Legion Of The Damned Quotes

Who are you, Martin Eden? he demanded of himself in the looking- glass, that night when he got back to his room. He gazed at himself long and curiously. Who are you? What are you? Where do you belong? You belong by rights to girls like Lizzie Connolly. You belong with the legions of toil, with all that is low, and vulgar, and unbeautiful. You belong with the oxen and the drudges, in dirty surroundings among smells and stenches. There are the stale vegetables now. Those potatoes are rotting. Smell them, damn you, smell them. And yet you dare to open the books, to listen to beautiful music, to learn to love beautiful paintings, to speak good English, to think thoughts that none of your own kind thinks, to tear yourself away from the oxen and the Lizzie Connollys and to love a pale spirit of a woman who is a million miles beyond you and who lives in the stars! Who are you? and what are you? damn you! And are you going to make good?

Been there, Remiel. Done that. Wore the T-Shirt, ate the burger, bought the original cast album, choreographed the legions of the damned and orchestrated the screaming.

He watched her leave in a sweep of midnight and dawn, her wings unlike any other, and he knew he’d damn his own honor and take vengeance on the world should anyone dare lay a finger on her.

If I get a cake, what am I going to do with it? Put it in a glass case up on a pedestal and throw it longing looks throughout the day? No, if I get a cake, I’m damned well going to eat it. There is a purpose for cake in the universe, and that’s for it to be eaten. There’s nothing more natural than that.

To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,” “Gentlemen-Rankers,” Barrack Room Ballads by Rudyard Kipling

Manhattan was empty except for soldiers and legions of the damned, and already gentrification had resumed.

Rest, heal. I’ll come by again soon.” Maybe she was scared at what was being asked of her, but if Izak could smile through his agony, she’d damn well find the guts to be what he needed her to be.

Kate grasped her small handbag and pulled a small blue vial and threw it into the grinding mass. It shattered harmlessly, causing two creatures to pause with a look of confusion. "What is that potion?" Simon asked. Kate stared as the two undead things began to shuffle forward again. She glanced into her purse. "Damn it! That was my perfume.

Tori wasn't big on the whole chivalry thing. She'd slaughtered legions; she was pretty sure she could open her own damn door.

Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine, Marching below, and we still gulping wine?” From the sad magic of his fragrant cup The red-faced old centurion started up, Cursed, battered on the table. “No,” he said, “Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion’s dead, Dead in the first year of this damned campaign— The Legion’s dead, dead, and won’t rise again. Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die, But we need pity also, you and I, Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss, Who live to see the Legion come to this, Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot, Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot. O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh! Where are they now? God! watch it struggle by, The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine. Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!” “Strabo,” said Gracchus, “you are strange tonight. The Legion is the Legion; it’s all right. If these new men are slovenly, in your thinking, God damn it! you’ll not better them by drinking. They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and hands. The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands, And these same men before the autumn’s fall Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul.

My legion!” Stanley said. “I have achieved an even greater level of mastery! Behold!” He held up his beer mug and pointed the open end toward a nearby palm tree. “Mulciber!” he yelled. Nothing happened. He shook the beer mug, and held it out once more. “Mulciber!” Once again he intoned the word, but with a slightly different emphasis. Again nothing happened. “Damn. Mulciber! Mulciber! Mulciber!” Suddenly a large ball of fire erupted from the end of the beer mug, nearly singed Stanley’s eyebrows, and flew up into the sky in a large, fiery arc, eventually plunging with a sizzle into the lake.

On August 21, 1931, invited to address an American Legion convention in Connecticut, he made the first no-holds-barred antiwar speech of his career. It stunned all who heard it or read it in the few papers that dared report it in part: I spent 33 years . . . being a high-class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer for capitalism. . . . I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1909-1912. I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American oil interests in 1916. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City [Bank] boys to collect revenue in. I helped in the rape of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefit of Wall Street. . . . In China in 1927 I helped see to it that Standard Oil went its way unmolested. . . . I had . . . a swell racket. I was rewarded with honors, medals, promotions. . . . I might have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate a racket in three cities. The Marines operated on three continents. . . . We don’t want any more wars, but a man is a damn fool to think there won’t be any more of them. I am a peace-loving Quaker, but when war breaks out every damn man in my family goes. If we’re ready, nobody will tackle us. Give us a club and we will face them all. . . . There is no use talking about abolishing war; that’s damn foolishness. Take the guns away from men and they will fight just the same. . . . In the Spanish-American War we didn’t have any bullets to shoot, and if we had not had a war with a nation that was already licked and looking for an excuse to quit, we would have had hell licked out of us. . . . No pacifists or Communists are going to govern this country. If they try it there will be seven million men like you rise up and strangle them. Pacifists? Hell, I’m a pacifist, but I always have a club behind my back!

I thought you were asleep.” “No, I couldn’t,” he whispers brokenly. “Baby, please, you don’t have to do this.” Choking on the breath in my lungs, I close my eyes and fight like hell to ignore the agony is his voice. “I’m sorry, Ryan.” Turning quickly – now, damn it, before I change my mind – I slip out the door, closing it quietly behind me.

Examination of the texts provides evidence of the existence of a variety of nocturnal hosts, as testified by a thirteenth- or fourteenth-century German charm, which lists the demonic creatures who haunt the night: pixies (pilewizze), witches, Good Ladies, nightmares, elves, and the Furious Army whose members are criminals that have been broken on the wheel and hanged.*20 Thus roaming across the earth are phalanxes of demons, legions of damned dead, and the throng of Doubles of sleepers who gather under the guidance of a leader—Diana, Herodias, Percht—in order to perform tasks closely connected to the third function as defined by Georges Dumézil, which rules fertility and fecundity. Dealings with the dead also fall into this category.

Certain nights play host to the passage of all kinds of nocturnal troops. These legions were sometimes composed of the living, led by Diana1 and Herodias,2 Satia, and Dame Abonde,3 or alleged witches whose Doubles had quit their sleeping bodies. Sometimes they gathered the dead,4 revenants, or damned souls who could find no rest

He ground his teeth and pushed hard. His muscles screamed from the effort. But where he pushed, the legions of the Damned pushed with him. They were innumerable, thousands upon thousands. There were farmers, fishwives, merchants and priests. And there were warriors. Felix saw the outline of armour and axes, Magnus's army, the shades of those that had once battled Chaos and would now battle it once more at Felix's side.

The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him. NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI The Prince Standard year circa 1513

By force-marching his exhausted men through the unknown, rain-swept wilderness of the German-infested Teutoburg Forest, this guy had just made a brain-explodingly boneheaded mistake so amazing in its incompetence that it makes the Roman consuls at Cannae look like a conjoined triplet made out of Napoleon Bonaparte, Alexander the Great, and that dude from Total Recall who had the baby coming out of his stomach. In terms of career moves, marching three legions into the Teutoberg was the Classical Age equivalent of coauthoring an academic paper with the Unabomber or asking Charles Manson to write you a letter of recommendation for law school. Unsurprisingly, this came back to bite him in the ass. We don’t know exactly how many Germans were hiding in the woods, watching the column of imperial invaders trudge past. The Germans didn’t bother to write anything down more detailed than “killed sum d00ds 2day lulz,” and the only Romans who managed to run screaming out of this forest alive were the ones who knew better than to sit there and try to count how many GWAR fans were currently trying to brutally dismember them with axes. Let’s just say it was probably a crapload, and that when these long-haired death metal freaks unleashed a bloodcurdling shout and started charging through the forest like a bunch of gigantic mutant Ewok-Wookies ambushing the Imperial Stormtroopers on the Forest Moon of Endor it wasn’t exactly the sort of hilarious laugh riot you might see in an animated GIF involving unicorns, rainbows, and cartoon kitties with Pop-Tarts where their bodies are supposed to be. Bellowing like madmen, these balls-out, frothing-at-the-mouth, beer-swilling sausage fiends went Leeroy Jenkins toward the enemy, blitzkrieging out of the woods from every side seemingly at the same time, their ferociousness magnified not only by their savage blood rage, but by the fact that some of the dudes had taken to painting their entire bodies black with mud to help them hide in the dark forest like how Schwarzenegger hid from the Predator’s infrared vision. It was so damned terrifying that it took every ounce of Roman discipline to not simply spontaneously combust into blood vapor on the spot.

But Matthew knows, and God knows, and the readers know, that it is by staying on that cross that he saves others. Strictly speaking, he cannot save himself and save others. If he saves himself, he will not be able to save others. When they say, “He can’t save himself,” they mean that he is so attached to the cross, so nailed to the cross, that physically he cannot get down. But Matthew knows that he could get down. He could still call his twelve legions of angels. But he cannot save himself if he is to save others because the very purpose of his hanging on that cross is to bear my sin in his own body on the tree. If he does save himself, I am damned. It is only by not saving himself that he saves me.

To be regarded as "disabled" in the U.S. is to experience powerlessness on all kinds of levels  -- physical, psychological, political. To be considered disabled is to be put in a supplicant position, the position of the "patient," told to be quiet; if you need something, to ask kindly for it. These are the strictures of disability's Jim Crow. It is really about power: disabled people are considered powerless. Anyone with any savvy is sure to tell others that they don't consider themselves disabled. President Roosevelt called himself a "cured cripple" for that very reason. "If I am talking with a person fairly ignorant of disability rights, and I want to impress upon them that we are legion, I will say, ‘Thirty to 45 percent of the population of this country is disabled,'" professor David Pfeiffer says. "That is a way of getting to the discussion of ‘what is disability'  -- so they will realize that everyone is, or will be, disabled. "But ‘disability' is an ideological term. To name a person as ‘disabled' is to give them an inferior position. In our society people identified as disabled are second-class, third-class, or even worse-class citizens. We live in a constant state of discrimination. Identifying oneself or another person as a ‘person with a disability' is an ideological act. There is no other way to describe it." Which is why not everyone with a functional difference will identify as disabled, he says. Being disabled "is a damning thing.

I mean it," I told her, searching her eyes. "By the Blood, I vow it. I know not where this road will lead us, girl. But I'll walk it with you, to whatever fate awaits. And if God Himself should tear us asunder, if all the Endless Legion stood in my path, I would find my way back from the shores of the abyss to fight at your side. I'll not leave you, Dior." Reaching down, I squeezed her hands tight as I dared. ''I will never leave you.

Hear me now. If the legions of heaven stood between me and that girl, I would slay every angel in the Host to get back to her side. She and I have walked through hell together. I will never leave her, you hear me? And I would never hurt her.

Severus kept going, “They are sexual perverts who damn and denounce homosexuality and boy loves.”111 “Heartless,” said Tigellinus. Same-sex love was so embedded within Roman culture, Tigellinus could not believe there were such uncultured barbarians of hate within the empire. Homosexuality was forbidden in the legions because adult liaisons weakened the warrior culture by creating self-destructive competition within the ranks. Instead, they used boy loves to satisfy their lust for the feminine and need for domination. Even Tigellinus enjoyed a good slave boy every once in a while as a diversion.112

Nobody believes that – or, rather, nobody dares believe it. What is this curse that makes us all so inert and cowed that we cannot pull ourselves together and deprive the generals of their grants? We are oafs most of us, lazy and ignorant, and we nod our heads and are satisfied when we hear a lot of profound nonsense about ‘balance of power’ and ‘interplay of forces’ and all the rest of the jargon. Balance of power? If every Tom, Dick and Harry were to exert himself and demand that the money should be spent on making him better off instead of on arms and war there would be no war and we should all be better off. But the Toms, Dicks and Harrys must first bang their fists on the table and let it be known who holds the power and how that power is to be used.

You must drink lots of wine. We must get you normal again. I don’t want to travel with an imbecile. Not that I’m quite right in the head myself. What have I let myself in for?

of

My lord?’ Guilliman did not look up. ‘Three dead,’ he said softly. ‘Lorgar’s boasts were true. Three.’ ‘My lord.’ Guilliman shook his head, eyes still on the display. ‘The stories they bring to me, Euten. That Horus, or any of them, should turn against us, against me, against my father… I cannot begin to process it. My only consolation… My only consolation at all, as I have learned through our bitter fight with Lorgar, is that something has overtaken them, contaminated them. The warp is in their brains. It hardly excuses their actions, but it explains them. They are run mad and are no longer of themselves.’ He looked at the elderly chamberlain. She was upright and slender, supported by her tall staff. Her short hair was as glacial as her gown. ‘It is a hard thing to accept, my lord,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be the hardest,’ Guilliman agreed. ‘But what are brothers turned traitor compared to the death of three loyal sons? The survivors cannot refute it. Ferrus is dead. Corax, Vulkan, loyal all, and dead. Then, from the mouths of others, this news from Prospero. Magnus defying our father so much that they set the damned Wolves upon him? And now we hear from the Phall System, confirmation that Perturabo has indeed betrayed us…’ He rose to his feet. ‘What else? What else, I wonder? Is Terra already burning? Is my father already dead? If half of my brothers have turned to follow Horus’s treachery, then who remains? Three of those who might be counted loyal are already dead. Who else? Where is the Khan? Does Dorn burn along with Terra? Sanguinius and his Legion are said to be lost. The Lion has gone into the dark. Have the traitors hunted down the Wolf King and torn him to shreds? Am I alone now?’ ‘My lord, you–’ Guilliman held up his hand. ‘I am just thinking out loud, mam. I will be composed by the time I reach the hall. You know I will.’ She nodded. ‘All I can count upon is what I know as solid fact,’ said Guilliman. ‘Macragge still stands. My Legion still stands. While those two facts remain, there remains an Imperium.

Fulgrim took a shuddering breath and raised his hands to the heavens, screaming his loss at the sight of his brother so cruelly murdered... He saw the resentment he had picked at for months, only now understanding the altruism of Ferrus Manus's deed and the loss of life his selfless act had incurred. Where before he had seen only self-aggrandisement in his brother's action, he now saw it for the heroic deed it had truly been. His brother's critical comments, the wounding darts meant to undermine him, he now saw had been jests designed to puncture his self-importance and restore his humility. What he had perceived as Ferrus's prideful boasts and rash actions had been deeds of courage that he had spitefully dismissed. Ferrus's rejection of his attempt to betray him was the act of a true friend, but only now did he see how his brother had, even then, tried to save him.'No, no, no,' wept Fulgrim as the true horror of what he had done struck him with the force of a thunderbolt. He looked around through tear-filled eyes and saw the horrific changes wrought upon his beloved Legion, the perversions that masqueraded as epicurean pleasure. 'Everything I have done is ashes,' he whispered and swept up the golden Fireblade, so recently wielded by his brother in an attempt to undo the evil Fulgrim had embraced. Fulgrim reversed the blade and held its fiery tip against his body, the edge blackening his hand sand burning the skin through the rents torn in his armour. To end things now would be the easiest thing in the world, to take away the guilt and wash the pain away in a sharp trirust of steel into his vitals. Fulgrim gripped the sword tightly, drawing blood from his palms where the blade's edge sliced his skin. No, noble suicide is not for the likes of you, Fulgrim.'Then what?' howled Fulgrim, hurling away the sword his brother had forged. Oblivion: the sweet emptiness of eternal peace. I can grant you what you crave… an end to guilt and pain. Fulgrim rose to his feet and stood tall beneath the storm wracked clouds of Isstvan V, his once beautiful face streaked with tears, and his pristine armour stained with the blood of his beloved brother. Fulgrim lifted his hands and looked at the blood there. 'Oblivion,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'Yes, I crave the boon of nothingness. 'Then leave yourself open to me and I will put an end to it all. Fulgrim took a last look around. The grim-faced warriors who had foolishly thrown in their lot with the Warmaster: Marius, Julius and thousands more were damned, and they could not see it. All around him, he could hear the sounds of the future, of warfare and death. The thought that he shared the guilt of the destruction of the Emperor's dream was the greatest shame and sorrow he had ever known. An end to it all would be a blessed relief. 'Oblivion,' he whispered as he dosed his eyes. 'Do it. End me. 'The barriers in Fulgrim's mind dropped and he felt the elation of a creature older than time as it poured into the void in his soul. No sooner had its touch claimed his flesh for its own than he knew he had made the worst mistake of his life. Fulgrim screamed as he fought to keep it out, but it was already too late. His consciousness was crushed into the dark, unused corners of his mind, forever to be a mute witness to the havoc wrought by his body's new master. One moment Fulgrim was a primarch, one of the Emperor's Children, the next he was a thing of Chaos.

Revenge is my honour,’ the Iron Warrior growled, his words echoing from the marble walls. Rhodaan’s voice was an alchemy of pride and bitterness. After millennia of unending war, he knew the Legion’s thirst for revenge would never be quenched and so he was doomed to die without honour. The moment the Legion’s flesh-rippers had claimed him, he had become one of the damned. They had given him strength and power beyond anything a mere mortal could possess, but in return they had taken everything.