a road. She was nice. So was her husband. They took me to a lovely home just as big and beautiful as they promised.

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I buried their bodies in the garden six months later. Nicht die einfachen, plausiblen Dinge, von denen man seinen Freunden erzählt, sondern den Traum, den man tief im Herzen bewahrt, den man selbst als Kind niemals laut in Worte fassen würde.

Man stelle sich beispielsweise vor, man hätte sich danach verzehrt, ein Greatcoat zu sein, einer jener legendären Magister und Fechter, die das Land vom kleinsten Dorf bis zur prächtigsten Stadt bereisen und dafür sorgen, dass jeder Mann und jede Frau, egal ob von hoher oder niederer Geburt, das Gesetz des Königs für sich in Anspruch nehmen kann. Für viele ein Beschützer — für manche sogar ein Held. Man fühlt also den Greatcoat, den fat burn t cămașă Ledermantel, das Symbol des Amtes, auf den Schultern, das täuschend geringe Gewicht der eingenähten Knochenplatten, die einen wie eine Rüstung schützen, und die Dutzenden verborgenen Taschen, die mit den nötigen Werkzeugen und Schlichen, esoterischen Tränken und Pillen gefüllt sind.

Man greift nach dem Schwert an der Seite, von dem Wissen beflügelt, dass einem als Greatcoat beigebracht wurde, falls nötig, zu kämpfen.

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Schließlich verfügt man über die entsprechende Ausbildung, jeden anderen Mann im Duell zu bezwingen. Und jetzt stelle man sich vor, diesen Traum in die Tat umgesetzt zu haben — sämtlichen Hindernissen zum Trotz, die Götter und Heilige in die Welt setzen. Man ist also ein Greatcoat geworden. Aber halt, tatsächlich sollte der Traum noch ehrgeiziger sein: Man stelle sich vor, zum Ersten Kantor der Greatcoats erhoben worden zu sein, und seine beiden besten Freunde stehen einem zur Seite.

Nun versuche man sich vorzustellen, wo man ist, was man sieht, was man fat burn t cămașă, welches Unrecht man bekämpfen will … »Sie ficken schon wieder«, sagte Brasti.

Ich zwang meine Augen auf und erhielt zur Belohnung den verschwommenen Blick auf den Korridor des Gasthauses, einen pompös dekorierten, aber schmutzigen Gang, der einen daran erinnerte, dass die Welt einst wohl ein hübscher Ort gewesen war, nun aber langsam verrottete.

Kest, Brasti und ich bewachten den Korridor von dem Komfort heruntergekommener Stühle aus, die aus dem Gemeinschaftsraum im Erdgeschoss stammten. Uns gegenüber befand sich eine große Eichentür, die zu Lord Tremondis gemietetem Zimmer führte. Er fat burn t cămașă mir einen bewusst vernichtenden Blick, der allerdings nicht besonders effektiv war; Brasti ist etwas zu hübsch, als ihm oder sonst jemandem guttut.

Starke Wangenknochen und ein breiter, von einem kurzen rotblonden Bart eingerahmter Mund machen ein Lächeln noch strahlender, das ihn meistens vor den Kämpfen bewahrt, die er mit seinen Worten anzettelt. Sein meisterliches Bogenschießen erledigt den Rest. Aber wenn er versucht, einen niederzustarren, sieht er einfach nur aus, als würde er schmollen.

Damals, als ich mich bei den Greatcoats verdungen habe, weil du mich dazu überredet hast? Stattdessen nenne ich keine Münze mein Eigen und werde verachtet und verdinge mich notgedrungen als niederer Leibwächter für reisende Händler. Oder die Tatsache, dass wir hier sitzen und unserem großzügigen Gönner — was übrigens eine höfliche Bezeichnung ist, da er uns bis jetzt noch keine lausige schwarze Kupfermünze gezahlt hat — dabei zuhören müssen, wie er eine Frau vögelt?

Zum übrigens wievielten Mal seit dem Abendessen? Dem fünften? Wie schafft der fette Sack das überhaupt? Ich meine …« »Könnten Kräuter sein«, unterbrach Kest ihn und streckte sich mit der natürlichen Anmut eines Tänzers.