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- “This one’s number fourteen?” Regent asked. “Which means she’s got thirteen sets of powers?”
- Another one, speaking out of turn, Accord thought.
- Citrine was giving him a sidelong glance. He met her eyes, shook his head fractionally.
- Tattletale answered, “Only a small share of each power. Don’t forget she’s got thirteen voices in her head, giving her advice and helping her work stuff out, and all the powers she brought to the table, besides.
- —Worm: Interlude 20
- Her attacks don’t miss. She imbues them with an effect which means they bend space so they strike her target, Bullets turn in midair, swords curve, all means she’s pretty much guaranteed to hit you if her attack reaches far enough.”
- [...]
- Butcher drew her bow again.
- She didn’t miss. She did something to warp space or adjust the very fabric of reality, so her shots always struck the intended target.
- She aimed towards my teammates, paused, lowered her weapon a second as if momentarily confused.
- The bow swept in the Ambassador’s direction.
- Then she turned, her body rotating, the massive bow and long arrow pointing at us. Rachel and I.
- “Go!” I shouted. “Go, go!”
- We could only get out of range.
- —Worm: Imago 21.6
- I had always wondered just how much influence the passengers had on us; Now I had the sinking suspicion that I knew, because as the powers of past Butchers blossomed in my mind, they brought uninvited guests with them.
- There was no way to relate to Quarrel's power without having a mind that also thought of the world in terms of targets and connections, so when her power was transferred to me, her way of thinking was too, my mind stretching to accommodate the alien logic.
- [...]
- Idly, I pressed down on the pebble between my fingers, and felt the fizz of Stonesmith's shaping abilities as it narrowed into a stone dart, then flattened out into a perfectly smooth, round disk. I stood, turned, and used five kinds of super-strength to flick it at the bay. Quarrel's powers insured that it struck at exactly the perfect angle. It would have been symbolic, or poetic, if it had skipped exactly fifteen times, but it only made it to about nine before it struck the rusting hulk of a wrecked ship and shattered with a clang.
- —Butcher's Bill: 1.3.1
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