Bloodborne Quotes

Warmblood now a bloodborne death, Will rob your body of it's breath Mark your skin and seal your fate The Underland becomes a plate

Lupin’s condition of lycanthropy (being a werewolf) was a metaphor for those illnesses that carry a stigma, like HIV and AIDS. All kinds of superstitions seem to surround blood-borne conditions, probably due to taboos surrounding blood itself. The wizarding community is as prone to hysteria and prejudice as the Muggle one, and the character of Lupin gave me a chance to examine those attitudes. Remus’s

Hunter: What is your opinion, child? Child: What is an opinion? Hunter: An idea that deforms itself into thinking it's a fact.

We must trust when trust is not plentiful. We must eke out each drop of the miraculous.

It was a descent into holy darkness sinking deeper and deeper into her need and survival. Desire coursed through her thicker than the blood in her mouth.

But I was so exhausted–not in a sleep-deprived way, but worse, like I was tired in my soul.

He had the face of a God, or a demon, a face that could convince just about anyone to commit just about any sin.

There’s No Place Like Home,” an oil painting of a woman sprawled out on the floor, half of her painted brown, the other half white, with each half of her body in a differently decorated room. One half was a traditional British home, the other half a Persian one with ornate carpets and gold details glittering on the shelves. Catholic symbols mixed with the elements of nature. Mixed. A dichotomy of two colliding worlds, two pieces of a whole.

After lunch we went to have our feet nibbled by hundreds of tiny fish. Then, after that- just kidding, I'll explain. The onsen offers a skin treatment where you dip your feet into a shallow pool stocked with Garra rufa, also known as doctor fish, which perform primitive exfoliation by slurping dead skin off your feet with their tiny jaws. This is illegal in most U.S. states, where health authorities believe that sharing fish between customers is as sanitary as sharing unsterilized tattoo needles. I find this reasoning persuasive. Naturally, we all went and joined a random stranger at the fish pool. I'd heard of this fish treatment before, probably from a "hey, you've got to see this" link passed around online, and somehow I had the idea that it involved the occasional wayward fish sidling up to your foot. Try dozens, hundreds, all gnawing simultaneously. You can feel the little bites. At first it provoked a deep-seated piranha fear which I quelled by sitting still, taking deep breaths, and telling myself I had nothing to worry about other than blood-borne diseases. After that, it proved quite relaxing, although I did give up before my allotted fifteen minutes and went back to the painful reflexology pool where you walk around barefoot on jagged rocks. My feet are still baby soft, but when I need my next treatment, I'll post to Craigslist. Need feet nibbled. Will pay.

The world is ghastly. It is the clouded alone.

Mina was like a dark little flame that flickered, beguiling. It was only a matter of time before he would burn.

In the quiet, Mina, that's when this spider tears down and re-weaves her web. Should we all be this industrious. Don't forget you can always rebuild.

My eyes slid to him. I let them rest there for a long moment, taking him in now that I was seeing him in the light. He looked Bloodborn in every sense. His eyes, the pupils slightly slitted against the lantern light, held those telltale strings of crimson and gold. The red marks at his throat lingered just beneath the edge of his collar, which was high and stiff in burgundy fabric of the traditional House of Blood style, simple and tailored. Before I hadn’t been able to tell if his hair was blonde or silver, and now I realized that it was both—ashy blond-gray with shocks of near-white.

It was so natural, Mina forgot she was ever different, ever in pain, ever anything but two connected souls on the beach while the tide inched closer to them.

I am some kind of terrifying creature. Who ciuld love such a thing? All I want to do is tear you limb from limb and drink you dry." "Then I'll be a beautiful corpse loving you as I'm bleeding out.

At only thirty-five, I felt somewhere around nine hundred.

We could consider a surrender, but⁠—” Surrender? To a Rishan noble prick and a Bloodborn snake? No. Never. I scoffed. “Fuck, no. I’d rather die fighting.

If I used the blood of a god, I would certainly become something to fear. I would be more terrifying than Simon was. I could destroy him. Septimus. The Bloodborn. I could kill every enemy and make sure no one ever would question or threaten me or my people ever again. They would write legends about me. But that would be the power of destruction. I would not be able to save Raihn.

THE RETAINED BREATH This form of pranayama strengthens the muscles of the lung and expands the chest. It also increases oxygenation of the blood, which is of particular benefit to the liver and the other organs of digestion. In addition, it enhances the exit of blood-borne toxins through the lungs. When you do this exercise, do not hold the breath longer than 10 seconds, because this can sometimes cause dizziness. As Yogi Bhajan has noted, dizziness is not enlightenment. 1. Standing or sitting erect, inhale a Complete Breath through your nose, pulling in your chin. 2. Retain the air for 10 seconds, as you remain still and calm. If you have the urge to exhale, inhale slightly instead. 3. Exhale through the nose. Throughout this exercise, create a calm internal spot in your awareness, and observe the changes in your body and mind. Breath retention will make your body work at a higher level of efficiency. It will also train you to remain rational during stress or pressure. To master this is to master the inflow and outflow of the life force. The effects of the Retained Breath are: • Toning of chest muscles • Heightened oxygenation • Improved digestion and liver function • Improved conscious awareness of breath

thousands of American junkies who are not infected with HIV are losing the same CD4+ T-cells and getting the same diseases as AIDS patients. STDs from promiscuous sex and blood-borne diseases like hepatitis A, B, and C added to the immune suppression among this cohort.

You are better than him,” I said, more viciously than I’d intended. “Fuck him. We are going to destroy him, Bloodborn army or no.

It was this love that allowed me to push through the unyielding exhaustion each day, hour after hour–picking up around the house, packing organic lunches, stumbling through meltdowns and backtalk. The endless appointments, and endless worrying, and cooking, and cleaning, and baths, and battles–over, and over, and over.

Of course this is when I’d run into him, with my undies full of wadded toilet paper, my face pale and twisted in pain, looking like a goblin who just raided a period trove and was running off to hoard it.

No one was quite as eager for a visit from the House of Blood—there was a reason why none of the Bloodborn had been invited to this event—but Vincent would never pass on the opportunity to peacock before the rest of vampire high society.

The information was far from comprehensive.  Inside the file was a polaroid that looked like it had been taken exactly from where Jamie was sitting. She held it up and matched the outline of the door in front of her to the picture in her hand. In the middle of it was Oliver Hammond. He looked dishevelled and gaunt. Hungry was the word that came to mind. His skin looked colourless and there were grazes and scabs hanging from his cheeks. The heroin scratch. That’s what her dad used to call it. When addicts pawed at their faces. His hair was matted and his eyes sunken, but there was no mistaking him.  Jamie pulled the photo out from under the paperclip and went through the rest of the file.  There was a roughly photocopied form that looked like it had been put together in a spreadsheet. It had been filled in by hand. Jamie closed her eyes and recalled the handwriting on the sign outside. It was different. Oliver must have filled it in himself.  It gave his name, date of birth, emergency contact, and blood type. Though there was nothing filled in under address. It also had two check-boxes under the words ‘Naloxone Allergy?’, and he’d checked ‘no’. Naloxone was used to treat heroin overdoses. There were also questions — ‘How long has it been since you maintained a permanent residence?’, ‘Do your family know where you are?’. He’d written ‘A year’ and ‘No’ for those two. Then came the personal questions. ‘What is your sexual orientation?’, ‘Are you sexually active?’, ‘How many sexual partners have you had in the last 12 months?’, ‘Have you been recently checked for sexually transmitted diseases?’, ‘Have you been diagnosed with any transmittable diseases?’, ‘Are they bloodborne?’. He’d written ‘Straight’, ‘Yes’, ‘1’, ‘No’, ‘No’, and ‘No’. So he’d only been with one girl, and he hadn’t caught anything.

SCP-016 is a blood-borne pathogen recovered from a mine worker in █████ who injured himself while working in a deep coal seam. Said wound became contaminated with coal dust from the mine, possibly infecting the worker with dormant spores. Over the next several days, SCP-016 proceeded to infect the remaining employees at the mining camp, as well as the CDC crisis team dispatched to deal with the epidemic.

No. This is about blood. Oraya. This is about getting the Bloodborn out of our fucking kingdom.

the vampires of the House of Shadow were the monsters that came to them in their nightmares. Sure, the Nightborn were intimidating, with the wings and the swords and all that battle prowess. The Bloodborn were frightening the way rabid wolves were, vicious and unpredictable. But the Shadowborn were like ghosts. They manipulated reality itself. They drank up the darkness like wine and relished the notes of fear within it.

Careful, Egrette,” the man warned. His voice sounded a world away. “You can’t kill her yet.” Egrette. I’d heard that name before. Distantly, it clicked together. The House of Shadow had a princess, too. A second heir, sister to the man I’d killed. But this knowledge flew by, lost beneath her assault on my mind. I barely heard her response. “She’ll die soon anyway. Before she does, I want to see how she did it.” She tore through my memories of that party—the coup, when Raihn had been kidnapped and Oraya disappeared. Pushed past the images of the Bloodborn guards dragging me away and locking me up, a gift for the Shadowborn prince’s favor. And then she stopped—right there, right at the moment it happened. I had the prince against the wall. Oraya was behind me. His hands were on my throat. I was so, so angry. This man had taken everything from me. He had Turned me into a beast undeserving of everything I’d devoted my entire life to. He was the reason I had lost my magic. He was the reason my god had abandoned me. I thought about nothing but that hatred as I grabbed the sword Oraya had given me. As I drove that blade straight through his chest and kept going, and going, and going, until I couldn’t push anymore—until the prince’s perfect face went slack⁠— Egrette stopped. Her magic clung to that image—her brother in his moment of death. She smiled. “Poor, poor Malach. How very sad.

Even the humans knew all about the kings of Obitraes, the land of vampires. After all, vampire rulers had centuries to build their palaces of grand myth, forged from the flames of their bloody acts. In the human nations, they had been whispered of like monsters. In Obitraes, they were talked about like gods. I’d heard all the stories over the years. Vincent, Oraya’s father and former King of the Nightborn, had been the drawn blade, a killer cold as the night itself. Dante, King of the Bloodborn, had been the beast larger than life, more teeth and claws than man. One day, the whispers would make legends of Raihn and Oraya, too, and I looked forward to hearing them. Raoul, King of the House of Shadow, might have dwarfed them all. He was the oldest of the vampire kings, and the one who had managed to cling to power the longest. Like most vampire rulers, he’d plucked his crown off the severed head of his predecessor, his mother, before even bothering to wipe his blade. Two centuries ago, he’d nearly destroyed the House of Blood without a single battle, relying on torture and spies instead of warriors. They said he could pick thoughts from your head like grapes from the vine and crush them just as easily. They said that he could enslave you without a single chain.

Shadowborn magic, I realized. The magic of minds and compulsion, illusion and shadow. When little human children in a country half a world away told scary stories at night, the vampires of the House of Shadow were the monsters that came to them in their nightmares. Sure, the Nightborn were intimidating, with the wings and the swords and all that battle prowess. The Bloodborn were frightening the way rabid wolves were, vicious and unpredictable. But the Shadowborn were like ghosts. They manipulated reality itself. They drank up the darkness like wine and relished the notes of fear within it.