Golden Horde Quotes

Belize: Hell or heaven? [Roy indicates "Heaven" through a glance] Belize: Like San Francisco. Roy Cohn: A city. Good. I was worried... it'd be a garden. I hate that shit. Belize: Mmmm. Big city. Overgrown with weeds, but flowering weeds. On every corner a wrecking crew and something new and crooked going up catty corner to that. Windows missing in every edifice like broken teeth, fierce gusts of gritty wind, and a gray high sky full of ravens. Roy Cohn: Isaiah. Belize: Prophet birds, Roy. Piles of trash, but lapidary like rubies and obsidian, and diamond-colored cowspit streamers in the wind. And voting booths. Roy Cohn: And a dragon atop a golden horde. Belize: And everyone in Balencia gowns with red corsages, and big dance palaces full of music and lights and racial impurity and gender confusion. And all the deities are creole, mulatto, brown as the mouths of rivers. Race, taste and history finally overcome. And you ain't there. Roy Cohn: And Heaven? Belize: That was Heaven, Roy.

We all are weak, in one way or another. It does not matter the species. Some times that weakness is a strength in dusguise. Sometimes it is our utter undoing. Some times it is both. A wise man seeks to find a lesson from it. A fool lets it control and destroy him. And sometimes the wise man is the fool.

How easily the mind can be turned to hate from a place of fear.

In general, the deployment of austerity as economic policy has been as effective in bringing us peace, prosperity, and crucially, a sustained reduction of debt, as the Mongol Golden Horde was in furthering the development of Olympic dressage.

... just because something had never been done before did not mean it could not be done.

The wise man understands his weakness and seeks to find a lesson from it. The fool lets it control and destroy him.

Hate is powerful. Hate can be eternal. Hate can be manipulated. And hate can be created.

How easily the mind can be turned to hate from a place of fear... ...Instead of focusing on the things that unite us, we focus on what divides us... ...My prayer, every day, is for wisdom to guide my people. And in that prayer is couched a plea, never to be blinded by such trivial differences.

The eye cannot always be trusted. We think what we see is always real, that the light always reveals what is there the same way at all times. But light and shadow can be manipulated, directed, by those that understand it... And so your eye perceives something entirely different from what you thought was there.

The paths of Fate are many and varied,and no sane being should ever venture down the deceptively pleasant one of "if only".What happened,happened;

There is no shame in fear, Orgrim and Durotan. Only in letting fear prevent you from doing the right thing.

Ner'zhul... Gul'dan. Two of the darkest names ever to sully the history of my people. And yet, Drek'thar tells me that once Ner'zhul was admired, even beloved, and truly cared for the people whos spiritual leader he was. It is hard to reconcile those words with what Ner'zhul has become, but I try. I try because I want to understand. And yet, try as I might... I do not.

But other hordes would come, and other false prophets. Our feeble efforts to ameliorate man’s lot would be but vaguely continued by our successors; the seeds of error and of ruin contained even in what is good would, on the contrary, increase to monstrous proportions in the course of centuries. A world wearied of us would seek other masters; what had seemed to us wise would be pointless for them, what we had found beautiful they would abominate. Like the initiate to Mithraism the human race has need, perhaps, of a periodical bloodbath and descent into the grave. I could see the return of barbaric codes, of implacable gods, of unquestioned despotism of savage chieftains, a world broken up into enemy states and eternally prey to insecurity. Other sentinels menaced by arrows would patrol the walls of future cities; the stupid, cruel, and obscene game would go on, and the human species in growing older would doubtless add new refinements of horror. Our epoch, the faults and limitations of which I knew better than anyone else would perhaps be considered one day, by contrast, as one of the golden ages of man.

What is he like?" asked Khadgar, his voice almost pleading. "Like everyone else, I suppose." said Moroes. "Has his druthers. Has his moods. Good days and bad. Like everybody else." "puts his pants on one leg at a time," said Khadgar, sighing. "No. He levitates into them," said Moroes.

Towards the end of the fifteenth century, invaded from the east in its own turn, the Golden Horde fell apart, and the northern princes stopped paying tribute and ruled independently again. But by then the habit of violent, Asiatic-style despotism was there to stay. Scratch a Russian, as the saying goes, and you find a Tatar. Whereas northern Rus fell to the Horde, southern Rus went to the Lithuanians.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth into bright air,for now the red leaps in the maple’s cheek,and suddenly by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress ascends the golden crocus from the dead.

We are all weak, in one way or another. It does not matter the species. Sometimes that weakness is a strength in disguise. Sometimes it is our utter undoing. Sometimes it is both. The wise man understands his weakness and seeks to find a lesson from it. The fool lets it control and destroy him. And sometimes, the wise man is a fool.

You are now Korwahk warriors. You serve me,” she said just after Lahn thumped his chest. “You serve your golden queen,” she said after Lahn, not looking back, swung a muscular arm and pointed my way before dropping it. “You know nothing now but horseflesh between your legs, steel in your grip, blood on your tongue, victory your only focus. There is no other path. You have no mother. You have no father. You have no brothers except those who wear the paint. You have only The Horde. You are The Horde. You serve me, your queen, your Horde. You will seize bounty; you will claim your bride. You will grunt and sweat and bury your seed to create warriors. You do not own your flesh; The Horde owns your flesh. You sink your blade into flesh; you do it for The Horde. You will wake up a warrior, you will sleep a warrior and you will die a warrior.

(...) the farming districts, the civilized world over, are dependent upon the cities for the gathering of the harvests. Then it is, when the land is spilling its ripe wealth to waste, that the street folk, who have been driven away from the soil, are called back to it again. But in England they return, not as prodigals, but as outcasts still, as vagrants and pariahs, to be doubted and flouted by their country brethren, to sleep in jails and casual wards, or under the hedges, and to live the Lord knows how. It is estimated that Kent alone requires eighty thousand of the street people to pick her hops. And out they come, obedient to the call, which is the call of their bellies and of the lingering dregs of adventure- lust still in them. Slum, stews, and ghetto pour them forth, and the festering contents of slum, stews, and ghetto are undiminished. Yet they overrun the country like an army of ghouls, and the country does not want them. They are out of place. As they drag their squat, misshapen bodies along the highways and byways, they resemble some vile spawn from underground. Their very presence, the fact of their existence, is an outrage to the fresh bright sun and the green and growing things. The clean, upstanding trees cry shame upon them and their withered crookedness, and their rottenness is a slimy desecration of the sweetness and purity of nature. Is the picture overdrawn? It all depends. For one who sees and thinks life in terms of shares and coupons, it is certainly overdrawn. But for one who sees and thinks life in terms of manhood and womanhood, it cannot be overdrawn. Such hordes of beastly wretchedness and inarticulate misery are no compensation for a millionaire brewer who lives in a West End palace, sates himself with the sensuous delights of London's golden theatres, hobnobs with lordlings and princelings, and is knighted by the king. Wins his spurs- God forbid! In old time the great blonde beasts rode in the battle's van and won their spurs by cleaving men from pate to chin. And, after all, it is far finer to kill a strong man with a clean-slicing blow of singing steel than to make a beast of him, and of his seed through the generations, by the artful and spidery manipulation of industry and politics.

The future is not like a book one can read,” he said quietly. “It is ever changing, like the rush of water, or the swirl of sand.

And he ran off. Dave, Porkins and Carl kept going until they reached the big town square, where villagers were running from a horde of zombies. “Look,” said Porkins, “they’re not normal zombies—they’re zombie villagers!” Porkins was right, Dave saw. The zombies chasing the villagers were zombie villagers—and every villager they caught turned into another zombie villager. “Come on,” Carl said, “get your swords out, let’s get this over with.” “We can’t kill them,” Dave said, “they’re villagers!” Dave had no idea what to do. As far as he knew, the only thing that could cure zombie villagers was using the potion of weakness on them and then feeding them a golden apple, but he had neither of those things. Suddenly Dave saw the mayor running across the square, his fat belly wobbling. Chasing him was a fat zombie villager Dave recognized as being the mayor’s son. “Heeeelp!” The mayor yelled. “My son is trying to eat me!” “Wow,” said Carl. “It sure is tough being a parent.

It is difficult enough for me to understand how one or two may become so corrupted that they would doom their descendants for power in their lifetimes; that there were so many—the number is not even known for certain—is beyond the scope of my limited imagination.

The linguistic root of “Ukraine” means “edge” or “border land.” The territory that became known as Ukraine is mostly an extended plain with few natural borders. Ukraine and Russia both assert a common origin in Kyivan Rus. This medieval kingdom was established by Viking warriors who intermixed with local Slavic tribes in what became known as the “Rus lands,” which were ruled from Kyiv (the capital of Ukraine today). Despite their shared lineage in Kyivan Rus, modern Ukraine and Russia clash bitterly over claims of common identity, as Russians portray it, versus separate identities, as Ukrainians assert. Kyivan Rus disappeared from history when the Golden Horde, the Mongols, sacked Kyiv in 1240.

Instantly, all the glimmering eyes returned to him. Ah, yes, they seemed to say. The mortal man still plays for us. They listened and softened once more as Jack crooned at them. All of the spirits in their manifest forms adored him. Save for one. It was the one spirit out of the dripping horde whose form most resembled a human woman. She stood thin and reedy on two legs in the heart of the gathering, the water lapping at her barnacled knees. Her skin was pale with a sheen of pearl, and her hair, like kelp, fell long and thick to clothe her body. Her face was angular, but she had an upturned nose, a mouth like a hook, and two eyes that were as iridescent as oyster shells. She held a fishing spear in one hand, and her fingernails were long and black. She could almost pass for a human. But there were elements of her that exposed her as a spirit. Gills fluttered in her neck, and patches of golden scales adorned her skin. Traces of her magic that she couldn’t disguise. It was Lady Ream of the Sea. The one who had threatened to sink the fisherman’s boat, who had darted past Jack and laughed with the tide when he had swum to the shore.

He imagined himself at the lectern discussing the ancient Greeks to his American students: “The First Persian War, in which Miltiades defeats Darius at Marathon in 490 BC, leads to the Second Persian War, in which the Athenian navy commanded by Themistocles destroys the Persian navy under Xerxes at Salamis in 480 BC. Ten years of war gives the Greeks fifty years of peace, a golden age. The Athenians secure peace on the Hellespont through the Delian League, a mutual-security pact in which the other Greek city-states pay Athens a tribute to protect them against future Persian aggression. Sound familiar?” Lin Bao would then imagine himself looking out at his class, at their blank expressions, in which the past held no relevance, in which there was only the future and that future would always be American. Then, in his imagined class, Lin Bao would tell his students of their past but also of their future. He would explain how America’s golden age was born out of the First and Second World Wars, just as Greece had found its greatest era of prosperity in the aftermath of the two Persian Wars. Like the Athenians with the Delian League, Lin Bao would explain how the Americans consolidated power with mutual-security pacts such as NATO, in which they would make the largest contributions in exchange for military primacy over the western world—much as the Athenians had gained military primacy of the then-known world through the Delian League. Lin Bao would always wait for the question he knew was coming, in which one of his students would ask why it all ended. What external threat overwhelmed the Delian League? What invader accomplished what the Persian fleet could not at Salamis? And Lin Bao would tell his students that no invader had come, no foreign horde had sabotaged the golden age forged by Miltiades, Themistocles, and Greece’s other forefathers. “Then how?” they would ask. “If the Persians couldn’t do it, who did?” And so, he would say, “The end came—as it always does—from within.

The Golden Horde had extensive diplomatic ties to the Christian world,

the Golden Horde, which was one of the Mongol Empire’s

To accept and adjust to the demands of the Golden Horde, the princes first had to travel to the capital

stood the question of how the Russian princes would be incorporated into the ranks of the Golden Horde.

in 1395 and placed Edigey in charge of the Golden Horde.

The d’Anconia workers everywhere had been handed their last pay checks, in cash, at nine A.M., and by nine-thirty had been moved off the premises. The ore docks, the smelters, the laboratories, the office buildings were demolished. Nothing was left of the d’Anconia ore ships which had been in port—and only lifeboats carrying the crews were left of those ships which had been at sea. As to the d’Anconia mines, some were buried under tons of blasted rock, while others were found not to be worth the price of blasting. An astounding number of these mines, as reports pouring in seem to indicate, had continued to be run, even though exhausted years ago. “Among the thousands of d’Anconia employees, the police have found no one with any knowledge of how this monstrous plot had been conceived, organized and carried out. But the cream of the d’Anconia staff are not here any longer. The most efficient of the executives, mineralogists, engineers, superintendents have vanished—all the men upon whom the People’s State had been counting to carry on the work and cushion the process of readjustment. The most able—correction: the most selfish—of the men are gone. Reports from the various banks indicate that there are no d’Anconia accounts left anywhere; the money has been spent down to the last penny. “Ladies and gentlemen, the d’Anconia fortune—the greatest fortune on earth, the legendary fortune of the centuries—has ceased to exist. In place of the golden dawn of a new age, the People’s States of Chile and Argentina are left with a pile of rubble and hordes of unemployed on their hands. “No clue has been found to the fate or the whereabouts of Señor Francisco d’Anconia. He has vanished, leaving nothing behind him, not even a message of farewell.

This left one more khanate: the so-called Golden Horde.

He might be better considered as an exponent of Tartar financial, military, and political methods, who used the shifting alliances of khans and princes to replace the Tartar yoke with a Muscovite one. In his struggle with the Golden Horde, whose hegemony he definitively rejected after 1480, his closest ally was the Khan of the Crimea, who helped him to attack the autonomy of his fellow Christian principalities to a degree that the Tartars had never attempted. From the Muscovite point of view, which later enjoyed a monopoly, ‘Ivan the Great’ was the restorer of ‘Russian’ hegemony. From the viewpoint of the Novgorodians or the Pskovians he was the Antichrist, the destroyer of Russia’s best traditions. When he came to write his will, he described himself, as his father had done, as ‘the much-sinning slave of God’.

But today marks an achievement unheard of in the annals of history. And you, my horde, are the titans who have risen to prove your worth of becoming gods!” The horde rumbled again in affirmation. “We are on the verge of a war the likes of which will change the world forever. And we are the agents of change. We are the ones we have been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.” She paused again for dramatic effect. And she received it. The ground vibrated from the noise of the Nephilim. “We are about to occupy the Garden of the mountain of God. This god, who was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, this deity who claims to own everything and leaves nothing for the ninety-nine percent of the rest of us, we are about to show him who is god!” She paused for another moment of rumbling before finishing. “You are about to storm a fortress guarded by mighty Cherubim. I know you are exhausted. I know you have been worked to the bone. I know you barely have anything left to give to this campaign because you have given all you have and more. But I ask you this one thing. When you are crossing the lake, when you are climbing the rocks, when you hear the horns of war bid you attack, when you find yourself battling the evil Cherubim, when you have reached the end of your strength and have nothing left to fight with, just remember one thing: tomorrow you will taste of the Tree of Life and you will be gods, and you will tire no longer -- for you shall live forever!” The horde rumbled yet again. They caught the spirit of the moment. She knew no amount of exhaustion could quench their strength in the light of that hope. And she was proud of her ability to lie through her fangs with every single word she spoke.

Leadership does not come from being in a position of authority; it comes from exhibiting the qualities of a leader. The ability recognizes these qualities and goes where it needs to in order to guide those who will listen.

I travelled alone as a cloud Which was floating on high over vale and mountains. Sometime off I see few horde, a guest, beautiful lake under the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the chill breeze. The golden sunflower garden welcomes me to the side of vale. As the stars shine and twinkle on the Milky Way, They overlooked in never finish line across the margin of glance. Thousands of stars I see at a glance, tossing their tail in bright frame dance. The bronze faced magnetic stars welcomes me to the side of vale. The birds chirping towards the beach, I hear the shuttling of sand and water, the waves beside them dance but they do sparkle under stars. The blue mirage welcomes me to the side of vale. This poet could not but be passionate, in such a colorful company, I watched and felt I saw wealth in paper but the show here got me real wealth. The black words welcome me to the side of vale. Often, when I’m in my bed I rest I space or in penning mood, this show flashes upon inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude. Then my heart is full of pleasure and dances with the green leaves. No color no substance feelings welcome me to the side of vale.

What widened the split between the two halves of Rus dramatically was the arrival of the Mongols. Kiev and southern Rus suffered devastation, but were abandoned again in little over a century. The northern principalities, in contrast, became permanent tributaries of the Golden Horde. The Mongols ruled by proxy, granting charters to local leaders in exchange for tribute. The most successful northern princes became those who could squeeze most men and money out of their territories for delivery to the khan at his capital on the Volga.

همه ما به نوعی ضعف داریم.ارتباطی به گونه و نژاد ندارد.گاهی اوقات این ضعف قدرتی در خفا است.گاهی اوقات فنای ماست.و گاهی اوقات هر دوی آن‌ها.عاقل این ضعف را درک می‌کند و سعی می‌کند از آن بیاموزد.نادان اجازه می‌دهد که کنترلش کند و نابود می‌شود. وگاهی اوقات همان عاقل نادان است.

Object again and I will not take it well. Vol’jin and his loa named me the warchief of the Horde. And as warchief of the Horde, I decide what is important to reveal—and when and to whom. Is that understood?

Kublai appointed his brother Hulagu the Il-Khan of Persia-Iraq: when he died in 1265, he was buried with the human sacrifice of his favourite slaves. The Golden Horde (Russia) remained the khanate of Batu’s family, now Muslims.