The Mime Order

Words are everything. Words give wings even to those who have been stamped upon, broken beyond all hope of repair.

Madness is a matter of perspective, little dreamer.

Hope is the lifeblood of revolution. Without it, we are nothing but ash, waiting for the wind to take us.

You can never want too much. That’s how they silence us,” I said. “They told us we were lucky to be in the penal colony instead of the æther. Lucky to be murdered with NiteKind, not the noose. Lucky to be alive, even if we weren’t free. They told us to stop wanting more than what they gave us, because what they gave us was more than we deserved.” I picked up my jacket. “You’re not a prisoner any more, Arcturus.” Warden looked at me in silence. I left him in that ruined hall with the music echoing above him.

Change a word or two, even a single letter, and you change the entire story.

Some revolutions change the world in a day. Others take decades or centuries or more, and others still never come to fruition. Mine began with a moment and a choice.

It is not that I do not want you. Only that I might want you too much. And for too long

With the right reasons, at the right moment, even the most beaten and broken of people could rise up and reclaim themselves.

His dreamscape sent a tongue of fire across my flowers.

London - beautiful, immortal London - has never been a 'city' in the simplest sense of the word. It was, and is, a living, breathing thing, a stone leviathan that harbours secrets underneath its scales. It guards them covetously, hiding them deep within its body; only the mad or the worthy can find them.

Isn’t it wonderful, how words and paper can embroil us so? We are witnessing a miracle, dear heart.

You told me once that freedom was my right.” I held his gaze. “Maybe you should do something with it.

Writing didn't carry the same risks as speaking. You couldn't be shouted down or stared at. The page was both a proxy and a shield.

Dance and fall. Like a puppet. All those years of dancing.

You seem to attract injuries in the manner that a flower attracts bees.

It’s rare that a story begins at the beginning. In the grand scheme of things, I really turned up at the beginning of the end of this one. After all, the story of the Rephaim and Scion started almost two hundred years before I was born - and human lives, to Rephaim, are as fleeting as a single heartbeat. Some revolutions change the world in a day. Others take decades or centuries or more, and others still never come to fruition. Mine began with a moment and a choice. Mine began with the blooming of a flower in a secret city on the border between worlds. You’ll have to wait and see how it ends. Welcome back to Scion.

But Warden cared if I laughed. He cared if I lived or died. He had seen me as I was, not as the world saw me. And that meant something. It had to. Didn’t it?

That's delusional, isn't it?” “Definitely. But if you're both delusional together, you'll be fine.

Money. The dark obsession of the human race.

I have studied many books on human history, and if there is one thing I have learned from them, it is that it is not always possible to find reason in tradition. It is the same for Rephaim.

Jokes are the declarations of fools.

One day,” was the dark reply, “I will find the Ripper, and you will prove it with your life.” “I hope that is not a threat against my person, sir, verily I do.” The auctioneer was all of a quiver. “I shall not endure that sort of talk in my wife's very own auction house, sir. Judith would never have allowed such wanton verbal abuse, sir.” “Where's you wife's spirit?” a medium shouted. 'Shall we auction her off, too?' Didion purpled like a bruise. You knew things were getting serious when Didion Waite ran out of sirs.

Life, for all its wonders, is rather flimsy in the end.

For Rephaim, it takes a long time for a flame to cath. But once it burns, it cannot go out." It didn't take long to understand what he meant. "But I will," I said. "I'll stop. I'll go out." There was a long silence. "Yes," Warden said, very softly. "You will go out.

Our lifelines will meet only when the aether sees fit. That may not be often. It can never to always.

He was capable of kindness, but he wasn't kind. He could act like he cared, but it would always be an act.

Everything was too bright, too loud, too fast. I was used to streets with no electric lights, devoid of noise pollution. This world seemed mad in comparison. My sordid, sacred SciLo, my prison and my home.

The truth was our best weapon.