Nip Forest Quotes

The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple and scarlet.

The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the back of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that nosy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

He dragged his lips up the soft skin of her neck and gently nipped her ear lobe, sipping on the soft flesh. Her hands splayed against his chest. Expecting a shove, his senses careened when her fingers fisted his surcoat. Their ragged breath overloud in the forest, he eased his face away, nose rubbing against her jaw on his retreat, and sought her eyes. Hers darkened and—Lord help him—held no censure, only interest. He stepped back.

The path of a high tier sorceress was risky. On certain nights, Amonette found herself courting a stress that would break any normal human. Even with the spellwork she wove to bolster her frame, she was barely able to keep herself together, always teetering on the edge of sanity. Vain as it sounded, she would do well to establish some type of human bond. The light from the candles cast long shadows on the wooden walls as the compounds from them activated: jasmine, myrrh, cinnamon, and scents from trees indigenous to the Mersi forest— Hamallallia branches and flowers from the Asmodean Drachla. As Amonette waited for the composite fragrance to fill the room, she heaved her dress over her head, feeling the numbness setting into her muscles. It's about time to begin, she thought. Amonette shivered slightly against the cold breeze nipping at her naked, ever desensitizing flesh. The light was just bright enough to reveal the sigils snaking the length of her stomach and torso-- lines carved into her flesh in moments when the spirit of Satharchon occupied her entirely. She was his most loyal, and hence she was blessed to hear his voice in her head on occasion, counseling her. She hoped he would find her entire body fit to occupy tonight.

I spent the last month building this with the help of many of the villagers. This is our own castle.” “What?” Gaston opened the door to reveal the cozy inside. It was one room with a giant bed and a fireplace with flames crackling as they nipped at newly chopped wood. “This stopped being about sex, Adam.” Gaston left the door open and walked up to him. “I think somewhere in that cold, dark, spider-filled castle … I fell in love with you.” “You did?” “Yes.” Gaston grinned softly. “While you mourned and then sulked, I’ve been building this place. I hoped, I hope it’ll be our home.” Gaston turned to stare at the house fondly. “It’s not perfect or a grand castle, but … if you want it can be ours.” “I … I want.” Adam sputtered. “I want this. I want you.” He wanted it all so badly that his head swam in emotions and his body felt a surge of desire. “Gaston…” But he couldn’t have it.

The moon hung low, a bloody slash of color against the deepest ink of night. There were no stars to be seen. Clouds, thick and a shade lighter than the sky, moved at a lazy crawl, casting long, malevolent shadows against the backdrop of the Black Hills Forest. Trees, their skeletal branches extended to the sky in prayerful worship, swayed in a strong breeze. The wind was chilly, nipping at my nose with a frostbitten kiss. The only light for miles came off the neon pulse

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and Nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild-ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

a group, nipping and clawing. A sickening grunt ripped their attention away from the dead animal. A second okapi stood a few yards away. The creature stared at them, its wide flat ears raised, its body on alert. Okapis were herbivores, normally docile. They were skittish animals, like deer or antelope. But this one was not normal. Its long snout quivered, dripping thick wet globules of crimson. The blood shimmered and rolled over its lips before dropping to the jungle floor. “What the hell?” Sam said. The creature startled a little at the sound of her voice and took a threatening step closer.

Sea-foam tumbles onto the shore, claiming me gently in the way I've always craved. The ocean gathers me, carrying me over the surface like Cleopatra--- and I, every ounce as lovely as her and Aphrodite combined. Bit by bit the water swallows me, gently nipping at my skin until I dissolve into an aquatic spirit. Only then do I understand the language of angelfish and squid, and I move just as languidly. The sirens gape at me with their jewel-bright eyes and try to steal me as their own. But before I can be taken by those curious witches, I rise to the surface again. Everything glimmers here. I embrace the dusk with a hopeful smile. The sky blends into a watercolor of pastels and ambrosial stars. It's an aurora borealis of magenta and lavender, tempting me into the forest and away from the safety of the shore. Something's in the wind. I can feel it--- like the twinkling stars will finally lead me to the love I desire. I want it more than anything. The thought of it turns me feral, like a vampiress thirsty for a drop of blood. I dart through the forest, trailing a path of golden light. Past the evergreens and pines, underneath the moon, I become wild and free. Sweet summer fruit grows from trees, ripe and sparkling. With every cautious step I take, the flowers blossom. But they don't just grow. They glow. Ultraviolet irises, sugar-dusted peonies, and iridescent rosebuds unravel beneath my feet. Foxgloves bloom like trumpets, playing a regal procession beside twinkling bluebells. As I journey deeper into the forest, fireflies circle me, illuminating my path. And then I see him. I blink. He's awfully familiar, but I can't place my finger on who he is. He's beautiful. A boy with white-blond hair and viridescent eyes. Where have I seen him before? "Hello, Lila," he says. I stumble back. "How do you know my name?" He's peculiar. So unbelievably enchanting. I'm enthralled by the sound of his voice alone. "Don't be scared. You're safe here. I wanted to bring you somewhere special. Somewhere where you can make the forest beautiful with your dance." My dance. Of course, my dance. Witchlight flickers in his eyes. This world is meant for me. A gift wrapped up in velvet petals and sweet perfumes.

Again the trees remembered to make leaves. In the forest of their recollection many birds returned singing. They sang, they sang because they forgave themselves the winter, and all that remained still bitter. Yet it was early spring, when the days were touch and go, and a late snow could nip a shoot, or freeze a fledgling in its nest. And where would we be then? But that’s not the point. Do you think the magpie doesn’t know that its chicks are at risk, or the peach trees, their too-frail blossoms, the new-awakened bees, all that is incipient within us? We know, but we can’t help ourselves any more than they can, any more than the earth can stop hurtling through the night of its own absence. Must be something in the sap, the blood, a force like gravity, a trick called memory. You name it. Or leave it nameless that’s better— how something returns and keeps on returning through a gap, through a dimensional gate, through a tear in the veil. And there it is again. Another spring. To woo loss into song.

The hare’s burrow was between the roots of a deep-voiced and venerable oak, and while the fox passed, it would nip back down into the warmth and safety of those roots, and the fox would continue on, deeper into the forest, towards its own bed, looking up for one glance at the rising sun and giving a furry, whiskery, sharp-toothed smile at the sun before settling to her bed.

Will he keep his promise? he wondered. Will he come to mentor the three of us to our true destiny? CHAPTER 10 Hollyleaf leaped, sinking her claws into the vole and dispatching it with a quick nip to the neck. Straightening up with her prey in her jaws, she spotted Lionblaze approaching through the bracken, dragging the limp body of a rabbit. “Hey, great catch!” she mumbled around the vole. Twilight had fallen, and deep shadows lay on the forest floor. Hollyleaf and Lionblaze had stopped near the dead tree to hunt on their way back to camp, while Jaypaw looked for fresh herbs. “Let’s get back,” he meowed, padding up with a bunch of tansy. “I’m worried about the sick cats. Leafpool can’t do everything, and if I’m any later she’ll have my pelt for bedding.

The cold not only bears down on human bodies, but also bends sound. The forest sits under an inversion, chilled air pooling under a warmer cap. The colder air is like molasses for sound waves, slowing them as they pass, causing them to lag sound travelling in higher, warmer air. The difference in speed turns the temperature gradient into a sound lens. Waves curve down. Sound energy , instead of dissipating in a three dimensional dome, is forced to spread in two dimensions, spilling across the ground, focusing its vigor on the surface. What would have been muffled, distant sounds leap closer, magnified by the jeweler’s icy loupe. The aggressive whine of the snowmobile mingles with the churr and chip of red squirrels and chickadees. Here are modern and ancient sunlight, manifest in the boreal soundscape. Squirrels nipping the buds of fir trees, chickadee poking for hidden seeds and insects, all powered by last summer’s photosynthesis; diesel and gasoline, sunlight squeezed and fermented for tens or hundreds of millions of years, now finally freed in an exultant engine roar. Nuclear fusion pounds its energy into my eardrums, courtesy of life’s irrepressible urge to turn sunlight into song.

The moment his fingers closed around hers, the electricity arced sharply and cleanly between them. He pulled her out of the chamber and into the tunnel. To her horror, instead of going back up toward the forest, Jacques drew her down toward the very bowels of the earth. The tunnel was wide enough that they could walk together, but she didn’t move fast enough to suit him. With every step he took, Jacques’ body became tighter and more painful. His breath was coming in hoarse gasps. He swung her into his arms and raced down the tunnel’s twists and turns. “What are you doing, Jacques?” Half laughing, half concerned, Shea held on tightly, her slender arms around his neck. “I am getting us to a place where we can be alone.” He was decisive about it. He had wanted her for hours, for days, for a lifetime. He had to have her this minute. Shea buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder, her body responding to the urgency in his voice, to his labored breathing and rapid heartbeat. Her mouth touched his pulse, her breath warming his skin. She felt him shiver with awareness and gently probed the spot with the tip of her tongue. “Mmm, you taste good.” “Damn it, Shea, I swear if you keep that up, we will not make it to the springs.” “I never heard of any springs,” she murmured absently, stroking the beating pulse again, her teeth playfully nipping. Her mouth wandered farther up his neck to his ear. “Hot springs. It is only a little way farther,” he groaned, but he leaned his head toward her attentions. Her hand slipped down the front of his shirt, played with his buttons, slowly sliding them open so that her palm could rest on his hot skin. “I think you’re hot enough, Jacques,” she whispered wickedly into his ear, caressing his earlobe with her tongue. “I know I am.