Den Of Wolves Quotes

Throw me to the wolves, and I will come back leading the pack.

But then, if you forget what's bad, cruel, unjust, you might not care anymore about setting things to rights. You might stop standing up against the folk who do evil deeds. And someone's got to.

Hope fought hard to stay alive. Even when you thought it was beaten to nothing, burned to ashes, drowned deep, still it flickered away, waiting to be found again.

Among wolves, when the bitch leavers her pups to go hunting, the young ones try to follow her out of the den and down the path. She snarls at them, lunges at them, and scares the bejeezus out of them till they run slipping and sliding back to the den. Their mother knows that they do not yet know how to weight and assess other creatures. They do not know who is a predator and who is not.

When you felt sad or angry or hopeless, a story could help. A story could lead you into a different world for a while.

I’ll go on any path you want. Might give you a push sometimes, keep you walking straight. But whatever happens, I’ll be right there beside you. Rain or shine. Shadows or light. Step for step. Always.

Quem é esta mulher? De cabelo cor de fogo Olhos sábios como os de uma coruja Mãos fortes como as de um guerreiro Delicadas como as de uma mãe, Toda ela é guerra por fora E bondade por dentro Segue o seu rumo O seu nome é Blackthorn" "Quem é este homem? Força nas mãos Verdade nos olhos Amor no coração Honra no seu espírito O nome dele é Grim

Ohne mich, sagte Garrett Strong. Das wäre, als würde man sich selbst den verdammten Kopf abschneiden, um sich das Rasieren zu sparen.

Sollte ich Euch verletzt haben, entschuldige ich mich aus den Tiefen meines eingestandenermaßen hypothetischen Herzens

dann wirst du an dem Ort, an den ich dich schicke, ein Leben in ländlicher Heiterkeit leben, und dort wirst du auch sterben: voller Jahre und wahrscheinlich mit einem falschen, aber zweifellos erfreulichen Gefühl, erlöst zu sein.

»Euer Jesusmensch scheint mir ein ziemlicher Dreckskerl zu sein, wenn’s um Frauen geht«, sagte Roland. »War er jemals verheiratet?« Callahan zuckte mit den Mundwinkeln. »Nein«, sagte er, »aber seine Freundin war eine Hure.« »Nun«, sagte Roland, »immerhin ein Anfang.«

Hier kannst du alles vergessen, sogar den Namen, den sie dir angehängt haben, als du nichts als ein nacktes, plärrendes Baby warst, noch mit dem Blut deiner Mutter beschmiert. Sie haben dir einen Namen angehängt, wie man einem Hund eine Blechbüchse an den Schwanz bindet, oder nicht?

A story could lead you into a different world for a while. It might be a world where a foolish youngest son could turn into a brave and clever hero, or a beaten young woman could end up as a wise leader of folk. And when the story was ended and that world was gone, you still had the idea of it inside you. Like a flame that didn't go out even when the bad things rattled and swirled and screamed, and worse, oh, much worse, when they whispered and goaded and tormented.

In the span of three hundred years nationwide, but only seventy years in the West, hunters in the United States had managed to kill off the wild prey of gray wolves; settlers, farmers, and ranchers had occupied most of the wolves' former habitat; wolfers had poisoned them; bounty hunters had dynamited their dens and pursued them with dogs, traps, and more poison; and finally, the government had stepped in and, primarily at the livestock industry's behest, quite literally finished them off.

Hush, child,” said Lady Leona. “You heard your lord grandfather. Hush! You know nothing.” “I know about the promise,” insisted the girl. “Maester Theomore, tell them! A thousand years before the Conquest, a promise was made, and oaths were sworn in the Wolf’s Den before the old gods and the new. When we were sore beset and friendless, hounded from our homes and in peril of our lives, the wolves took us in and nourished us and protected us against our enemies. The city is built upon the land they gave us. In return we swore that we should always be their men. Stark men!

The animals in the zoo-those that had not been stolen in previous administrations-were slain or left to starve. One zealous, perhaps mad, Taliban jumped into a bear’s cage and cut off his nose, reputedly because the animal’s “beard” was not long enough. Another fighter, intoxicated by events and his own power, leaped into the lion’s den and cried out, “I am the lion now!” The lion killed him. Another Taliban solider threw a grenade into the den, blinding the animal. These two, the noseless bear and the blind lion, together with two wolves, were the only animals that survived Taliban rule.

The Lord was in a den with a pack of wolves. You really are so intelligent, the Lord said, and have such glorious eyes. Why do you think you’re hounded so? It’s like they want to exterminate you, it’s awful. Well, sometimes it’s the calves and the cows, the wolves said. Oh those maddening cows, the Lord said. I have a suggestion. What if I caused you not to have a taste for them anymore? It wouldn’t matter. Then it would be the deer or the elk. Have you seen the bumper stickers on the hunters’ trucks—DID A WOLF GET YOUR ELK? I guess I missed that, the Lord said. Sentiment is very much against us down here, the wolves said. I’m so awfully sorry, the Lord said. Thank you for inviting us to participate in your plan anyway, the wolves said politely. The Lord did not want to appear addled, but what was the plan His sons were referring to exactly? FATHERS AND SONS

It is Spring, darling, and the five feathers a-tickle in my wits, those five furry antennae the spun self spins out of the rayed weathers, twitch and receive new airs. A slight uncanny ripple stirs the skin. I learn how far into the threaded wood the young wolf reaches, his senses trembling, turning hair by hair the prescience wound in creatures. It is Spring, and never again perfectly, but always again as if the language born of things spoke itself whole, I take days as if spoken, light as it brings great green scripts into view. And since my most green-spoken and green-written tongue is you, I speak and read my senses, season-tossed, to their first rushing Logos ringing through the morning of the world begun, the first arriving airs through which the young wolves run along the quick, cocked to their dowsing ears and radar noses. Darling, I am slow and human and the wood outruns my blood. I fill with tongues I do not wholly know with instant sense never understood, tracking my five wits to their deepest den, where you wait in the first of time again.

In 1995, the gray wolf was reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park after a seventy-year hiatus. Scientists expected an ecological ripple effect, but the size and scope of the trophic cascade took them by surprise.7 Wolves are predators that kill certain species of animals, but they indirectly give life to others. When the wolves reentered the ecological equation, it radically changed the behavioral patterns of other wildlife. As the wolves began killing coyotes, the rabbit and mouse populations increased, thereby attracting more hawks, weasels, foxes, and badgers. In the absence of predators, deer had overpopulated the park and overgrazed parts of Yellowstone. Their new traffic patterns, however, allowed the flora and fauna to regenerate. The berries on those regenerated shrubs caused a spike in the bear population. In six years’ time, the trees in overgrazed parts of the park had quintupled in height. Bare valleys were reforested with aspen, willow, and cottonwood trees. And as soon as that happened, songbirds started nesting in the trees. Then beavers started chewing them down. Beavers are ecosystem engineers, building dams that create natural habitats for otters, muskrats, and ducks, as well as fish, reptiles, and amphibians. One last ripple effect. The wolves even changed the behavior of rivers—they meandered less because of less soil erosion. The channels narrowed and pools formed as the regenerated forests stabilized the riverbanks. My point? We need wolves! When you take the wolf out of the equation, there are unintended consequences. In the absence of danger, a sheep remains a sheep. And the same is true of men. The way we play the man is by overcoming overwhelming obstacles, by meeting daunting challenges. We may fear the wolf, but we also crave it. It’s what we want. It’s what we need. Picture a cage fight between a sheep and a wolf. The sheep doesn’t stand a chance, right? Unless there is a Shepherd. And I wonder if that’s why we play it safe instead of playing the man—we don’t trust the Shepherd. Playing the man starts there! Ecologists recently coined a wonderful new word. Invented in 2011, rewilding has a multiplicity of meanings. It’s resisting the urge to control nature. It’s the restoration of wilderness. It’s the reintroduction of animals back into their natural habitat. It’s an ecological term, but rewilding has spiritual implications. As I look at the Gospels, rewilding seems to be a subplot. The Pharisees were so civilized—too civilized. Their religion was nothing more than a stage play. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing.8 But Jesus taught a very different brand of spirituality. “Foxes have dens and birds have nests,” said Jesus, “but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”9 So Jesus spent the better part of three years camping, fishing, and hiking with His disciples. It seems to me Jesus was rewilding them. Jesus didn’t just teach them how to be fishers of men. Jesus taught them how to play the man! That was my goal with the Year of Discipleship,

Like Beji, our country is a nation whose citizens has employed crooked means of survival, lives in the expense of others, cares the least about their compatriots, and are ever more than willing to do anything conceivable to plunge every vulnerable life into a pitch-dark abyss! It is, you will realize, a lovely den of hungry wolves whose ugly claws often extend a cold handshake to every beggar in the next turn...

For meg var Oasen et navn som aldri hadde slått an. Det meste i Fyllingsdalen var grønnere enn den steinørkenen her. Men så var det ingen skjermet idyll i det de kalte Lagunen heller. Navnevalgene til kjøpesentre i bergensregionen minnet mer om lengselen ut til solrike steder enn det de var: overfylte maurtuer til kommersialismens pris.

Not so easy. Give your heart to someone and you spend your life in fear of losing them. In terror of seeing them hurt.

Don’t load yourself up too heavy. Even the strongest heart has a breaking point.

Being friends, that’s a big thing for some folk. One good friend can change your whole life.

Power and wealth too often made folk lose their good judgement. It made them cruel and unthinking.

Hard to choose. Wait, and let the bad things go on. Act, and maybe waste your chance anyway, because the timing’s wrong. The best plan in the world can fall apart.

One woman can’t fix every wrong. One woman or one man can’t help every soul in trouble. Doesn’t matter how much you want to.

Even the most made up of stories has its roots in the truth. That one more so than many.

Nothing like hard work for driving away the shadows.

If you forget what’s bad, cruel, unjust, you might not care anymore about setting things to rights. You might stop standing up against the folk who do evil deeds. And someone’s got to.

The world’s full of strange things. Stuff that doesn’t make sense until you really think about it. Happenings like the ones in the old tales.

Folk are easy hurt, no doubt about that. Easy wounded. Easy broken.

Allow someone to become too dear to you and you give your enemy a weapon more deadly than the sharpest sword, more lethal than the strongest poison.

Go armed with your formidable courage, your passion for truth and your strength of heart.

Gall stryker öronen bakåt men fortsätter lugnt att gå. Min vrede känner inte alls samma lugn. Vargen provocerar den, gör den till något vanvettigt. Det finns våld i mig, i mina händer som skakar av lust att utöva någon sorts kontroll, någon sorts trots, och om det är hämnd för allt som har tagits ifrån mig, absolut, då ska jag få det också. Jag har fått nog av att falla offer. Jag ska bli ett rovdjur till slut. Jag ska glömma murarna och självbevarelsedriften och jag ska bli det jag jagar och jag ska känna allt

Det är inte det att jag har någon stor hemlighet, jag försöker bara låta bli att tänka på det och det betyder att jag inte pratar om det. Så ingen annan än Aggie och mrs Doyle - och nu Evan - vet någonting. Jag ger honom tvättsvampen och går in utan ett ord. Ett kort ögonblick stannar jag till med en hand på magen, på den hårda bulan. Det finns ett universum där inne.

Modern, nummer Åtta, har krupit ner i lyan hon och hennes partner har grävt och inte kommit ut på sex dygn. Vilket jag antar betyder att hon har fött sina valpar där inne och snart kommer att visa sig. De andra fyra vargarna, inklusive nummer Tio, systern som återvänt efter sin långa vandring, håller sig i närheten. Jag ägnar förmiddagen åt att se två av dem leka, en med en lång, vit svanfjäder som skänker henne gränslös glädje. Hon viftar med den i munnen och slår efter den med framtassarna, medan den andra- alfahannen - dansar med molnens skuggor timmar i sträck. Hanne nummer Fjorton, vår äldsta varg, betraktar dem fridfullt medan den vaksamma nummer Tio går fram och tillbaka längs flodbanken, fängslad av någonting i vattnet. Ju mer jag iakttar dem, desto mer förstår jag att jag aldrig kommer att få veta vad som rör sig i huvudet på en varg, att jag aldrig ens kommer i närheten. Jag ler åt den dåraktiga tonåringen inom mig som trodde att hon skulle kunna avslöja deras hemligheter.

It is Spring, darling, and the five feathers a-tickle in my wits, those five furry antennae the spun self spins out of the rayed weathers, twitch and receive new airs. A slight uncanny ripple stirs the skin. I learn how far into the threaded wood the young wolf reaches, his senses trembling, turning hair by hair the prescience wound in creatures. It is Spring, and never again perfectly, but always again as if the language born of things spoke itseld whole, I take days as if spoken, light as it brings great green scripts into view. And since my most green-spoken and green-written tongue is you, I speak and read my senses, season-tossed, to their first rushing Logos ringing through the morning of the world begun, the first arriving airs through which the young wolves run along the quick, cocked to their dowsing ears and radar noses. Darling, I am slow and human and the wood outruns my blood. I fill with tongues I do not wholly know with instant sense never understood, tracking my five wits to their deepest den, where you wait in the first of time again.

Olivia had to pretend. Life moved very fast to her. She was so often approached by men, who saw a full body that looked even better trying to hide. Boys in school said one thing to her, then another, and soon the wolves swayed the girl toward their dens. She had to pretend she was in control, that she had a choice, rather than reveal that ever since her body volumized, she had no idea what was going on or who she was. It was the curse of a body that grows faster than the girl inside it.

Şairler, ölümün olmazsa, hiçbir şeyin değeri olmadığını bilirler. Ölüm olmazsa bir ders olmaz, ölüm olmazsa elmasın ışıldayacağı bir karanlık olmaz. Erginlenmiş olanlar Bayan Ölüm'den korkmazlar, ama kültür çoğu zaman İskelet Kadın'ı uçuruma yuvarlamaya özendirir bizi.

Look around and see what you can find,” he says, shedding his gear. “It’s probably very near to where we are standing.” A very dense thicket sprouts twenty feet ahead. Vines and brush block our way. We crawl and clip our way to it. Myrtle stalks no wider than a broom handle sprout everywhere. They are so dense that eight or more grow in a square foot. Ryan peers into the outcrop of myrtle stalks, the branches unified like a fortress. Two little milky eyes stare back at him, peering up. Two little erect ears wobble on a shaky head. Within the dense brambles, a mass of several puppies crawls around in a bowl depression. Their ears are erect and their eyes are open. The first pup has wandered away from the other three. “They’re mobile!” he calls to me. “Try to get around in here.” We have to get to them fast, before they scatter and can’t be found again. They are at least a week older than expected. I try to enter the copse from the side. Ryan crashes through the mass of twigs and stretches his arms out, grabbing at the pups before they go helter-skelter. One pup sees Ryan coming and yelps in fear while trying to out-crawl him. The other puppies, alarmed by their sibling’s alarm yelp, begin to squeal. Ryan presses two pups gently against the ground. They shriek. He pins the third with his other hand, but the fourth puppy scrambles away. I finally wiggle into the copse and nab it. I glance at Ryan, wondering what to do now that our hands are full of squirming red wolf puppies. “They’re a lot bigger than the last ones,” I say. “Yeah, they must be four weeks old. She must have dropped this litter early. Can you sit with your legs out to hold them?” Without a subterranean den, we had to coral them somehow. Inside the copse, there is barely room to move. I drop down to a sitting position with my legs splayed out, and the pups wiggle en masse against my thigh.

They’re a lot bigger than the last ones,” I say. “Yeah, they must be four weeks old. She must have dropped this litter early. Can you sit with your legs out to hold them?” Without a subterranean den, we had to coral them somehow. Inside the copse, there is barely room to move. I drop down to a sitting position with my legs splayed out, and the pups wiggle en masse against my thigh. Their noses press against my pant leg. They calm down and begin to nuzzle into each other. Dirt streaks their coats, which range from coal to warm gray. Their heads are covered in dense auburn fur, and all of them have now closed their milky-gray eyes. I stare at them in disbelief at the thought that, not so long ago, settlers threw dynamite into wolf puppy dens. Their muzzles appear foreshortened and out of proportion to the long and wide jaws they will grow into one day. Something compels one pup to move closer and closer to me until the little wolf wedges its nose firmly into my groin. The other pups trail behind it, tunneling between each other and pawing their way over one another until all four are piled together between my legs. I try not to think about the fact that suddenly I am a temporary nursemaid to some of the world’s rarest wolves while their mother likely paces a few dozen yards away. Adjusting the puppies is futile, as they seem hardwired to nuzzle their way into the warmest, tightest spot they can find. The brambles, while thick on the outside, form a natural opening in the middle that is just large enough for a wolf to circle around in. The mother had dug a very shallow earthen dish - only a few inches deep - to keep her babies in. “Doesn’t seem like much of a den,” I remark. “I thought we’d find another big hole in the ground.” “It varies,” Ryan says. “Sometimes we find them in these bowl depressions, usually where the woods are thicker and the ground is flatter, like here. But sometimes they’re in holes. When the ground is sloped, they’ll dig back into the slope. That’s the most typical kind of den. But we’ve found them in storm culverts, too. It’s all over the map.” Ryan sets to work pulling out rubber gloves, blood-sample supplies and ID chips. Chris snaps and cracks his way to us. He crawls through the copse and curses at the dense vegetation. Finally, he reaches the inner sanctum, where there is barely enough room to sit Indian style jammed up against Ryan’s legs and mine. Roomy for a wolf, maybe, but cramped for three human adults. “What a sorry little den,” Chris remarks. He glances at the scratched-out dirt bed and porous brush overhead. Rain drips through, wetting our heads. “Is she nearby?” “Somewhere over there.” Ryan gestures behind us. “She’s not going far, though, you can be sure of that. These guys squealed their guts out.

We walk south across the black soil and toward the trucks, glad to have finally found the Swindell pack’s well-hidden puppies. One more den is checked off their list. The morning’s rain has softened the muck, and our boot prints mingle with the prints of raccoons, bobcats, deer, and wolves. Seeing the mixed prints, I am struck by the thought that man is as much a part of this landscape as the red wolf is.

We walk south across the black soil and toward the trucks, glad to have finally found the Swindell pack’s well-hidden puppies. One more den is checked off their list. The morning’s rain has softened the muck, and our boot prints mingle with the prints of raccoons, bobcats, deer, and wolves. Seeing the mixed prints, I am struck by the thought that man is as much a part of this landscape as the red wolf is. It is clear from the short time that I’d shadowed Ryan and Chris that much of their time is spent doing muddy-boots wildlife management - literally tracking their quarry. Finding pups always gave Ryan’s mood a boost. He was happy when things seemed to be okay, because this wasn’t always the case.

The spiritual lands of Wild Woman have, throughout history, been plundered or burnt, dens bulldozed, and natural cycles forced into unnatural rhythms to please others.

Throw me to the wolves, and I will come back leading the pack.’ I was thrown to the Vipers, and now they are mine.

You came into the den of wolves and are met by the big bad wolf himself,” I whisper into her ear as my hand continues to hold tight to her neck. “But are you prepared for his bite?” I nip at her earlobe and she whimpers a sweet little cry.

My father used to say the world turned wrong when we started separating ourselves from the wild, when we stopped being one with the rest of nature, and sat apart. He said we might survive this mistake if we found a way to rewild ourselves. But I don’t know how to do that when our existence frightens the creatures we must reconnect with. I would give anything not to frighten them; it makes me so sad. And yet the truth is that their fear of us keeps them safe from us. Inside the cabin there is an awkward silence as they wait to see if my temper still reigns. I meet Niels’s eyes. “Can you make me a map to the den?” “Of course.” He jumps to the task, while I start readying a travel pack. “Can I’ve a word?” Duncan asks me. “I can’t right now, Chief. I’ve gotta get out to that den.” It occurs to me that he might have seen me this morning, watching him from the hill, and if that’s the case I might die of embarrassment. “I’ll tag along then, shall I?” I laugh. “No.” “Why not?” “I’m going alone. The fewer bodies traipsing around out there the better.

It was all part of my life now, the bombs, the guns, the chaos, the homosexuality. This was the MC and I was immersed. I was the sheep in a den of wolves.

The sun seemed to take a long while to sink from the sky. The colors of the heavens were blood red, surrounded by shades of orange and pink. As the moon appeared, the clouds covered it like a thin veil. A ring appeared around the moon like some terrible omen. The forest was dark, eerily silent. Tendrils of fog wound low to the ground around tree trunks and bushes. A gentle wind lazily pushed the clouds, brushed at heavy branches, and tried vainly to disperse the smell of smoke that lingered persistently in the forest. The wind fingered the black ashes and burned beams, the blackened stones, all that remained of what had once been Mikhail Dubrinsky’s home. Two wolves nosed at the blackened remains, lifted their muzzles skyward, and howled mournfully. Throughout the forest other wolves answered, sang out their grief. Within a few minutes, the echoes of their tribute died away. The two wolves circled the charred ruins and sniffed at the two shadowy sentinels they found standing sharply alert near the wrought-iron gate. The wolves swung quickly away, finding something menacing in the two lethal figures. They trotted briskly back into the darkened interior of the forest. Silence once more blanketed the mountains like a shroud. The forest creatures huddled in their dens and holes, rather than face the smell of the ashes and the death of the home of one who was so much a part of them. Below the earth two bodies lay motionless, lifeless. Into the silence, a single heart began to beat. Strong, steady. Blood rushed, receded. A long, low hiss of air heralded the working of lungs. Dark eyes snapped open, and Mikhail searched the grounds above him.

Jesiba now said, “Knowing the wolves, they’ll think Quinlan asked me to do something to you that made you … unnatural.” “They know Bryce is a good person.” “Do they? As far as I recall, they’ve been anything but kind to her since Danika and the Pack died. You included.” Ithan’s cheeks warmed. “It was a rough time. For all of us.” “Danika Fendyr would have skewered all of you to the front gates of the Den for how you treated Quinlan.

Don’t enter the den of wolves and ask not to be bitten.

How did you find me, anyway? Outside the motel room?” “I heard the bleating of an innocent little lamb in a den of wolves.

A church where greed is preached and profiteering priests reign is a den of thieves, not a house of God. When shepherds prioritize wealth over wisdom, souls are sacrificed for silver, and the sacred is sold to the highest bidder. Such priests are wolves in sheep's clothing, feeding on the flock rather than feeding the flock. Let us beware of these false prophets and seek the truth that sets us free, for the love of money is the root of all evil, and Christ's church must not be a marketplace for the mercenary.