Pablo Picasso The Pipes of Pan painting

Pablo Picasso The Pipes of Pan paintingPablo Picasso Studio with Plaster Head paintingPablo Picasso Crucifixion painting
Pish, no need." Schmendrick chuckled. The wine had made him chuckly and easy, and had brightened his green eyes to gold. "What I want to know is the reason for the rumors that have Hagsgate full of ghouls and werewolves. Most absurd thing I ever heard of."
Drinn smiled. He was a knotty man with a turtle's hard,
empty jaws. "It's the same thing," he said. "Listen. The town of Hagsgate is under a curse."
The room was suddenly very still, and in the beery light the faces of the townsfolk looked as tight and pale as cheese. Schmendrick laughed again. "A blessing, you mean. In this bony kingdom of old Haggard's, you are like another land altogether—a spring, an oasis. I agree with you that there's enchantment here, but I drink to it."
Drinn stopped him as he raised his glass. "Not that toast, my friend. Will you drink to a woe fifty years old? It is that long since our sorrow fell, when King Haggard built his castle by the sea."
"When the witch built it, I think." Schmendrick wagged a finger at him. "Credit where it's due, after all."
"Ah, you know that story," Drinn said. "Then you must also know that Haggard refused to pay the witch when her task was completed."
The magician nodded. "Aye, and she cursed