Loras Tyrell had been the last to face her wroth that day. He’d never courted her, had hardly looked at her at all, but he bore three golden roses on his shield that day, and Brienne hated roses. The sight of them had given her a furious strength. — Brienne of Tarth, A Feast for Crows (via kaorym)
A balding grassland beneath a low cliff side.
There is a monk.
Picture what a monk looks like.
A bell rings. From his hand, maybe. Then he takes a small step. Then there’s that bell again.
It will take him a long time to make it from this bit of grass to whatever there is beyond it. An entire lifetime it will take him. And even then, he will die unfinished. Undone in midst of doing, having gone slowly to nowhere much.
Then a bell will ring. From his hand, maybe. Or from somewhere else.
And then, nothing.
Do the Dew.—
Welcome to Night Vale
Episode 41 - WALK(via nightvalequotes)