Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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Summary
He’s of course considered hiring at least a sketch artist, but the idea of having someone else close by, even if just as a mute pair of eyes, repels him. Which makes no sense given that they’ve been meeting in a tavern for all these years.
Public house. It’s in the name, stupid.
Or, Hob Gadling tries to get some sleep following another meeting with his mysterious benefactor.
Series
- Part 1 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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The childish, poetic compliment that had died partway to his lips because you can’t wax lyrical over a man’s beauty, not within earshot of Kit fucking Marlowe. And then watching the Stranger bend his ear, his tenderly beringed ear, to that upstart crow Shaxberd.
Or, Hob Gadling resorts to desperate measures to court sleep after a harrowing day.
Series
- Part 2 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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An arrow to the back of the neck, and they hadn’t even bothered to retrieve it. Would have been folks worth stealing from, to leave a perfectly good piece of iron by the side of the road like that.
Or, Hob Gadling completely fails to die.
Series
- Part 3 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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Summary
Risky story, that. The one he wants to tell anyway. Mostly because he’s got this insistent image in his head of the Stranger lovingly disheveled (and there’s a new word that’s barely English, thanks Master Caxton) and dancing the age-old dance on a man’s prick, and he’s not sure he wants to go as far as making the Stranger a woman for the sake of publishing but damn, the image is compelling.
Or, Hob Gadling falls asleep on the job.
Series
- Part 4 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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Summary
He wipes at his mouth, feels the stubble. He probably stinks, he can’t tell any more. But he has to try. He has to see if the Stranger is real. He has to know that if he ever needed a way out, if things ever got this bad again, that there is someone he can ask.
He has to know if his dreams have anything whatsoever to do with reality.
Or, Hob Gadling's had a bad century.
Series
- Part 5 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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Summary
In an unsettling way that is somewhere between scientific and sentimental, Hob likes the idea that his solitary correspondence hours are illuminated by coal; not by the crude braziers of his youth but by a fine filament, spun into hair thinness and electrified until it glows.
Glows, without ever burning out. No wonder I like its company.
Or, Hob Gadling tries to focus on his correspondence.
Series
- Part 6 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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Summary
I think you’re lonely. He’s lost count of how many times he’s wanted to unsay those words, true though they are, still.
What’s truer, though, is that he is lonely.
Or, Hob Gadling hasn't dreamed in over 70 years.
Series
- Part 7 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
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Summary
Hob’s not quite sure what he expected, but… probably something like the Eclipse of 1999, the one he spent in a traffic jam somewhere in northern France, and rolled down his windows and heard the birds go quiet and the temperature drop a few degrees.
Or, Hob Gadling meets the man of his dreams.
Series
- Part 8 of Nocturnes of Hob Gadling
