Nicholas Eames

Ganelon sighed. "Slowhand...""Never again," Clay said. "Where you stand, I stand.

You should write a book," Matrick suggested.Kit snorted. "Who wants to read the self-pitying lamentations of an old revenant?""There's your title right there," said Ganelon.

Despite this, his prejudice against helmets remained unchanged. You had your pride, Ganelon had told him once, or you had nothing.

How do I look?" he asked.Barret grinned. "Old."Moog glanced over appraisingly. "Tired."Gabriel snorted a laugh. "Fuck you guys.

As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way

(...) Clay knew better. He and Gabriel had been friends for thirty-five years, and Gabe had been talking him into doing recklessly stupid shit for damn near all of them. He was a charismatic craftsman: every heart a furnace, every soul a blade.

He considered going for his hammer, which lay just out of reach, or maybe diving for Ganelon instead, since waking the warrior was probably his best hope of survival.