The Whole Language The Power Of Extravagant Tenderness Novels & Stories

(The Man) The man's voice was calm and proud, though he just said a few words it's was enough to shake my very being. Because the language he spoke was the lost ancient language far older than High Elves and Dragons, I remember studying this language back when I was royalty, it was so difficult to master even Grand Scholar took 100 years just to learn to read their writings. I wasted 260 years just to learn and master them; I thought it's just a waste of time, who would've thought I heard them here. The entire world called them with many names the language of first, Language of Power, Words of Destroyer, Language of The Origin, but all of them were the same thing, which it can only be spoken

He anxiously rubbed his brow, "Cami, you two aren't the same. She's too pure and innocent—she's no match for you." The word "pure" stung me. Distant yet deeply carved memories came flooding back, making my heart ache. So, it was purity that he liked after all.

Across the room Cyrus and Garrett shared speaking looks at feminine modeling of effortless trust ultimately taming even half wild things wander into den sheltering long enough. Blinding revelation required no complex philosophy - only true seeing each as fellow journeyer worthy welcome by compassion's hearth fire. The nameless waif butted her ragged face insistently seeking more nourishing affection. My palms cradled bony feline cheeks tenderly. "All creatures desire notice and dignity life too oft denies, leaving each ravenous." I stroked matted fur as though anointing divine royalty disguised under threadbare robes. "They're not as bad as I think they would be," I whispered.

Back in my apartment that night, I lit one of the candles Zoe had given me as a joke gift—a lavender-scented tin labeled Burn This When You Need Courage—and let it flicker near the edge of my desk. I opened my journal. Then I opened the latest letter. Dear L, I wonder if you know what you’re made of. Not the lists on your resume, or the titles beside your name. But the quiet strength. The elegant ache. The poetry of someone who’s rebuilt herself piece by piece and still manages to create beauty. I watched the world pass over me for a long time until I found your words. They made me stop. They made me stay. Congratulations. Even if you don’t say it out loud, I will.

“Do you mean the fact that no one seems to be able to look away when she’s in a room? Or how anyone, and not just me, tends to react to the slightest physical contact with her? How her eyes look like they could hypnotize anyone? How she has insights which are like a mix between visions and elaborated knowledge-filled instincts that tell her things? How she can look at someone’s actual soul? How her eyes can turn moonstones-looking when she’s having visions? How light seems to refract abnormally on her skin, like it was always bordering on shimmering which makes her skin pretty hard to miss even in half-light? I’m sure there’s more And I haven’t seen all that she can do.” My father had frozen

They are an all consuming pure gold, concealing all his potential power. “Lovely night, isn’t it?” he says to the stall tender, shining his apple on his sleeve. He has a refined accent, totally foreign. It’s heard only slightly in the accents of the village people. I can see the tender tremble. “Yes.” “Things here get awfully boring here, don’t they? Nothing new really...comes in,” he says smoothly, taking a crisp bite of the apple. I can see the stall owner sift through his own mind for the perfect way to answer. With an Immortal with such a powerful gaze looking at you, of course you would overthink everything.

I wipe my tear with a finger. My mate is such a child; he can be protective, a playful pup, romantic in the wrong place, fearful, and emotional in a day. The rest of my life will never be boring. I saw Acro walking around the two and when she stretched her neck to squint at me, I lifted my thumb. What's more powerful than magic is words—a power that can soften the corrupted heart. Later on, one of the spellbooks levitates and the pages flip on their own.

We just gave her the language. The behavior first. The understanding second. Like the bowl. Like everything that lasts.

"Words are human. The watcher is not human. It is finding its own language." "What does its language sound like?" The Archivist was quiet for a moment. Then: "Like light. Like warmth. Like the feeling of being seen by someone who cares." Clara thought about this. About the way Morwen looked at her. About the way Seren's letters made her feel. About the way the flowers pulsed when she sat among them. "The watcher is learning to love," Clara said. "That's its language." The Archivist nodded. "Yes. I think it is."

My eyes narrowed, and I shuddered as I felt my powers surge within me. "Fucking quiet!" I bellowed, and the crowd stilled. Flames of fire flickered around me, and I heard a soft gasp and others moving away from me as I walked forwards. 'The power of language!' Flora screeched. 'Use it, Winter. Use the power!' I didn't know how to bring forth the power of language, but I did the first thing in my mind. I snarled, "Hunters, fall out!"