D&d Paladin Quotes

If this were a fairy tale, I'd be my own damned knight.

He wished that he could break out his knitting, but for some reason, people didn’t take you seriously as a warrior when you were knitting. He’d never figured out why. Making socks required four or five double-ended bone needles, and while they weren’t very large, you could probably jam one into someone’s eye if you really wanted to. Not that he would. He’d have to pull the needle out of the sock to do it, and then he’d be left with the grimly fiddly work of rethreading the stitches. Also, washing blood out of wool was possible, but a pain. Still, if he had to suddenly pull out his sword and fend off an attack, there was a chance he’d drop the yarn, and since he’d been feeling masochistic and was using two colors for this current set of socks, there was absolutely no chance the yarn wouldn’t get tangled and then he’d be trying to murder people while chasing the yarn around. And god forbid the tide rose and he went berserk. You never got the knitting untangled after that; you usually just had to throw it away completely.

Istvhan, you ever kill someone with an ice swan?” he whispered. “I clubbed someone unconscious with a frozen goose once. That’s similar?” The Bishop suffered a mysterious coughing fit. “No, you had to use the goose as a bludgeon, didn’t you? For the swan, I figure you’d snap the head off and try to stab with the neck.” “Hmmm…” Istvhan eyed the ice sculpture speculatively. “It’s pretty big. And not well balanced.” “I figure you’d have to go two-handed with it.” “I think I’d grab one of the candelabras instead. Some of those are nice and heavy.” “Far too unwieldy. I could take you apart with the ice swan while you were still trying to get the candelabra off the ground.” “Gentlemen,” said Beartongue, “I forbid you to smash the Archon’s decor and try to duel with it.” “Yes, your holiness.” “I’ll have you both excommunicated.” Stephen coughed. “Technically we’re not in your church, your holiness.” “Then I will have you confirmed so that I can excommunicate you even harder.” “Yes, your holiness.” He and Istvhan traded smug looks. Shane gazed into the distance, perhaps imagining a place where he had suitably serious colleagues.

The ping of the elevator door signaled their arrival at the bottom, just as an image flashed through his mind of Laurel huge with child--his child, their child. The very thought should scare him, but he found himself grinning. Trahern was staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. "I don't know where your mind is, Devlin, but it better be right here in this elevator with me.

Pres, I know you’re going to say this is dumb, and I know you won’t understand. Which is why I asked Bee and Ryan for help. Don’t get me wrong, I like fighting with you, but there are some things you just can’t argue. This is one, and I hope you’ll come to accept that. I have to leave Pine Grove. I have to leave Alabama, and I have to leave you. After tonight, that’s all completely clear to me. This whole situation is effed up…and it’s clear to me now that the only way to un-eff it up…is to take myself out of the equation. Without me, you, Bee, and Ryan can just be you, Bee, and Ryan. Not Paladins or Mages. People. With your own lives. It’s like you said at that time at Cotillion practice, you want to be a good woman who chooses the right thing for everybody. Well, so do I. (Minus the woman part, obviously.) Have a good life, Pres. I love you. Always. D

If they’d just get better care immediately afterward…but no, everybody gets it in their head that childbirth is natural and any fool could do it. Cows give birth, so why not people? And so I see more new mothers on the slab, or old women who have been living with something like this for years…

I think he wants to use you to get to me, because I'm hard to corner." Devlin picked up her suitcase. "Maybe if he figures if he threatens you, I'd walk into a trap bare-ass naked with my hands up." "And would you do that?" she asked, already knowing the answer. "In a minute and with a smile on my face.

He’d been a paladin long enough that he did not expect gratitude. You didn’t slaughter bandits or cultists or demon-possessed animals expecting to be thanked. You just did it.

he’d stabbed a nun who was also a bear and now he was ogling her while she was bleeding, gods above, was there no end to his personal depravity?

And now Asuriel was saying that people in the heavens bought things with money they’d already given to other people. It was all incredibly strange and frustrating.

His last relationship had ended less than a month ago. Given that the Bishop Beartongue, highest ranked of the priests of the Temple of the White Rat in Archenhold, had nearly run him into the ground, he'd been looking forward to a few months of celibacy to recuperate. The bishop was a marvelous woman, but she had a great many aggressions to work out and limited free time to do it in.

This explains the running, at least, but how on earth did it happen? Am I some kind of freak? No wonder my parents didn't want me on a cross-country team; I'd end up on Ripley's Believe It or Not.

Did you know that there's erectile tissue inside your nose?" asked Galen. The healer stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Is yours giving you trouble?" she asked finally. "I'm honestly not sure.

The big guys who ran things didn't want you thinking or feeling. It slowed down production. They wanted you scared and working so you wouldn't bump up against the truth--life could be fun. Yup, they wanted you scared. They wanted you grim. They wanted you madly cranking out Barbie dolls or Post Toasties or Xerox, or they wanted you overworked and underpaid at teaching so you could at least feel smart, and they wanted you to keep having kids so you'd have to keep working at whatever job you were stuck in and not have time to think or feel or, if you did, you certainly wouldn't have time to do anything about it, or even get close to the big fun, the fun that belonged only to them. And then they wanted your kids to hop on the same treadmill.

In fact, they didn’t even keep track of birth dates here. Instead, they used a traditional method of counting a person’s age. Newborn babies were “one year old,” and became one year older at the start of the new year. As for the reason it didn’t start at zero... I was briefly afraid I’d discover they didn’t yet have the concepts of zero or place-value notation. In fact, they had both. Newborn babies being “one” was just a holdover from previous times, before the numeral “zero” existed within their culture. Old

One also, in our milieu, simply didn't meet enough Americans to form an opinion. And when one did—this was in the days of crew-cuts and short-legged pants—they, too, often really did sport crew-cuts and trousers that mysteriously ended several inches short of the instep. Why was that? It obviously wasn't poverty. A colleague of my father's had a daughter who got herself married and found that an American friend she had met on holiday had offered to pay the whole cost of the nuptial feast. I forget the name of this paladin, but he had a crew-cut and amputated trouser-bottoms and a cigar stub and he came from a place called Yonkers, which seemed to me a ridiculous name to give to a suburb. (I, who had survived Crapstone… ) Anyway, once again one received a Henry Jamesian impression of brash generosity without overmuch refinement. There was a boy at my boarding school called Warren Powers Laird Myers, the son of an officer stationed at one of the many U.S. Air Force bases in Cambridgeshire. Trousers at The Leys School were uniform and regulation, but he still managed to show a bit of shin and to buzz-cut his hair. 'I am not a Yankee,' he informed me (he was from Norfolk, Virginia). 'I am a CON-federate.' From what I was then gleaning of the news from Dixie, this was unpromising. In our ranks we also had Jamie Auchincloss, a sprig of the Kennedy-Bouvier family that was then occupying the White House. His trousers managed to avoid covering his ankles also, though the fact that he shared a parent with Jackie Kennedy meant that anything he did was accepted as fashionable by definition. The pants of a man I'll call Mr. 'Miller,' a visiting American master who skillfully introduced me to J.D. Salinger, were also falling short of their mark. Mr. Miller's great teacher-feature was that he saw sexual imagery absolutely everywhere and was slightly too fond of pointing it out [...]. Meanwhile, and as I mentioned much earlier, the dominant images projected from the United States were of the attack-dog-and-firehose kind, with swag-bellied cops lying about themselves and the political succession changed as much by bullets as by ballots.

Your god may be dead, but you still serve,” said Beartongue. “Do not make me break out a theological argument, Shane, I’ll do it.” Wren grinned. “We’d never argue with the bishop of a god of lawyers.” “Never? That’s news to me. You argued with me last week.” “Yes, and I was right, too. You should have let me kill him.

I'm Level Eighty on Warcraft." The clerk was stunned. "You're Level Eighty?! Are you Horde, or Alliance?" "What, are you kidding me? I'm Horde, of course! I'm a Level Eighty Undead Priestess. What Guild are you in?" "I'm a Horde Blood Elf Paladin. Level 30. I'm in the Blood Roses Guild." "Have you ever seen a 'Spectral Tiger' loot card? I bet you never have." The museum clerk thought about her situation. The psychic pressure was mounting on her. She was in a state of moral anguish. "Look, Signora, I'd love to help your American clients there... But if my director knew I was Warcrafting here at work, she'd kill me! Besides, you don't have any 'Spectral Tiger' in your purse, I bet.

She sat back, testing the motion. His eyes went to her chest involuntarily and Saint's balls, she had magnificent breasts and they were right there and he was going to have to do vigil standing on his head, he'd stabbed a nun who was also a bear and now he was ogling her while she was bleeding, gods above, was there no end to his personal depravity?

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage. "Henry the Fifth.

But I am a paladin,” Cordelia cried. “It’s awful, I loathe it— don’t imagine that I feel anything other than hated for this thing that binds me to Lilith. But they fear me because of it. They dare not touch me—” “Oh?” snarled James. “They dare not touch you? That’s not what it bloody looked like.” “The demon at Chiswick House—it was about to tell me something about Belial, before you shot it.” “Listen to yourself, Cordelia!” James shouted. “You are without Cortana! You cannot even lift a weapon! Do you know what it means to me, that you cannot protect yourself? Do you understand that I am terrified, every moment of every day and night, for your safety?” Cordelia stood speechless. She had no idea what to say. She blinked, and felt something hot against her cheek. She put her hand up quickly—surely she was not crying?— and it came away scarlet. “You’re bleeding,” James said. He closed the distance between them in two strides. He caught her chin and lifted it, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. “Just a scratch,” he breathed. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Daisy, tell me—” “No. I’m fine. I promise you,” she said, her voice wavering as his intent golden eyes spilled over her, searching for signs of injury. “It’s nothing.” “It’s the furthest thing from nothing,” James rasped. “By the Angel, when I realized you’d gone out, at night, weaponless—” “What were you even doing at the house? I thought you were staying at the Institute.” “I came to get something for Jesse,” James said. “I took him shopping, with Anna—he needed clothes, but we forgot cuff links—” “He did need clothes,” Cordelia agreed. “Nothing he had fit.” “Oh, no,” said James. “We are not chatting. When I came in, I saw your dress in the hall, and Effie told me she’d caught a glimpse of you leaving. Not getting in a carriage, just wandering off toward Shepherd Market—” “So you Tracked me?” “I had no choice. And then I saw you—you had gone to where your father died,” he said after a moment. “I thought—I was afraid—” “That I wanted to die too?” Cordelia whispered. It had not occurred to her that he might think that. “James. I may be foolish, but I am not self-destructive.” “And I thought, had I made you as miserable as that? I have made so many mistakes, but none were calculated to hurt you. And then I saw what you were doing, and I thought, yes, she does want to die. She wants to die and this is how she’s chosen to do it.” He was breathing hard, almost gasping, and she realized how much of his fury was despair. “James,” she said. “It was a foolish thing to do, but at no moment did I want to die—” He caught at her shoulders. “You cannot hurt yourself, Daisy. You must not. Hate me, hit me, do anything you want to me. Cut up my suits and set fire to my books. Tear my heart into pieces, scatter them across England. But do not harm yourself—” He pulled her toward him, suddenly, pressing his lips to her hair, her cheek. She caught him by the arms, her fingers digging into his sleeves, holding him to her. “I swear to the Angel,” he said, in a muffled voice, “if you die, I will die, and I will haunt you. I will give you no peace—” He kissed her mouth. Perhaps it had been meant to be a quick kiss, but she could not help herself: she kissed back. And it was like breathing air after being trapped underground for weeks, like coming into sunlight after darkness.

Shane took a deep breath. “Maltrevor is…not a good man. He might…attempt to take liberties.” Over the paladin’s shoulder, Marguerite saw Wren cover her eyes and turn away. “…Liberties,” said Marguerite, not quite certain she’d heard correctly. “Yes.” “Sexual liberties, you mean?” Shane, to give him what credit she could muster, met her eyes squarely. “Yes. I am sorry to say, it seems likely.” “Good heavens,” said Marguerite. “I was just going to suck his cock, then drug his wine, but if you think he might take liberties…” The paladin’s face became so expressionless that for a moment, Marguerite was afraid he might keel over in a dead faint. Wren sat down and put her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

Pres, I know you’re going to say this is dumb, and I know you won’t understand. Which is why I asked Bee and Ryan for help. Don’t get me wrong, I like fighting with you, but there are some things you just can’t argue. This is one, and I hope you’ll come to accept that. I have to leave Pine Grove. I have to leave Alabama, and I have to leave you. After tonight, that’s all completely clear to me. This whole situation is effed up (hope you appreciate my discretion there), and it’s clear to me now that the only way to un-eff it up *do i get bonus points for that one?) is to take myself out of the equation. Without me, you, Bee, and Ryan can just be you, Bee, and Ryan. Not Paladins or Mages. People. With your own lives. It’s like you said at that time at Cotillion practice, you want to be a good woman who chooses the right thing for everybody. Well, so do I. (Minus the woman part, obviously.) Have a good life, Pres. I love you. Always. D

Paladin swivelled around. “Disturbance detected,” it kept saying. “Disturbance detected.” Father started rolling up his sleeves. “I suppose I’d better …” he was saying, making a show of letting everyone know he was at least considering getting involved, even though he was happier behind a desk than wrestling with drunks.

And now does noble Tristan, Charlemagne’s new paladin, Clap hand on oar and calling upon Our Lady’s virtues

She stared back. The animal suddenly grew very still. Ista stood on tiptoe, grabbed one ear, and whispered toward it, “Behave for Lord Arhys. Or I will make you wish I’d merely ripped your guts out, strangled you with them, and fed you to the gods.” “Dogs,” corrected the nervous groom holding the twitch. “Them, too,” said Ista.

He wished that he could break out his knitting, but for some reason, people didn’t take you seriously as a warrior when you were knitting. He’d never figured out why. Making socks required four or five double-ended bone needles, and while they weren’t very large, you could probably jam one into someone’s eye if you really wanted to. Not that he would. He’d have to pull the needle out of the sock to do it, and then he’d be left with the grimly fiddly work of rethreading the stitches. Also, washing blood out of wool was possible, but a pain.

The most I could do was to mull over several different hypotheses. Think them through, turn them over and over and try to calculate which one was the most likely. What I eventually settled on was something like this: my ever-scheming, ever-dissatisfied, megalomaniacal brother had finally discovered a way out of his middle-class purgatory. After his company, Gifford Industries, had secretly acquired Paladin Worldwide, he’d combed through Paladin’s financial records, come across evidence of some mammoth kickback scheme, and made the brazen error of trying to extort millions of dollars from Carl Koblenz, Paladin’s president. But instead of simply buying Roger’s silence, Paladin had come right back at him. Threatened him. Targeted him. Then, one night in Georgetown, grabbed him. After that, well, my hypothesis got even shakier. Had he managed to escape his abductors? That seemed awfully unlikely. Roger was no super-hero. Was he being held prisoner at the Paladin training facility in Georgia in such a lax, loose way that he was actually able to use a cell phone? That was only marginally more likely.

Homer tucks in his unwritten words for the night as ocean muses seduce his dreams with swelling songs heard in search of undiscovered paladins.

The narrator—the voice was some Hollywood actor I'd heard a million times but couldn't put a name to—emphasized repeatedly that Hitler survived all this purely through dumb luck.  I was unconvinced.  The simpler explanation is that all the key conspirators were officers. 

I couldn't help but nod agreement to this observation: The survival of the West depends on Americans reaffirming their Western identity and Westerners accepting their civilization as unique not universal and uniting to renew and preserve it against challenges from non-Western societies.  Of course, he lost me on the very next sentence.  Avoidance of a global war of civilizations depends on world leaders accepting and cooperating to maintain the multicivilizational character of global politics. "What crap."  I felt like I was speaking directly to him.  "Avoid a global war my ass.  We're in a fucking global war, you moron." I kept reading, fascinated someone so smart could understand so clearly that hate, envy, and mistrust dominate not just the lives of people but of civilizations as well, and yet avoid the obvious conclusion that survival demands getting rid of those people who hate, envy, and mistrust you.  Academics really do live in ivory towers.  If this Huntington guy had spent just a few days in my world, he'd have come to more sensible conclusions. By sunset, I'd struggled through about a third of the book.  That and finding a secluded bush where I could piss after drinking a whole thermos of coffee was all I accomplished.  The only other park visitors that day were women with baby strollers.  I watched them all anyway.  Maybe Rebecca Goldstein was smart enough to pass herself off as a mom walking her kid.  But none of them headed down the path toward the footbridge.  Finally I caught the bus back to my apartment, fixed myself a sandwich and drank a beer before hitting the

The beer aisle would have made Carrie Nation weep. Sven had already warned me that Oregon leads the country in breweries, all of them trying to outdo each other in crafting the hoppiest pale ales, meatiest stouts, darkest porters, fruitiest wheat beers and snootiest lagers. I was hoping to score a case of Budweiser or Miller Genuine Draft, but I was out of luck; apparently I’d be forced to consume craft beer until I finished my assignment and escaped the rain-drenched state. I grabbed a few six packs of something called Beavertail Pale Ale. At least it came in cans. The cereal

What do you do?” “I make custom penises.” Casey tapped the palm of his hand, beaming Paladin the address of a server packed with information on how to design and order the sex organs you’d always wanted.

And if this were a fairy tale, I'd be my own Gods damned knight!

You're alive," the paladin said hoarsely, burying his face in her shoulder. He had to bend quite a way down to do it, but Slate didn't mind. "Apparently so." "I was sure you'd be dead." "Surprise?

New Mexico, one in Colorado and the ringleader, Donnie Ness, he'd found on the border between Nevada and California.  Killing all three of his

Wren grinned. "We'd never argue with the bishop of a god of lawyers." "Never? That's news to me. You argued with me last week." "Yes, and I was right, too. You should have let me kill him." "Everyone gets a fair trial, Wren." "We caught him eating that old man's face! I saw it with my own eyes! So did you!" "It was," said Beartongue heavily, "a particularly eventful trip to the library.

I don’t know. It might be worse if I knew. If she did marry the blacksmith, and he made her happy, I don’t know whether I’d want to kill him or to fall to my knees in gratitude. Because I couldn’t. And I’d hate him and be so grateful. It…kills…me.

Grace couldn’t take it any more. “I’d rather not keep the Crown Prince waiting,” she said. Gods, what else would move things along quickly? “And…um…my shoes pinch.” The other three people all looked down at her feet. Grace reddened and fought the urge to shift the feet in question nervously. “I can fetch a chair,” said DuValier hastily. “I can carry you,” said Stephen. Marguerite’s shoulders began to shake with suppressed laughter. Oh sweet gods and goddesses, are they fighting over me? It was ludicrous. It was absurd. It made no sense.

He was going to have to face up to the fact that he’d made a mess of things and go and apologize. Which was itself fraught because he knew his apology might not help and that meant that he was apologizing for himself, not for her. It wasn’t her job to absolve him of the fact that he’d been an ass. If all he wanted was absolution, he should probably be asking Istvhan to take his confession again.

But aren’t you afraid you’ll get jealous?” “What, of some other man with Beartongue? I’d throw my arms around him and call him my savior. Perhaps we could arrange a duty roster. A woman in her forties with a lot of aggressions to work out is a terrifying glory.

She wanted to spend the majority of her days locked in her workshop and then come out and be with Stephen, and then go back to her workshop. Right before he’d left the city, Stephen told him that she had moved a second chair into the workshop so that he could knit in the same room with her, which, judging by Stephen’s reaction, was a declaration of affection unmatched in modern times.

Arsen didn’t care. He was in love. He’d tell Ever that to his face. He’d tell all of them. He’d skywrite it if he had to. He just needed Ever to know he meant it. He was the only thing that mattered to Arsen.

I was more like a bard, while she was like a dual-classed ninja paladin.

He watched as the undercurrent buffeted the milfoil and hydrillia. He could see an old rusted bicycle moving gently to and fro with the ebb and flow. Old soft drink bottles and beer cans littered the lake bed and silt, like dust in the wind, rose in tiny clouds. The visibility was poor, only a few feet but he could see eerie shadows lurking beyond what seemed a wall of murky greyness. He didn't know how long he had been sitting in his car watching but the brutal, debilitating cold was beginning to seep into his depths, indeed into his very soul. He knew the loathsome carnivorous scavengers would soon be emerging.

If you'd died on me, I would've taken it out on your corpse.” Raven Heartstone Celenti to Paladin Carison Destine