Noah Costa

“Plus, here’s the thing. A kiss doesn’t need to be good to be valuable. It doesn’t serve any real purpose. It’s valued solely because of the person you share it with.
Things only have the value we give to them. And likewise, actions can be worth whatever we decide them to be worth.
And so, to these two, that kiss was priceless.”
― Brandon Sanderson, Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“Art - and all stories are art, even the ones about real people - is about what it does to you.”
― Brandon Sanderson, Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“I’m not a coward.” He didn’t speak loud, but his voice carried. His father turned slowly to the challenging words. “I’m not a coward,” Wintrow repeated more slowly. “I’m not big. I don’t claim to be strong. But I’m neither a weakling nor a coward. I can accept pain. When it’s necessary.”
A strange odd light had come into Kyle’s eyes. The beginnings of a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. “You are a Haven,” he pointed out with a quiet pride.
Wintrow met his gaze. There was neither defiance nor the will to injure but the words were clear. “I’m a Vestrit.” He looked down to the bloody handprint on Vivacia’s deck, to the severed forefinger that still rested there. “You’ve made me a Vestrit.” He smiled without joy or mirth. “What did my grandmother say to me? ‘Blood will tell.’ Yes.” He stooped to the deck and picked up his own severed finger. He considered it carefully for a moment, then held it out to his father. “This finger will never wear a priest’s signet,” he said. To some he might have sounded drunken, but to Vivacia his voice was broken with sorrow. “Will you take it, sir? As a token of your victory?”
Captain Kyle’s fair face darkened with the blood of anger. Vivacia suspected he was close to hating his own flesh and blood at that moment. Wintrow stepped lightly toward him, a very strange light in his eyes. Vivacia tried to understand what was happening to the boy. Something was changing inside him, an uncoiling of strength was filling him. He met his father’s gaze squarely, yet his own voice was nothing of anger, nor even pain as he stepped forward boldly, to a place close enough to invite his father to strike him. Or embrace him.
But Kyle Haven moved not at all. His stillness was a denial, of all the boy was, of all he did. Wintrow knew in that instant that he would never please his father, that his father had never even desired to be pleased by him. He had only wanted to master him. And now he would not.”
― Robin Hobb, Ship of Magic

“You speak like a Chalcedean,” Wintrow observed. “There, I am told, to be a woman I’d little better than to be a slave. I think it is born of their long acceptance of slavery there. If you can believe that another human can be your possession, it is but a step to saying your wife and daughter are also possessions, and relegate them to lives convenient to one’s own. But in Jamaillia and in Bingtown, we used to take pride in what our women could do. I have studied the histories. Consider Satrap Malowda, who reigned consortless for a score of years, and was responsible for the setting down of the Rights of Self and Property, the foundation of all our laws. For that matter, consider our religion. Sa, who we men worship as father of all, is still Sa when women call on her as mother of all. Only in Union is there Continuity. The very first precept of Sa says it all. It is only in the last few generations thaf wr have begun to separate the halves of our whole, and divide the—”
― Robin Hobb, Ship of Magic