On the morning train, I found myself standing next to a character: big, burly, shaven-headed, in his prime, tattooed on his shoulder with an orc's head fanged and helmed, and wreathed about it this legend: ODERINT DUM METUANT.
Googling gives me the translation, "Let them hate, so long as they fear," and its attribution, to the very satisfactorily orcish Emperor Caligula. It also turns up a Warhammer Online guild of the same name, thus solving my small mystery of the day.
140 words of novel between today and yesterday, in the baking stone city without sea or mountain breezes to relieve it. Pretty weather and good for visions, but ill for work or sleep alike. I could take off my skin and dance around in my bones.
760 words: an Atlanta who can hold Heaven because she is no shrugger, and the rare and pleasant challenge of dramatizing profound happiness.