Best 4015 quotes in «fantasy quotes» category

There you are," Cardan says as I take my place beside him. "How has the night been going for you? Mine has been full of dull conversation about how my head is going to find itself on a spike.

The rhythm of fraught footsteps and fervent heartbeat orchestrated a symphony of anticipation and dread.

The rulers were using ancient knowledge to manipulate the amygdaloidal primal fear. They ruled through fear, preternatural fear created through soft, invisible waves designed to alternate the brain’s almond. They kept the people spellbound

The room flashed brighter still and then gasps filled the room. They were all gathered around Roxy and she was unsure why. She didn’t feel any different, Hadn’t the spell worked ? Roxy opened her mouth to speak and then she heard it…… a purr.

The sad thing about miracles is that they’re unique. They can’t be explained, or shared, or duplicated. And they absolutely cannot be captured and made to perform on demand. If that day ever came, our world would die for lack of wonder.

The sandpaper of Greg's laugh fascinated Lexi as much as it frightened her. It was why she always thought of him as the Sandman, an interpretation not as sinister as E. T. A. Hoffman's but one that seemed to match, suddenly, in its role as a harbinger of death. Greg's voice rebounded around the building, dry and abrasive. Mirthless laughter is one of mankind's trademark noises. It's been used to mask pain for centuries.

The same virtues, in the end, the same virtue (love), are required throughout, and fantasy (self) can prevent us from seeing a blade of grass just as it can prevent us from seeing another person. An increasing awareness of 'goods' and the attempt (usually only partially successful) to attend to them purely, without self, brings with it an increasing awareness of the unity and interdependence of the moral world. One-seeking intelligence is the image of faith.

the same sorcery that had defeated the attempts of Senar and a handful of other Guardians to punch through the gates of the titan fortress in Karalat two years ago. Memories of that day came back to him: shoving Luker Essendar aside so he could be first up the ladder to the battlements, arrows flitting through an evening sky shot through with bronze

The sands of time blew into a storm of images... Images in sequence to tell the truth! Glorious legends of revolutionaries, bound only by a desire to be true to themselves... And to hope! Parables of colliding worlds, of forbidden love... of enemies healing the wounds of circumstance! Projected myth of persecution through greed and selfishness... And the will to survive! The Will to survive! And to survive in the face of those who claim credit for your very existence! We survive not as pawns, but as agents of hope... Sometimes misunderstood, but always true to our story. The story of man.

These abilities, this wonderful gift of nature, gives us the opportunity to control any living thing on Earth, Alex. The power that has no equals in the whole world. Ability to subdue and suppress,” his voice now sounded louder and different somehow, “ to fully own someone else’s mind, will, and desire.

These are Plenimaran marines, and there's not much most of them aren't capable of, if you take my meaning." "I don't think I do," said Alec, puzzled by Seregil's tone. "Then try this. They have a saying among them: 'When whores are few, a boy will do.' Got that?" "Oh." Alec felt his face go hot.

The second wolf dove straight into the free platter. Fibres of flesh ripped apart with the same terrible tearing sound of sacking stretched and broken. Red sprayed. Limbs flailed. The bloody gurgle of a scream tore from Logan’s throat as he struggled against gnashing teeth. The same slow motion bubble slotted over Violet’s head, vacuuming the sound. Time seemed to ripple around her. Her extra senses reached out, screaming as they felt Logan’s existence fray. She moved without consideration, Simon close on her heels, his noises numb to her brain.

These people don’t even realize how tied down they are by thinking of themselves as either lords or peasants.

These werewolves and the gwrgi are not like the American breed of werewolf. They are not part timers. They do not spend the one, full moon, night in every twenty eight as a wolf or wolf-man beast. They do not spend twenty eight days and twenty seven nights wandering round high school hallways and shopping malls filled with teenage angst about falling in love with the 'one'. They do not go to cool parties where everyone is half naked and waxed. When werewolves change that's it, seven years as a wolf. Gwrgi are stuck the way they are permanently and aren't so much a wolf with a large dollop of teenage heart throb mixed in, but more a wolf with a little too much stinky tramp mixed in. One folk legend is true. You can kill both werewolves and gwrgi by either shooting them through the heart with a silver bullet or by chopping their head off. But then, pretty much any animal can be killed by shooting them through the heart with a silver bullet or by chopping their head off. And if you're on a budget, the bullet probably doesn't even need to be silver.

The shifting sands of the world... show how much the surrealists were drawn towards an interrogation of what reality actually is. Unlike fabulists of whatever hue, there is a materiality in surrealist writing that resolutely keeps it, one might say, 'down to earth'.

the shadows may come and engulf your world, but if you look hard enough you'll always see that spark in the abyss leading you back to the light and the next adventure waiting to be had

the siren song/called silence

The skeleton picked up the second skull, so worn as to barely be recognisable as such. The vertebrae fell and rolled like beads from a string.

The sky is stained red with the blood of a thousand dying sacrifices.

The smile she felt cross her face probably could be seen from outer space, it was so large.

The smile on his face said, pure and simple, those honey cakes came with a price. And his price was answers.

[The Solon]...was a showman, a braggart, and this appealed to certain people who saw only the bravado and not where this irresponsibility might take Osteria.

The soft, fluttering cry of a barn owl rose over the churchyard. Silent men flowed out of the dark.

The sound of wings flapping pulled me from my moment of relieved euphoria, and I looked up to see a massive black raven standing at the end of the alley. It was roughly the size of a bobcat, larger than any raven I’d ever seen before, and its beady eyes were locked right on me. Even though the purple light from Sigrún had all but gone out, the light somehow seemed to linger on the bird’s black feathers. It titled its head as it watched me, squawking once. “What do you want?” I demanded, but the raven had no reply. It just flapped its wings and disappeared into the night sky.

The specifics of what, exactly, these terms meant were never explained; as with any fantasy, vagueness was part of the appeal.

The spirit cannot exist in a sealed void. It will eventually devour itself or waste away.

The station was filling with more movement and noise and light, as the morning sun began to bounce and rattle off the brass and glass of the building. Quincy pushed through the crowd, her eyes towards the ground, her feet guiding her out of the station. She only lifted her head when she came out onto the sidewalk. And there, before her, a familiar figure was waiting, standing with a paper in one hand, watching the flow of traffic. He saw her and waved in silence, somehow knowing it wasn’t a morning for many words. “Did Fisher tell you to come?” Quincy said, her voice sounding so unlike itself—sounding yearning. “No,” Arch replied. Then he shook his head as confirmation, as if it were an important truth she needed to know two ways. “But I knew this was his train.” “You missed him.” “I didn’t come for him. I came for you.

The stars twinkled high above and reflected onto the cold window. I blew on the frosty glass and watched my breath fog up. I traced my initials across the cold glass, the condensation trickling down the pane.

The stories Essie most loved were ones about the Skyweaver, a goddess who spun souls into stars and wove them into the sky.

The strangest experiences in life are apt to lose their effect if dwelt upon long enough. ("Furze Hollow")

The strength of Calberna flows from our women. We protect them, we love them, but we do not cage them.

The sun might not rise one day and leave the world in perpetual darkness. The moon might fall to the sea and send an endless tide that floods the earth, or I might simply slip in sheep dung and break my neck! How will Danhoul prevent any of that?

The strangest thing about demons is that they come to love you. As much as they try to murder the very core of you when you first meet, they become your closest companions. I never asked for this devil on my shoulder. But my eyes are burning and I’m not alone. If you see a red gaze at midheaven, look away. It’s exactly as they say: hell is a hungry place.

The strange thing about magic is how easily one can feel familiar with it. Much like a dream, its message can infill the senses of the soul and persuade the consciousness in a way that is undeniable. As intoxicating as the musk of romance and as enlightening as the whispers of hidden wisdom, magic can take you back into the very realm of your childhood ... and leave you there.

The table was covered with food like roast chicken, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, roast turkey, roast liquorice and, the centrepiece, a roasted knight.

The sudden pounding in her chest, the trembling of her hands, the inflation of her lungs. It was exactly like being alive. It was reanimating the dead.

The surge of his ardour swept through him in climatic release, filling her womb with his final, mortal sowing.

The three sisters sat together, Masie in the middle, gazing at the twinkling stars. Wee Masie squeezed her eyes closed; praying hard to the gods a shooting star would magically appear. Please, if ye grant me this one wish, I promise to eat all my cabbage. She wrinkled her nose but her promise was good.

The things that we do for love is ugly, mad, full of seat and regret.

The thinnest thing in the world is the border between good and evil... my next The Opposite Of Magic.

The thought of that kid pulling a knife on the other, for something as trivial as a stereo, was unconscionable to a simple, peace-loving man like Nathan, who grew up in a time when people still talked to each other . . . when there was still a dialogue going on. Sure, there had always been violence, he didn't deny that, but it was the exception when he was growing up, compared to the new 'normal' of today: this constant threat, all the time, everywhere . . . around every corner. The world was seething now, bubbling over in a cauldron of rage.

The touch of chaos in the order - art required that.

The time has come for you, your Tribe, and all First Peoples. Together, you must learn, remember, and teach the languages, songs, and stories of your ancestors so you may rise once again as true Shepherds of Earth. Teach your quiet light and wisdom to all that they may know, love, and honor all Spirits and the circle of life.

The throbbing shimmy spread through my hips and thighs. I could have sworn my body started to glow as if light were shooting from my fingertips and each strand of hair.

The town lay beneath their feet, its outskirts in ruin from the negligence of arrogant people who thought it was acceptable to let everything fall apart because they could rebuild it without lifting a finger.

The truth, at times, can be the hardest pill to swallow. When we are confronted by something new, something that threatens to shake us from our comfortable tree, shatters our illusions, we resist. It takes courage to swim against the tide of popular opinion. Most of us would rather hold on to the safety buoy than strike out into unchartered seas. If you are one of these, don't bother to read this true account of the Frankenstein myth, hold tightly to your buoy and be carried to the shores of the known and familiar, you will be safe. I do not wish to make you feel uncomfortable in your skin, that is not my aim. My goal is to set the story straight and not pander to the fickle minded. This version of events is so far removed from the common misguided perceptions held by us all, and will so challenge the accepted beliefs generated by cheap fiction, that there will be many who will call me charlatan or fraud. They do not possess the will, or wherewithal, to want to know the truth or even suspend their judgement so that the record might be set straight for posterity. Possibly, they might be the last remnants of the flat earth society and still trying to convince the rest of us where we are going wrong. If nothing else, I salute their commitment and tenacity. This book is not for them. There it is. I have forewarned you against reading this account of the tortured genius of Baron von Frankenstein. If you are not ready for the truth, stay safe and warm in your insulated ivory towers and remain ignorant of the catastrophe that befell him and the people of the town of Frankenstein. It is not my loss...

The two weary but still talkative wizards sat in a pair of fan-backed chairs and pitched pebbles at the drunken satyr in the fountain. They talked about wars, enchantments, and obscure facts until the sky above the forest began to be fringed with pale blue.

The truth, as much as people acted like they wanted to hear it, was sometimes too cruel and harsh.

The truth is I don’t know what happens to the spirits of the dead when they leave this world. Priests may claim to, even Truthseeker may claim to. However nobody truly knows. All Truthseeker truly knows is that Ishar, Kirfell, Orion and Avanti are lies. He has no proof of an alternative. I don’t know. There may be nothing beyond this dark reality we live in, but that doesn’t feel right to me. We love, we hate, we fight, we strive... People’s lives seem too complex and important to be simply extinguished like a candle.’ ~Vexis Zaelwarsh Deathsworn Arc 5: The Temple of the Mad God

The truth is there isn’t anything to me at all. All I know is that I can’t sleep well, I can’t dream well and I’m quite in love with you. That’s all there is to me. My greatest feature is my admiration for you. I know it’s not healthy. Like my insomnia. Like my dreamless nights. You make living alright. My nightmares come when I think of a night without Valeria. That’s when I realise you’re dead. That’s when I remember you’ve been gone for years. That’s when I remember I’m awake. And I wait for this dream called Life to leave me to my peace once and for all and forever.