Diego Rivera The Flower Seller

Diego Rivera The Flower SellerGustav Klimt The MusicGustav Klimt The Friends
made this, you know,' he said. 'They all said you couldn't make a staff out of metal, they said they should only be of wood, but they were wrong. I put a lot of myself into it. I shall give it to him.'
He ran his EIGHTH SON OF AN EIGHTH SON, said Death, unhelpfully. The wind whipped at his robe, driving the black clouds overhead.
'What does that make him?'
A SOURCERER, AS YOU ARE WELL AWARE.
Thunder rolled, on cue.
'What is his destiny?' shouted Ipslore, above the rising gale.
Death shrugged again. He was good at it.hands lovingly along the staff, which gave off a faint tone.He repeated, almost to himself, 'I put a lot of myself into it.'IT IS A GOOD STAFF, said Death.Ipslore held it in the air and looked down at his eighth son, who gave a gurgle.'She wanted a daughter,' he said.Death shrugged. Ipslore gave him a look compounded of bewilderment and rage.'What is he?'THE EIGHTH SON OF AN