"Your New Year's traditions are weird."

One by one, the artist set out brush, ink, needle, and cloth. "Give me the beliefs I will write for you," she said, in almost the way a Satedan would say it, if any were still alive to perform the task.

It’s strange and a little lonely that no one living remembers that he used to chatter as much as McKay.

Ronon doesn’t miss the brat he used to be, though sometimes he wishes there were someone around who did.

Ronon's not good at waiting, but he does have some other skills.

The first time he ever asked anybody a question he was six circles, about to go to the military academy. She had left a small bird on Ronon's windowsill three days later: I'm sorry. Go wherever you desire. Have freedom.

"Close your eyes," Ronon said, his voice all low and sexy, the Barry White hour on 94.1 FM, and John wondered if this was what all those Athosian women had been hearing late at night.

“But--but I’m a *girl*,” John repeated, pointing--down. At--at them. Those things that had looked so nice from a distance, but in reality, were just plainly freaksome.