Roasting Battle Quotes

Ever since my famous battle with Python, I've had a phobia of scaly reptilian creatures. (Especially if you include my stepmother, Hera. BOOM!)

I hate to interrupt such a touching scene but those hellhounds are not going to wait for you two to play kissey face. So, unless you intend to nail a chunk of roast beef to my butt and have me run around as a distraction, I would suggest we prepare for battle." Pg. 113-114

The battle-fire had dropped over him, burning him everywhere with its righteous heat, sizzling his sight, frying his synapses and roasting his heart in its holy glow.

I'm pregnant," I blurt. He stares at me. "With a baby." I slap his chest. "No, with a fucking roasted chicken. Yes, with a baby!

This is... you're certain, Faith?" When I nod, his face splits into a boyish grin. "A child." "Or a roasted chicken. You guess which one.

Ildiko shuddered.  Her hope to never again see or eat the Kai’s most beloved and revolting delicacy had been in vain.  When Brishen informed her that the dish was one of Serovek’s favorites, she resigned herself to another culinary battle with her food and put the scarpatine on the menu.  She ordered roasted potatoes as well, much to the head cook’s disgust. When servants brought out the food and set it on the table, Brishen leaned close and whispered in her ear.  “Revenge, wife?” “Hardly,” she replied, keeping a wary eye on the pie closest to her.  The golden top crust, with its sprinkle of sparkling salt, pitched in a lazy undulation.  “But I’m starving, and I have no intention of filling up on that abomination.” Their guest of honor didn’t share their dislike of either food.  As deft as any Kai, Serovek made short work of the scarpatine and its whipping tail, cleaved open the shell with his knife and took a generous bite of the steaming gray meat. Ildiko’s stomach heaved.  She forgot her nausea when Serovek complimented her.  “An excellent choice to pair the scarpatine with the potato, Your Highness.  They are better together than apart.” Beside her, Brishen choked into his goblet.  He wiped his mouth with his sanap.  “What a waste of good scarpatine,” he muttered under his breath. What a waste of a nice potato, she thought.  However, the more she thought on Serovek’s remark, the more her amusement grew. “And what has you smiling so brightly?”  Brishen stared at her, his lambent eyes glowing nearly white in the hall’s torchlight. She glanced at Serovek, happily cleaning his plate and shooting the occasional glance at Anhuset nearby.  Brishen’s cousin refused to meet his gaze, but Ildiko had caught the woman watching the Beladine lord more than a few times during dinner. “That’s us, you know,” she said. “What is us?” “The scarpatine and the potato.  Better together than alone.  At least I think so.” One of Brishen’s eyebrows slid upward.  “I thought we were hag and dead eel.  I think I like those comparisons more.”  He shoved his barely-touched potato to the edge of his plate with his knife tip, upper lip curled in revulsion to reveal a gleaming white fang. Ildiko laughed and stabbed a piece of the potato off his plate.  She popped it into her mouth and chewed with gusto, eager to blunt the taste of scarpatine still lingering on her tongue.

An addendum to the original,” he said. “I knew your aunt must have said something to unsettle you, for there could be no other explanation for your uncharacteristic reticence this afternoon. I have never known you to remain quiet when there is an opportunity to roast me. I made up five types of beetroot on the spot—no meager accomplishment, by the way, for unlike you I am not accustomed to inventing persons and things—and arranged them by size specifically to get a rise out of you and you didn’t look up once. Desperate for your attention, I even scrambled the order of the British ships that fought in the Battle of the Nile.

As Merripen gave the ribbons to a stableman at the mews, Amelia glanced toward the end of the alley. A pair of street youths crouched near a tiny fire, roasting something on sticks. Amelia did not want to speculate on the nature of the objects being heated. Her attention moved to a group—three men and a woman—illuminated in the uncertain blaze. It appeared two of the men were engaged in fisticuffs. However, they were so inebriated that their contest looked like a performance of dancing bears. The woman’s gown was made of gaudily colored fabric, the bodice gaping to reveal the plump hills of her breasts. She seemed amused by the spectacle of two men battling over her, while a third attempted to break up the fracas. “’Ere now, my fine jacks,” the woman called out in a Cockney accent, “I said I’d take ye both on—no need for a cockfight!” “Stay back,” Merripen murmured. Pretending not to hear, Amelia drew closer for a better view. It wasn’t the sight of the brawl that was so interesting—even their village, peaceful little Primrose Place, had its share of fistfights. All men, no matter what their situation, occasionally succumbed to their lower natures. What attracted Amelia’s notice was the third man, the would-be peacemaker, as he darted between the drunken fools and attempted to reason with them. He was every bit as well dressed as the gentlemen on either side … but it was obvious this man was no gentleman. He was black-haired and swarthy and exotic. And he moved with the swift grace of a cat, easily avoiding the swipes and lunges of his opponents. “My lords,” he was saying in a reasonable tone, sounding relaxed even as he blocked a heavy fist with his forearm. “I’m afraid you’ll both have to stop this now, or I’ll be forced to—” He broke off and dodged to the side just as the man behind him leaped. The prostitute cackled at the sight. “They got you on the ’op tonight, Rohan,” she exclaimed. Dodging back into the fray, Rohan attempted to break it up once more. “My lords, surely you must know”—he ducked beneath the swift arc of a fist—“that violence”—he blocked a right hook—“never solves anything.” “Bugger you!” one of the men said, and butted forward like a deranged goat. Rohan stepped aside and allowed him to charge straight into the side of the building. The attacker collapsed with a groan and lay gasping on the ground. His opponent’s reaction was singularly ungrateful. Instead of thanking the dark-haired man for putting a stop to the fight, he growled, “Curse you for interfering, Rohan! I would’ve knocked the stuffing from him!” He charged forth with his fists churning like windmill blades. Rohan evaded a left cross and deftly flipped him to the ground. He stood over the prone figure, blotting his forehead with his sleeve. “Had enough?” he asked pleasantly. “Yes? Good. Please allow me to help you to your feet, my lord.

She was a two-seater and I fired five rounds into her. She burst into flames and fell upside down. Although she dropped like a stone, I saw her observer climb out of his seat and jump clear of the flames. He must have preferred that kind of death to the chance of being roasted.3 Captain Albert Ball, 60 Squadron, RFC

See, girl,” Rowan said. “You cannot learn the sword. No woman can.” “What about Jeanne d’Arc?” Cass asked. “She wielded a sword.” Rowan snorted as he sheathed his blade. “She wielded words.” Cass knew from her lessons that Jeanne had been more of a charismatic leader than an actual fighter, but she had led men into battle. “It’s as if you believe women to be useless for fighting,” she said. “Of course they’re not,” Rowan said. He approached Cass and made a slow circle around her, his dark eyes studying each curve of her body in the least sensual way possible. Cass felt like a cow being evaluated for the roasts and fillets it could become. “But like everyone else, if you want to be effective, it helps to play to your strengths.” His eyes lingered on her breasts for a moment. Cass resisted the urge to cross her arms. “Meaning what?” “Distraction, for one.” A couple of the men chortled.

To Kenna’s utter surprise, Ingmar, Niall’s tall and rather squirrelly-looking general stepped in-between his glaring leader and the battle-axe in charge of Westmire. “Look, woman, this isn’t a man you’d like to see when he gets angry. And, from what we saw of this here Druid lady last night, she isn’t a woman to be trifled with. So, if you want my advice, let’s stop talking and start preparing for the end of the world. Which, to me means a good roast, some wine, and… let’s be honest, how many of you really want to die virgins?” Sputtering with outrage, Mother Superior whirled on Ingmar. “How dare you!

alleviate the inferno raging on her behind, which was slowly driving her mad. Surely he was some evil wizard disguised in adorable man/boy packaging. “That almost sounds like a challenge,” she snapped. “Baby, if issuing me a challenge makes you happy, I’ll do my best to rise to it. You don’t need to get so worked up. You’re getting all flushed.” He was confident to the point of sounding condescending; self-assured to the point of being smug. She resumed the crossed-arm battle stance in her seat, fighting back tears of frustration at the whole exchange and his ability to roast her derriere without laying a hand on her. And then she caught sight of it, in the far right corner on the digital display in the center of the dashboard. A tiny icon of a car seat appearing, then disappearing, intermittently flashing, and underneath it read, 86 . . . then 87 . . . and then 88. As soon as it fully registered, Amanda dug her feet into the floor mat, heels and all, and arched her body off the seat as best she could. “What’s the big idea!” she shrieked. “Just a little reminder, angel.” He chuckled, depressing

The battle raged, the blood, gore and the stench of death of hundreds of the fallen, of both Saxons and Vikings permeated the air around her. With Every move Her chest guard dug painfully into her side from a gouge from a broad sword. Her helm obscured her peripheral vision as it had been her brothers, and sat awkwardly on her head due to its size. No time to catch her breath as the huge Saxon assaulted her, her shield fending off the vicious blows of his claymore. Being nearly half his size, she needed to be nimble and smart, a swift upper cut to his jaw with her shield caught him off balance, followed by a slice from her modified broad sword. The Saxon fell to his knees, allowing just enough decrease in stature for Brynhild to finish him off with a jab to the neck, arterial spray covered her face and chest. No time to rest, the next Saxon was upon her, hacking forcefully at her shield she was sure it would splinter. It took all her strength to maintain her footing. His attack was merciless, forcing her to careen backwards, steel crashed against steel in a maddened melee. She feinted left, then put all her velocity in shouldering him in his midsection, momentum taking him swiftly to the blood sodden ground. In the distance a call to retreat was heard from the Saxon Lord, the battle broke, the Viking horde was victorious, Brynhild slumped down a nearby tree, too exhausted and weak to move her last conscious thought was to wonder who the strong Shield-maiden was that gently picked her up and carried her forward. The next thing she knew, she was in a magnificent Hall, filled with raucous laughter and the scent of roasted boar. The sound of sword play was also heard from a nearby doorway. Warriors sat with horns filled with mead, in earnest discourse of the battles they had fought. A clearing of a throat brought her eyes to the great table at the head of the hall, there stood a heavily muscled bearded, one-eyed Man, the hall was moved to silence as the great man strode toward her. “Welcome to Valhalla Brynhild,” he clapped a hand on her shoulder “You have fought bravely, Please take your place among the warriors and enjoy the feast.” Shouts of Skal! filled the hall. Happiness assailed her, resurrected, to one day fight again for Odin in the twilight of the Gods, The Battle of Ragnarök.

The smell of roasted flesh permeated the air for hours afterwards with the stench of oily-black smoke from the blazing vehicles . Gräbner's body was never identified among all the other carbonized corpses.

We even made it to the holy mecca of Brooklyn food fanaticism: Smorgasburg, a collection of food vendors that battle it out for the most outrageously delicious, ridiculously inventive food. We duly ate our heads off, sampling panko-crusted chicken sandwiches topped with pickled cucumbers and daikon, brown butter cookies doused in flies of sea salt, and the coup d'état- gigantic, billowy doughnuts from a Bed-Stuy bakery called Dough, one sweetly flavored with hibiscus, the other a savory, roasted café au last varietal.

In the morning we had been talking of roasting and eating the French … Now people avoided each other’s eyes and the only words uttered were curses. In the gathering darkness we sat in a circle. We did not even have a fire as we usually had. Almost everyone remained silent … then someone asked me what I thought of the events of the day … So I simply said, ‘At this place, on this day there has begun a new era in the history of the world; and you can all claim to have been present at its birth.’ ‘You’ll see how these little cocks will strut now,’ wrote one dispirited Prussian after this devastating cannonade at Valmy. ‘We have lost more than a battle.

A Reclusive Invitation by Stewart Stafford In a mansion crouched at the forest's edge, Gargoyles perched on a Jericho hedge, Lived Samuel Keane, with millions at least, Welcomed the locals to his Christmas feast. Self-imposed exile of wealth's solitary scene, On that evening, time for connection pristine, An alabaster white suit in a chessboard hall; Legions of armour and battle scars to recall. "Come, gather round, let camaraderie ignite! On Christmas Eve, a dream-come-true night!" Perkins, the grey butler, in reluctant festive red, Gestured them toward Keane's banquet spread. Their gracious host took his place at the end, A throne chair helped into place with a bend, Beaming, he clapped and food was brought in, To gasps and applause at the goblets of gin. A succulent feast at a baronial ball; Roasted goose, boar, a tall glass highball, Stories grew taller, just like each drink, Songs and jests sent them over the brink. Enjoyment and melody's atmosphere bright, Fleeting warmth shared in lush candlelight. Dawn looms, Les Misérables adore company: "Why does hangover guilt crave chablis?" A Father Christmas event once a year, Guests departed, a loud triple cheer, A fading smile of a host so grand, Adrift, nothing elaborate planned. The fireworks faded, the last ember died, Keane shut his mansion with secrets inside. A portcullis closed slowly on a seasonal high, A gothic arch door shut 'neath morning star sky. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.