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GOODKIND X: Lemmings of Discord


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I imagine that the idea is there up for grabs, it only needs a good writer to write it.

It would be expected that a good writer would spare the readers of long speeches, a good writer would be able to say the same in just a few sentences, as well the cyclical process of Richard being kidnaped and Kahlan almost being raped. The series would be shorter as well, one book series would be just perfect.

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Here are some things that I will never again be able to do with a straight face:

1. Meet, or read about, anyone called Richard (especially if he has a yeard)

2. Watch The Thing

3. See a goat

4. Hear a chicken cackle

5. Take part in a peace protest

6. Read the phrase "...a [something] that was not a [something]"

7. Eat testicles

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I've never read a word of Goodkind, but all these QotD are starting to affect me, too. I watched an episode of Doctor Who yesterday, and they kept on talking about a "boy that isn't a boy", a "phone that's not a phone" and a "bomb that isn't a bomb". I couldn't take the rest of the episode seriously after that. Though at least the "boy" didn't cackle and the phone probably isn't evil incarnate.

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Here are some things that I will never again be able to do with a straight face:

3. See a goat

Hey baby, what you smiling for? Oh you want that do you? I know you do. I want to enjoy it too. I know I will. Are you going to enjoy it? I know you will. There will be a whole lot of enjoying going on :leer:


Just caught up on the thread. The QotD where Harold tries to tell the Mother Confessor she was in the wrong and ends up dying for it was truly sickening. I read that once long ago and had forgotten the horror :sick: :sick: :sick: :sick: :sick:

Loved the Scrooge parody, brilliant stuff :rofl:

I also :lmao: at Mad Moose's post regarding everyone shitting themselves. Good work everyone, keep it up :D

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Can somebody give me a short dramatis peraonae of the Richard gospel?

i figured out who Richard and Kalan are, but I'm a bit confused about the others.

(No, I don't intend to ever read these books. Honest)

How old is Richard supposed to be?

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I don't think its ever said how old Richard is, nor are there any time references in regards to how long ago the barriers went up (which would be shortly before Richard's birth), nor are there many clues as to how much time has passed in the series so far (keep in mind that time and distance mean virtually nothing in this world). My guess would be late twenties at this point, but thats just a shot in the dark (of the Dark).

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If you want to know how old Richard is you're probably not smart enough to be reading the Yeard's novels. He's telling a story about characters and here you are obsessing over irrelevant details. It's like when one person is pointing a gun at another person and someone asks how the gun fires!

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I don't think its ever said how old Richard is, nor are there any time references in regards to how long ago the barriers went up

"Time is Relative - lunch time doubly so."

I don't mind vague timescales - if they are handled well (GRRM does so), it can often save the reader from getting bogged down with unnecessary deatails... and the author making silly mistakes with continuity etc... which TG seems to doa anyway...

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Good morning and welcome to the Terry Goodkind Quote of the Day. Today I was feeling nostalgic for the good ole days of Kahlan leading a naked army painted white against the Imperial Order. So I skimmed that QotD and realized that only the preparations for the battle were shown, not the battle itself, so it’s high time you all got a taste (why should I suffer alone after all?). For those of you who have made requests for a QotD, never fear, I have started a list of them and will pop them out in due course. For those of you who have not read Stone of Tears or have not been keeping up with the QotD, the story goes as follows: The city of Ebinissia (in Galea) has been ransacked and the people butchered. Kahlan and her Mud People friends, Chandalen, Prindin, and Tossidin, find it and go looking for those responsible. They come across a small army of young Galean recruits and Kahlan takes command of them. Kahlan’s strategy is to attack the Imperial Order forces (who outnumber them 10 to 1) buck naked and covered in white wash. The plan is that the enemy will think spirits are attacking them. Spooooooooooooooooky!

They materialized out of fog and mist, the white fangs of death. The startled prey, at first immobilized by bone-chilling fright, jumped to flee before the white death. Fangs of white steel ripped into them without mercy as they bolted for their lives. Death squeals <Death squeals???> tore the night air with their terror. Hysteria sent them running heedlessly onto the waiting cold, white steel.

Fearless men tasted fear before they died.

Pandemonium spread on a wild uproar of noise. The ringing chime of steel, the splintering of wood, the ripping of canvas, the groan of leather, the pop of bones, the whoosh of fire, the crash of wagons, the thuds of flesh and bone hitting ground, and the screams of man and beast all joined into one long cacophony of terror. The wave of white death drove the tumult before it.

The sharp smell of blood washed through the air, over the sweet aroma of blazing wood, the acrid tang of igniting lamp oil, the smoky smack <HUH??> of flaming pitch, and the gagging stench of burning fur and flesh.

What wasn’t wet with the cold mist was greasy-slick with hot blood.

The white steel fangs now were coated with blood and gore; white snow became a soggy mat of red splashes. The cold air was seared by gouts of flame that leapt up to turn the white fog an incandescent orange. Sinister, dark clouds of smoke hugged the ground while the sky burned over head.

Arrows zipped past, spears arced through the air, splintered lances spun away into the mist, and severed pike heads whirled off into the darkness. Remnants of torn tents flapped and fluttered as if battered by a furious storm. Swords rose and fell in waves, driven by the grunts that accompanied frantic effort.

Men ran in every direction, like frenzied ants. Some tumbled to the ground, spilling their viscera across the snow. One of the wounded, blinded by blood, stumbled aimlessly until a white shadow swept by, a spirit of death, cutting him down. A wagon wheel bounced past, its progress quickly obscured from view by dark curtains of acrid smoke that drifted past.

No alarm had been raised; the sentries were long dead. Few in camp had realized what was happening until it was upon them.

The camp of the Imperial Order had lately been a place of noise and wild celebration, and for many, in their drunken state, it was hard to tell that anything of consequence was happening. Many of the men, poisoned by the bandu in the ale <Kahlan allowed the Order to capture some stuff, ale and rum, poisoned by her Mud people buddies> , lay sick around fires. Many were so weak they burned to death without trying to escape flaming tents. Others were in such a drunken stupor that they actually smiled at the men who drove swords through their guts.

Even the ones who were not drunk, or who were not drunk to the point of dullness, didn’t truly appreciate what was happening. Their camp was often a place of raucous noise and confusion. Huge bonfires roared throughout the night, for warmth and as gathering places. They were generally the only reference points in the disorderly layout, so the fires of destruction caused little concern, except in the immediate area.


In battle they were disciplined, but when not in battle, they were ungoverned to the point of anarchy. Pay, for D’Harans on expeditions, was in large part a share of the plunder – they had looted Ebinissia, despite all their talk of a new law – and having that new plunder made them perhaps less than single-minded in their devotion to duty. At battle, or the first sound of an alarm, they became a single unified fighting machine, almost an entity of one mine, but in camp, without the overriding purpose of war, they became thousands of individuals, all bent on serving their own self-interest. <Wait, I thought that was a good thing.>

Without an alarm to warn them, they paid the added noise and screaming little attention. Above the noise of their own business, trading, stories, laughter, drinking, gambling, fighting, and whoring, the unheralded battle a short distance away went largely unnoticed. The officers would call them if needed. Without that call to duty, their lie was their own, and someone else’s troubles were not theirs. They were unprepared when the white death materialized.

The sight of white spirits appearing among them was a paralyzing force. Many a man wailed in fear of the Shahari spirits. Many envisioned that the separation between the world of the living and the world of the dead had evaporated. Or that they had somehow been suddenly cast into the underworld.

Without the ale, both poisoned and unadulterated, it might not be so. As it was, the drink, and their confidence in their numbers and strength, left them vulnerable as they would never be again. But not all were drunk, of dull. Some rose up fiercely.

Kahlan watched it all from atop her dancing warhorse. In a sea of raw, unbridled emotion, she wore her Confessor’s face. <???>

These men were neither moral nor ethical; they were animals who lived by no rule but might. They had raped the women at the palace and had mercilessly butchered the people of Ebinissia, from the aged down to newborn babes.

A man lunged through the ring of steel around her, grabbing at her saddle for support. He gaped at her, crying a prayer for mercy from the good spirits. She split his skull.

Kahlan wheeled her horse to face Sergeant Cullen. “Have we captured the command tents?â€

The sergeant signaled, and one of the white, naked men ran off to check as they drove deeper into the camp of the Order. When she spotted the horses, she gave the signal. From behind she heard the sound of galloping hooves, and the sharp rattle of chains: scythes of death, come to reap a crop of the living.

With a sound like a boy running past a picket fence with a stick in hand, the chain scythes being pulled at a full charge reaped a snapping of bone that meshed into a long, clacking roar. The beasts’ screams and the dull thuds as they slammed the ground drowned out the sound of galloping hooves and breaking bone.

Even the drunken enemy turned from the white spirits to stare at the ghastly spectacle. It was the last thing they saw. Men stumbled from their tents, to watch without understanding wheat it was that was occurring before their eyes. Others wandered aimlessly, mugs in hand, as if at a fair, drunkenly looking from one sight to another. There were so many, some had to wait a bit for their turn to die.


A man with sword to hand, and sober, she was alarmed to note, appeared suddenly next to her leg. He looked up with a fierce glare. His sharp eyes made her feel suddenly nothing more than a naked woman sitting on a horse.

He took al of her in. “What the …â€

A foot of steel erupted from his breastbone, driving a grunt form his lungs.

<Snip, she gets word that the command tents have been captured.>

She directed her Confessor’s face to a Keltish officer at the end of the line. “Where’s Riggs?â€

He glared at her, and then spat. Kahlan lifted her gaze to the man holding him. She drew her finger across her throat. He didn’t hesitate. The officer went down in a heap.

She looked to the next officer. ‘Where’s Riggs?â€

His eyes darted about. “I don’t know!â€

Kahlan drew her finger across her throat. As he went down, she looked to the next man, a D’Haran commander.

“Where’s Riggs?â€

His eyes were wide, but not at the two bleeding bodies beside him. His horror was for her. A spirit before him. He wet his lips.

“He was hurt, by the Mother Confessor. I mean, by you. Before.†His voice trembled. “When you were…alive.â€

“Where is he!â€

He winced, shaking his head vigorously. “I don’t know, great spirit! He was hurt, his face was cut by the horse. He is being tended to by the surgeons. I don’t know where their tents are.â€

“Who knows where the surgeon’s tents are?â€

Most trembled and shuddered as they shook their heads. Kahlan stepped her horse down the line of officers. She stopped before one she knew.

“General Karsh. I am very pleased to see you again. Where’s Riggs!â€

“wouldn’t tell you if I knew.†He grinned as he leered up at her. “You look better naked than I fancied. Why are you whoring with this lot? We could do you better than these boys.â€

The man holding him twisted his arm until her cried out. “Show respect for the Mother Confessor, you Keltish pig!â€

“Respect! For a whore holding a sword? Never!â€

Kahlan leaned toward him. “These ‘boys’ have you under their blades. Every one is a better man than you, I would say.

“You wanted war, Karsh. You have your wish. You have war, now. A real war, not a slaughter of women and children, but a war led by me – the Mother Confessor. A woman. War without quarter.â€

She sat up straight in her saddle, letting his eyes linger on her breasts. “I have a message, Karsh. A message for the Keeper. You will be with him presently. Tell him I said to make plenty of room; I’m sending all his disciples home.â€

Her gaze swept down the line of men holding the officers. She drew her finger across her throat in a quick gesture. The response was just as quick.

~Terry Goodkind, Stone of Tears

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These men were neither moral nor ethical; they were animals who lived by no rule but might. They had raped the women at the palace

The hypocrisy is amazing, really. These people did what Kahlan orders done to Galea later (?) yet they are bad while she is nice. Gotta love consistency.

And way to go for killing all the unarmed prisoners. Really makes you better than your enemies.

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Again, the Yeard's power of description amazes me...

"a wild uproar of noise"... as opposed to the other kinds of uproar.

"white snow became a soggy mat of red splashes" ...nuff said.

"They were generally the only reference points in the disorderly layout, so the fires of destruction caused little concern, except in the immediate area"... next, the weather from D'Hara.

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