Scarlet Witch Quotes

This is the worst problem with living history museums. They always leave the best parts out. Like typhus. And opium. And scarlet letters. Shunning. Witch-burning.

We're fighting an army of robots, And I got a bow" Hawkeye to scarlet witch. - Avengers 2 age of ultron.

The city is flying, we're fighting an army of robots, and I've got a bow. Nothing is making sense!

Please, let me take you home. You’re drunk.” “I am not.” I shoved him, spilling some kind of delicious poison on him. “Go home and have a wild time with Ms. Scarlet. In the bedroom. With the—” “Okay, you’re starting to talk board game. Let’s go home, babe. I’ll get you into bed.

What is grief if not love persevering?

Get on with it," Mrs. O'Hare prompts, and I do, wrapping the bandage snugly over Finn's instep and up his calf― which is sinewy with muscle, covered in fine coppery hair and more freckles. I'm fascinated by the pattern they form over his skin. Do they go all the way up his leg? I flush scarlet at the the thought.

Outside the house, against a sheltered wall to the south, a single stalk of green thrust upwards, with slender rapierlike leaves and one huge scarlet blossom. Kit went down on her knees. “It looks just like the flowers at home,” she marveled. “I didn’t know you had such flowers here.” “It came all the way from Africa, from the Cape of Good Hope,” Hannah told her. “My friend brought the bulb to me, a little brown thing like an onion. I doubted it would grow here, but it just seemed determined to keep on trying and look what has happened.

That little baggage hath witchcraft in her.

Scarlet

When she had arranged her household affairs, she came to the library and bade me follow her. Then, with the mirror still swinging against her knees, she led me through the garden and the wilderness down to a misty wood. It being autumn, the trees were tinted gloriously in dusky bars of colouring. The rowan, with his amber leaves and scarlet berries, stood before the brown black-spotted sycamore; the silver beech flaunted his golden coins against my poverty; firs, green and fawn-hued, slumbered in hazy gossamer. No bird carolled, although the sun was hot. Marina noted the absence of sound, and without prelude of any kind began to sing from the ballad of the Witch Mother: about the nine enchanted knots, and the trouble-comb in the lady's knotted hair, and the master-kid that ran beneath her couch. Every drop of my blood froze in dread, for whilst she sang her face took on the majesty of one who traffics with infernal powers. As the shade of the trees fell over her, and we passed intermittently out of the light, I saw that her eyes glittered like rings of sapphires. ("The Basilisk")

Young Goodman Brown,” The Scarlet Letter, or his 1851 bestseller, The House of the Seven Gables, but Hawthorne proved that territory still radioactive. Guilt and blame have grown up lushly on the scene, attracting writers from Walt Whitman to John Updike. Arthur Miller read the court papers under the spell of McCarthyism. He discovered, as New England itself had, that events must be absorbed before monuments can be raised. The Crucible

Scarlet Ibis, you’ve got some fire in you. Uncle, can we keep her?” I shrugged him off, rolling my eyes.

I want to be an Avenger.

Power without compassion -- *that's* the danger.

Morwen kept a good pace over the green lawn, but she paused in the side garden, where the sorrel tree's feathery leaves had turned a brilliant scarlet. A great white hydrangea made a backdrop for clumps of lobelia and lilyturf.

I've read all of the old stories now – "Red Blood and Dirty Gold", "The Winter Witch", "The Scarlet Varulv" – and I want more. Though I want fantasy – made-up, impossible things – I don't want stories that step out of the pages and into the world around me.

Behind her the rhododendron was at its peak, blossoms shining like pink stars above her head. The air was sweet with the scent of new leaves, and as I came down the path, a rufous hummingbird flashed between the camellia bush and the old cedar tree, a tiny arrow of scarlet and green.

Whenever I arrive in my garden, I Make The Tour. Is this a personal idiosyncrasy, or do all good gardeners do it? It would be interesting to know. By Making The Tour, I mean only that I step from the front window, turn to the right, and make an infinitely detailed examination of every foot of ground, every shrub and tree, walking always over an appointed course. There are certain very definite rules to be observed when you are Making The Tour. The chief rule is that you must never take anything out of its order. You may be longing to see if a crocus has come out in the orchard, but it is strictly forbidden to look before you have inspected all the various beds, bushes and trees that lead up to the orchard. You must not look at the bed ahead before you have finished with the bed immediately in front of you. You may see, out of the corner of your eye, a gleam of strange and unsuspected scarlet in the next bed but one, but you must steel yourself against rushing to this exciting blaze, and you must stare with cool eyes at the earth in front, which is apparently blank, until you have made certain that it is not hiding anything. Otherwise you will find that you rush wildly round the garden, discover one or two sensational events, and then decide that nothing else has happened. Which means that you miss all the thrill of tiny shoots, the first lifting of the lids of wallflowers, the first precious gold of the witch-hazel, the early spear of the snowdrop.

Now come on, we’re off.” He marched out of the room. They heard the front door open, but Dudley did not move and after a few faltering steps Aunt Petunia stopped too. “What now?” barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the doorway. It seemed that Dudley was struggling with concepts too difficult to put into words. After several moments of apparently painful internal struggle he said, “But where’s he going to go?” Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other. It was clear that Dudley was frightening them. Hestia Jones broke the silence. “But…surely you know where your nephew is going?” she asked, looking bewildered. “Certainly we know,” said Vernon Dursley. “He’s off with some of your lot, isn’t he? Right, Dudley, let’s get in the car, you heard the man, we’re in a hurry.” Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front door, but Dudley did not follow. “Off with some of our lot?” Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude before: Witches and wizards seemed stunned that his closest living relatives took so little interest in the famous Harry Potter. “It’s fine,” Harry assured her. “It doesn’t matter, honestly.” “Doesn’t matter?” repeated Hestia, her voice rising ominously. “Don’t these people realize what you’ve been through? What danger you are in? The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti-Voldemort movement?” “Er--no, they don’t,” said Harry. “They think I’m a waste of space, actually, but I’m used to--” “I don’t think you’re a waste of space.” If Harry had not seen Dudley’s lips move, he might not have believed it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself. “Well…er…thanks, Dudley.” Again, Dudley appeared to grapple with thoughts too unwieldy for expression before mumbling, “You saved my life.” “Not really,” said Harry. “It was your soul the dementor would have taken…” He looked curiously at his cousin. They had had virtually no contact during this summer or last, as Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly and kept to his room so much. It now dawned on Harry, however, that the cup of cold tea on which he had trodden that morning might not have been a booby trap at all. Although rather touched, he was nevertheless quite relieved that Dudley appeared to have exhausted his ability to express his feelings. After opening his mouth once or twice more, Dudley subsided into scarlet-faced silence. Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her an approving look that changed to outrage as Aunt Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather than Harry. “S-so sweet, Dudders…” she sobbed into his massive chest. “S-such a lovely b-boy…s-saying thank you…” “But he hasn’t said thank you at all!” said Hestia indignantly. “He only said he didn’t think Harry was a waste of space!” “Yeah, but coming from Dudley that’s like ‘I love you,’” said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.

But here, summer died out in a long, blazing victory dance. Sunburst gold and persimmon orange, witch’s scarlet and deep, bronzed ochre. The colors bragged and jostled loudly under cloudless skies, so bright, it almost hurt to look.

You fucker,” I snarled at him. “I’ll make you pay for this. First the trap, then the lash—you’re in it deep with some witch somewhere, you fucking coward.” He frowned coldly. “I don’t know what you mean about a trap. The whip was specially commissioned by LeeAnn herself, to right the wrong your female did to her.” “But it’s not supposed to be for you, Victor.” LeeAnn leaned in close to me, drowning me in the scent of her sickeningly sweet perfume—bubble gum and roses. It made me want to gag. “Renounce her,” she pleaded, shaking the whip in front of my face. “Give her up right here and now, and I swear you won’t get a single stroke. Just let me hear you say you pick me, not her.” I glared at her. “I’d rather let you fuckers whip the skin off my bones than renounce the woman I love. I’ll never give Taylor up for you. Fucking never.” “You son of a bitch,” she snarled. “Fine—you want the skin whipped off your bones? I’ll be happy to do it for you. More than happy!

Tristan sighed and uncrossed his arms. Looking over his shoulder at Tristan, Gabriel said, “Do you want to try and explain this to her?” Tristan slanted his eyes at Gabriel. “Now, why would I want to do that when you’re doing such a fantastic job all on your own?” “Shut up.” Gabriel turned back to Scarlet. “Anyway…we were engaged—” “And then you died,” Tristan interjected, in a matter-of-fact way. Scarlet’s eyes shot to Tristan. Gabriel looked at his twin. “I thought you didn’t want to tell her.” “I changed my mind.” Tristan shrugged, then looked at Scarlet. “You and Gabriel were on your way to happily-ever-after and then his crazy ex-girlfriend shot you with an arrow—” “Your ex-girlfriend killed me?” Scarlet looked at Gabriel. Gabriel turned back around. “It’s a long story—“ “No, it isn’t. I’ll sum up.” Tristan took a step forward and crossed his arms in front of his chest again. “Gabriel was courting a girl from a nearby village named Raven—” “I was not courting her,” Gabriel snapped. “Whatever.” Tristan rolled his eyes. “So, Raven assumed Gabriel would marry her. But then he met you.” He shrugged again. “Suddenly, Gabriel no longer cared about Raven. So, what did Raven do?” Scarlet’s mouth parted. “She…killed me?” Tristan nodded. “And she also cursed the arrow that killed you.” Scarlet whipped her attention back to Gabriel. “What?” There were curses involved now? Immortality…the fountain of youth…curses…. What next, dragons? “I’m cursed?” Scarlet looked at Gabriel. “Not exactly.” Gabriel made a face. The curse wasn’t directed at you, but you still suffer a ... side effect of the curse. Because of the arrow.” “You see,” Tristan took a step forward, “Raven, being the little witch she was—“ “She wasn’t a witch.” Gabriel sighed. Tristan raised his eyebrows. “She cast a curse, Gabe. That’s something witches do. They ride on brooms, play with cats, and curse people.

When you’re a child you believe your parents know a special truth about the world, that they know what is right, and that life unfolds in a predictable manner. “That understanding does not get shaken unless something very dramatic happens. Then you see your parents are fallible humans making imperfect choices given their circumstances. There are no crystal balls like the witch had. In truth we are all much more like the great and powerful Wizard of Oz. We are people pretending we have more skills than we do.

Witch

We're all looking for the same thing. Yet it looks different for each of us.

Heroism must not be about the recognition of the savior but the elevation of the saved.

You've too often been told what's best. It hurts, but you know Tryfa must be given the help it wants, not the help you believe it needs. Anything else is to just become another shackle.

And if you don't *like* the tradition? Change the tradition.

In the initial months of the second trance, Arpazia became a woman and a queen, a witch and a bitch, and left her mark in scarlet blows and purple bruises, in shades of broken things and torn garments.

You’re really going to kick me out?” “Yes, I really am.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook folded her arms. Jane bit her lip and bent her head back to look at the sky. Funny that it looked so far away. It felt as if it were pressing down on her head, shoving her into the dirt. What a mean bully of a sky. Much of the household was present now. Miss Heartwright was huddled with the main actors, whispering, like rubberneckers shocked at a roadside accident but unable to look away. A couple of gardeners strolled up as well, tools in hand. Martin wiped his brow, confusion (sadness?) heavy on his face. Jane was embarrassed to see him, remembering how she’d ended things, and feeling less than appealing at the moment. The whole scene was rather Hester Prynne, and Jane imagined herself on a scaffold with a scarlet C for “cell phone” on her chest. She realized she was still holding her croquet mallet and wondered that no one felt threatened by her. She hefted it. Would it be fun to bash in a window? Nah. She handed it to Miss Charming. “Go get ‘em, Charming.” “Okay,” Miss Charming said uncertainly. “If you would be so kind as to step into the carriage,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. Curse the woman. Jane had just started to have such fun, too. Why didn’t one of the gentlemen come forward to defend her? Wasn’t that, like, their whole purpose of existence? She supposed they’d be fired if they did. The cowards. She stood on the carriage’s little step and turned to face the others. She’d never left a relationship with the last word, something poetic and timeless, triumphant amid her downfall. Oh, for a perfect line! She opened her mouth, hoping something just right would come to her, but Miss Heartwright spoke first. “Mrs. Wattlesbrook! Oh dear, I have only now realized what transpired.” She lifted the hem of her skirts and minced her way to the carriage. “Please wait, this is all my fault. Poor Miss Erstwhile was only doing me a favor. You see, the modern contraption was mine. I did not realize I had it until I arrived, and I was so distressed, Miss Erstwhile kindly offered to keep it for me among her own things where I would not have to look upon it.” Jane stood very still. She thought to wonder what instinct made her body rigid when shocked. Was she prey by nature? A rabbit afraid to move when a hawk wheels overhead? Mrs. Wattlesbrook had not moved either, not even to blink. A silent minute limped forward as everyone waited. “I see,” the proprietress said at last. She looked at Jane, at Miss Heartwright, then fumbled with the keys at her side. “Well, now, ahem, since it was an accident, I think we should forget it ever happened. I do hope, Miss Heartwright, that you will continue to honor us with your presence.” Ah, you old witch, Jane thought. “Yes, of course, thank you.” Miss Heartwright was in her best form, all proper feminine concern, artless and pleasant. Her eyes twinkled. They really did. Everyone began to move off, nothing disturbing left to view. Jane caught a glimpse of Martin smiling, pleased, before he turned away. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I do hope you will forgive me.” “Please don’t mention it, Miss Heartwright.” “Amelia.” She held Jane’s hand to help her descend from the carriage. “You must call me Amelia now.” “Thank you, Amelia.” It was such a sisterly moment, Jane thought they might actually embrace. They didn’t.

she spat a single word. A long, guttural, twisting word that evoked frozen Germanic winters. The trigger to the spell she’d been weaving for days. The toxic miasma above our heads exploded with a peal of thunder and her spite-fueled power crashed down on Cesar, one man alone in a torrent of death. The paper cut on his bicep ripped open, as if someone had taken pliers to his skin and given it one brutal, wrenching tug. Blood gushed from the wound as he screamed, flowing faster than it should have, and even faster by the second. He collapsed to his knees, shrieking, and a scarlet torrent blasted from the wound like the spray from a fire hose and splashed across the arcade wall. His skin turned ashen and taut, his fingers and toes curling, crumpling. Bones cracked as his limbs folded in on themselves and the flesh on his skull stretched taut like a mummified corpse. Jennifer’s death curse slowly crushed his body like a juice box, squeezing every drop of blood from every last ragged vein. What collapsed to the floor when the spell was done, gray and bloodless and small as a child, didn’t look human anymore. “That’s what you get for fuckin’ with a witch,” Jennifer said. “My momma taught me that trick.

Inside, The Boneyard seemed to cover the area of a township and the bar looked as long as the railroad tracks. Round pools of light on the green poker tables alternated with hourglass shapes of exciting gloom, through which drink girls and change girls moved like white-legged witches. By the jazz-stand in the distance, belly dancers made their white hourglass shapes. The gamblers were thick and hunched down as mushrooms, all bald from agonizing over the fall of a card or a die or the dive of an ivory ball, while the Scarlet Women were like fields of poinsettia.

That witch... It was her. She took the diary. It has to be. I'm going to kill her... Penny. - Ivy

Ghost shook his head as he sat on the very edge of the bed, poised to take flight if need be. The spiral under his hair felt warm, almost painful, but he resisted the urge to rub it. It never helped when he did, and he was not sure what Gerry would do if the man saw it. The Witch had a symbol she called a triskele, the ink a vivid scarlet still, but no male that had ever come for healing bore a mark like hers, or like his. He had never found the words to ask the Witch about it, about why he was marked like a witch.

I'd sliced through his neck as if his life was of no consequence. It wasn't to me, or the witches who'd commanded me to take this boy's life. Blood sprayed - over the room, over me and over the man who wouldn't live to see thirty now. I revelled in its taste and colour, the iron and the copper and the glorious scarlet that painted me a villain.

The Prince of the East stares at me, eyes narrowed in curious study. Nothing lies beyond him, only a scarlet halo of swirling shadows. The carved corners of his mouth turn in a deep scowl. “Hello, Keeper,” he says. “I see you.” I jerk awake, heart racing, and blink away the sight of him. Gods, that felt so real. His voice was so clear. But it was just a dream. Wasn’t it? I swallow hard, remembering something faint. Something distant. The prince called me Keeper after I cut him open. Surely dreaming of him is only my mind conjuring that same moment, reshaping it into a new torture.

Don't look back - The past is exactly where it belongs'' - Scarlet Witch

Behold the Vision and the Scarlet Witch. Some time ago. When we were young. And everything was new and different. 'Janet van Dyne, the Wasp, recently told me a joke.' 'Okay.' 'Would you enjoy hearing it?' 'Okay.' 'Two toasters are sitting on a counter. One toaster turns to the other toaster and asks: "Do you sometimes feel empty?"' 'Then the other toaster says: "Oh my god! A talking toaster!"' 'Oh god. Hahahaha.' 'Hahahaha.' 'Hahahaha.' 'Hahahaha.' 'Hahahaha.

That’s it,” I snapped. “Stop the truck.” “What?” Victor gave me an incredulous look and kept driving. “Why the hell would I do that?” “Because I’m leaving.” I fumbled for the handle on the unfamiliar door. “How do you open this damn thing, anyway?” Falling out of the speeding truck wouldn’t be a picnic but I was a vampire—I would heal. Of course, my body was in pretty bad shape because of the enforced starvation I’d endured recently so it might take a while. But even a slow and painful recovery was better than taking any more of the were’s abuse. The handle clicked and suddenly the door flew open. The truck took a sharp curve and I felt myself slipping sideways at an alarming rate. Oh my God! I braced for the fall but just as I started to slide out of the cab a big hand reached out and grabbed me by the arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Victor brought the truck to a screeching halt and dragged me back across the seat. “I told you—leaving. So let me go.” “I don’t think so,” he snarled. “We’re blood-bound—you’re not going anywhere.” “So I’ll find a way to break the bond,” I snapped, yanking at his seemingly unbreakable grip. “Anything to get away from you.” “You can’t break the bond unless you’re willing to go down some pretty dark roads and find a witch that deals in the Shadow Lands. You want that?” Victor demanded. “Because I sure as hell don’t. Like it or not, we’re stuck together, sweetheart.

You know, witches aren’t the only ones with a magical scent detector—it’s just more developed in us. A lot of the reason why supernaturals don’t like each other has to do with scent—they smell different, smell wrong to each other. It’s hard to like someone who stinks, even if you don’t realize it on a conscious level.” “She’s right.” Victor nodded. “That’s the reason weres don’t like vamps—part of it, anyway.” I was horrified. “You mean we… we stink to you?” And here I had been laying all over him when I was taking his blood. Had he been holding his breath the entire time, trying not to smell me? When he told me I smelled good before, was he lying? Victor must have seen the look on my face because he reached over and grabbed my hand at once. “No, baby—it’s not like that. Not with you,” he protested. “I mean, most vamps smell like the snake cage at the zoo. But not you, you smell like… like…” “Like what?” I asked, pulling my hand away and frowning at him. “You don’t have to lie to me, Victor. If you think I stink—” “You don’t stink!” he growled, obviously frustrated. “You smell good—too Goddamned good.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means you smell like a female wolf. Like a wolf going into—” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. “Go on.” Gwendolyn looked amused. “Finish your sentence, big guy. This is getting interesting.” “We’re not here to talk about who stinks and who doesn’t.” Victor’s eyes flashed gold with irritation. “We just want to know what you can tell us about the fucking trap.

This is light.” He tightened his fist and then quickly opened his fingers releasing a magical burst of flame from his right hand. Swirling around his palms in different directions he caused the scarlet blaze to dance in thin air before he firmly clutched it and caused it to disappear, ”Light is the natural agent that stimulates sight and makes things visible. It causes things to burn and sparks the act of ignition…In the Mortal Bible in the book of Genesis it is the beginning of life...” The Professor opened his arms wide as he spoke with great bravado “‘And God said, “Let there be Light!’” and there was light.’’ His hands released a stream of lightning bolts that flashed so majestically that it caused all of the onlookers to mask their eyes from its harsh glow before the bolts ceased in their gleaming, “But remember God also labeled that light as good and God divided the light from the darkness…” As quickly as the flame flourished in his hands before, he used his fists with the same intensity causing all of the fluorescent bulbs to dim and the room to suddenly fall into complete darkness.

I followed her through the house into a surprisingly large kitchen with yellow and white checkered curtains hanging in the windows. A green ceramic frog with a dish scrubber in his mouth sat on the side of the sink and a cheery red tea kettle was on the spotless white stove. All together it looked like a completely normal kitchen—there was nothing witchy about it at all except for a huge black pot hanging from the rack over the oven. Gwendolyn saw me eyeing it and grinned. “That’s Grams’ gumbo pot. She always says you can’t make good authentic roux in anything but cast iron.” “Oh,” I said. “I thought—” “That we were hunched over the cauldron cackling and brewing spells?” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess there’s a lot about witches I don’t know.” “That’s okay—apparently there’s a lot about vamps I don’t know,” she said, opening a spotless white refrigerator. She brought out a mason jar and held it up.

Hello? Baby?” I said anxiously. “Um, I don’t think I’m who you think I am,” said a voice on the other end. “This is Gwendolyn LeRoux—you know, the witch you hired? You wanted me to find the identity of the person who bought the cursed trap that was planted on your land.” “Oh, Gwendolyn, right.” I could feel myself deflating. “Look, now really isn’t the best time, so—” “Now, I know Taylor said you’ve already pretty much figured it out,” she went on. “But there’s something beneath the obvious—something big I think you should know about.” “Wait a minute—back up,” I said. “When did Taylor say that? When did you talk to her?” “Last night.” She suddenly sounded guarded. “Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out between the two of you. I hope you know the role I played was strictly professional—I have no interest in taking sides.” “What role did you play?” I growled, tightening my grip on the phone case until it creaked in my hand. “What did you do to her, Gwendolyn? What did you fucking do?” “I only did what she asked me to do,” she said levelly. “Like I said, it’s not personal and it’s not what I’m calling you about. I need to tell you something about the person who put the trap on your land.” “I’ll be right there,” I snapped.

What did you do?” I demanded, the minute we got inside her house. “Tell me right now—when you saw Taylor last night, what did you do?” “I broke the blood-bond holding her to you—all right?” Her voice was tense and low. “You what?” Corbin glared at her. “That bond was sanctified by the Goddess and the Laws of Ownership were not satisfied—not for another two months.” “Taylor couldn’t wait another two months—she begged me to do it right away.” Gwendolyn put her arms over her chest. “I only did what she wanted—she said she wanted to set Victor free.” She nodded at me and I nearly groaned. “Because she thought something happened that didn’t really happen,” I said. “At least not the way she thinks it happened.” I frowned at her. “Hey—what time did you break the bond, anyway? Would it have anything to do with the burning sensation I had all over my fucking body or the partial heart attack I had right after?” The witch looked stricken. “You felt it?” “Yes, I fucking felt it! I ran my truck into a tree and spent the day unconscious,” I roared. She took a step back. “Taylor swore you didn’t love her anymore—you shouldn’t have been able to feel any of it.” “Of course I still love her,” I growled, trying to get hold of myself. “I never stopped.” I sank down on her flowery couch and put my head in my hands. “She divorced me,” I said numbly, hardly able to believe it. “She fucking divorced me without even telling me. God, what a fucking mess.