Sinister 2 Quotes

You're a sinister little shit, aren't you?" Victra asks. "I'm Gold, bitch. What'd you expect? Warm milk and cookies just because I'm pocket sized?

This surpassed the fear of death. Death would be a mercy if it would make the feeling stop, the uncontrollable panic mingling with the mind-scrambling certainty of something sinister approaching, something with no need to hurry, something that would not be so kind as to let him die. The fear was palpable, suffocating, irresistible.

Why did you do it? Give up everything to raise another man's son?' His father did look up at that. 'I didn't raise another man's son,' he said sharply. 'I raised my own.

I worry about you,” he finally said to Free. “I’m afraid that you’re going to break your heart, going up against the world.” “No.” The wind caught her hair and sent it swirling behind her. “I’m going to break the world.

Rubber burned. Something sinister bore down on them. Darkness encircled the light thrown by the streetlamp. An engine roared. Tires squealed. Black metal jumped the curb.

Sinister is Latin for 'left', making it the sort of enjoyable schoolboy pun that is such an advert for mixed-gender education.

Those with courage and character to speak the truth always seem sinister to the ignorant." - First Chaplain Erebus

His eyes looked cruel, piercing, almost like those of a wolf seeking his prey, and his mouth looked thinner, more sinister than it had looked before.

If people want you to stop talking, or to stop dressing the way you do, or to change who you are, it's because you hurt their eyes. We've all been trained not to stare into the sun.' - Oliver

She cast a look at the octopus-shaped armchair in the corner, which gave a sinister flick of its tentacles. The maid shuddered. “I do wish you’d get rid of that thing. It’s a nightmare to dust.

Artemis put on his best sinister face. "Evil." He told himself. "Evil, but highly intelligent. And determined; don't forget determined.

Oh, Martin, is that it? I seem too nice and too harmless, so I must be hiding some sinister secret, like we're nothing but two-dimensional characters in some bad novel?

Oh, yes. In my future, a man will control all my possessions if I marry him, I shan’t be allowed to vote, and I won’t be given the opportunity to earn a living by any means except on my back—but by all means, the most dire threat I face is freckles.

Anything is bearable if you can fight it, but if you must sit back and take it… That breaks you in a way I can’t explain.

When you keep quiet, people fill in their own most intelligent thoughts on your behalf.

A ninnyhammer,” Jane said, “sounds like a magic hammer. One that I can use to smite ninnies. I have a great need for one of those.

Love cuts deeper than blade .

from a place of protection to a sinister trap. I know at some point we’ll be forced to reenter its depths, either to hunt or be hunted, but for right now I’m planning to stick

Death sat on a mountaintop. It wasn’t particularly high, or bare, or sinister. No witches held naked sabbats on it; Discworld witches, on the whole, didn’t hold with taking off anymore clothes than was absolutely necessary for the business in hand. No specters haunted it. No naked little men sat on the summit dispensing wisdom, because the first thing the truly wise man works out is that sitting around on mountaintops gives you not only hemorrhoids but frostbitten hemorrhoids. Occasionally people would climb the mountain and add a stone or two to the cairn at the top, if only to prove that there is nothing really damn stupid that humans won’t do.

And while people claimed to be creeped out, their smiles suggested that none of this was truly scary. It was like going to see a horror movie with a big group of friends: it was fun to be frightened, but when you were part of a large, noisy group, you knew nothing sinister was going to happen.

Anjan was Batty because Bhattacharya had too many syllables. He’d told one man his first name; the fellow had blinked, and then had immediately dubbed him John. That’s who they thought he was: John Batty. These well-meaning English boys had taken his name as easily, and with as much jovial friendship, as their fathers had taken his country.

Are you… uh… Mr… uh…” “Yes,” he replied, because he answered to Mr. Uh almost as often as he did to his own name.

As the elderly passed away, the departed Golden Shore vanished into the smoke of history. The ship of human civilization floated alone in the vast ocean, surrounded on all sides by endless, sinister waves, and no one knew if there even was an opposite shore.

I am trying now to re-create in my mind the picture of the man as I saw him in 1939- he, the revered author of Sinister Barriers, I the novice. I think I can rely on my near-photographic memory for the purpose. (I call it "near-photographic" because I can only remember things that happen to be lying around near photographs.) Let's see, as I recall, he is six-feet seven-inches tall (when he is sitting down, that is) with a long and majestic English face. Then, too, I distinctly remember, there was a small flashing golden aura about his head, the occasional play of hissing flashes when he moved it suddenly, and the distant rumble of thunder when he spoke.

To Ruth, at first, the Japanese words were unintelligible, like one of the sinister magic spells, spoken in Hawaiian, in the ghost stories Maile used to tell. But over the next four months, Ruth's six-year-old brain soaked up both the English alphabet and the Chinese kanji characters as a sea sponge absorbs water, and within four months she was able to join in reciting the kokun and understood it to mean: Let us become worthy individuals. Let us study together in a friendly atmosphere. Let us take care of our health by eating properly. Let us be good to our parents.

I've seen Emily's scars, and that's more than you can say. Fairfield shrunk back from the anger in Anjan's voice. "I meant well," he whispered. Anjan leaned forward across the desk until he was an inch from the other man. "Mean better.

Lucy is the first to find the secret of the wardrobe in the Professor’s mysterious old house. At first, her brothers and sister don’t believe her when she tells of her visit to the land of Narnia. But soon Edmund, then Peter and Susan step through the wardrobe themselves. In Narnia they find a country buried under the evil enchantment of the White Witch. When they meet the Great Lion, Aslan, they realize they’ve been called to a great adventure and bravely join the battle to free Narnia from the Witch’s sinister spell.

I hate your future wife," she said simply. "At the moment, I'm not much in charity with her myself.

He’d started caring more about becoming the kind of person who could make a change than he cared about the change itself.

He’d fallen a little bit in love with her the moment she’d said his name as if it had value.

You’re a sinister little shit, aren’t you?” Victra asks. “I’m Gold, bitch. What’d you expect? Warm milk and cookies just because I’m pocket-sized?” Roque

For me, the jungle has quickly evolved from a place of protection to a sinister trap. I know at some point we’ll be forced to reenter its depths, either to hunt or be hunted.

Fatty liver is a completely reversible process. Emptying the liver of its surplus glucose and dropping insulin levels returns the liver to normal. Hyperinsulinemia drives DNL, which is the primary determinant of fatty liver disease. Normalizing insulin levels reverses the fatty liver. Refined carbohydrates, which cause large increases in insulin, are far more sinister than dietary fat. High carbohydrate intake can increase DNL tenfold, whereas high fat consumption, with correspondingly low carbohydrate intake, does not change hepatic fat production

Jane was the most fearless woman Oliver had ever met. Sometimes, Oliver thought that society was like an infant trying to shove a square, colored block through a round hole. When it didn’t go, the child pounded harder. Oliver had been shoved through round holes so often that he’d scarcely even noticed that his edges had become rounded. But Jane…Jane persisted in being angular and square. The harder she was pushed, the more square—and the more colorful—she became.

Never forget” is the collective plea of Holocaust survivors. And in the first few decades after WW2 ended, it really did seem as if humanity would always remember, and perhaps even learn from, the Nazi genocide so that future atrocities may be prevented. Unfortunately, the historicity of the Holocaust has been undermined and chipped away at by the exact same sinister forces that created the genocide in the first place: racists, religious bigots and the most paranoid type of conspiracy theorists who, together, are uniting – often unwittingly – to form a new wave of anti-Semitism that will not willingly accept the obvious facts of the past. This chipping away (at the truth) began slowly and insidiously – much like the Holocaust itself – but sadly, and worryingly, it is gathering pace.

Death sat on a mountaintop. It wasn’t particularly high, or bare, or sinister. No witches held naked sabbats on it; Discworld witches, on the whole, didn’t hold with taking off anymore clothes than was absolutely necessary for the business in hand. No specters haunted it. No naked little men sat on the summit dispensing wisdom, because the first thing the truly wise man works out is that sitting around on mountaintops gives you not only hemorrhoids but frostbitten hemorrhoids.

I think being pissed is a good thing,” Eleonore said. “If you’re just a little angry, then you let things go, but if you’re really pissed, you make sure that things change. I’ve made a lot of positive changes in my life because of being pissed.

Your hatred has always tasted like heaven, little mouse. If I have to spend the rest of my life on my knees, then I will use my mouth for more than just begging for your forgiveness.” I grin sinisterly, and her breath hitches. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be kneeling beside me.

Tell me about love when you've been with someone for years, cared for them when they're ill, put up with them when they're miserable or grumpy, taken the sharp side of their tongue and still come back. Tell me about love when you've acted quite appallingly, and the other person has still accepted you.

Work a little harder and be more confident. Our bond is broken; some compensation is required. It’s like loving and cherishing someone without needing the bonds of marriage to enforce it,” Anyanwu said. “By sinister means, you and I are free.” Sunny sat with Anyanwu’s words, staring into the pouring rain.

What Mostovskoy found most sinister of all was that National Socialism seemed so at home in the camp: rather than peering haughtily at the common people through a monocle, it talked and joked in their own language. It was down-to-earth and plebeian. And it had an excellent knowledge of the mind, language and soul of those it deprived of freedom.

She didn’t really care for oatmeal but knew it was good for her, and after all, a creature can’t live on coffee alone.

Perhaps you are neither one thing nor the other, neither angel nor demon, purely evil nor purely good...

I’ve escaped from the dreadful clutches of a nap,” she announced to the road.

It’s the small things in life we’re meant to enjoy, but we fail at so many of them.

Miss Fairfield had a gift for taking a beautiful concept and then marring it beyond all recognition.

Then I’ll have to succeed three times as hard as they want me to fail. You, of all people, should understand that.

Is it a thorny question of ethics? Or is it the sort of ethical question where the right choice is easy, but the unethical answer is too tempting?

Tact is just lying for grown-ups.

Don’t feel embarrassed,” she said. “It’s acceptable to lose the flow of conversation. Not everyone is clever enough to think of something to say immediately.” Bradenton’s lips thinned. “And you’re a marquess,” she added. “Maybe there are deficiencies in your understanding, but nobody will ever notice them so long as you make absolutely certain to introduce yourself as a marquess first.

Running a hand through the wolf’s thick fur, he brought the wolf closer to him so that his snout rested against his shoulder. He held him in an embrace and closed his eyes, taking in the familiar earthy scent that was Cade and his wolf. He let his mind slip into Cade’s. It was dark in there, the opposite of Phoenix’s mind. There was something else in the darkness … something sinister … Shit. It was silver. No

Jack Parsons was born Marvel Whiteside Parsons on October 2, 1914 in Los Angeles, California. His father was a captain in the US Army. His name was also Marvel Parsons. That’s right: his father was Captain Marvel.

If a rock never moves,” her sister finally said, “the water wears it away all the same. I am being hurt, Jane, and if I stay still, Titus will wear me away. Sometimes I wonder that there’s anything left of me at all.

In her reflective moments, Vera often wondered about the future of the newspaper and her job. Not just the Shady Hollow Herald, but newspapers everywhere. So many creatures did not even bother reading papers, especially young ones. But Vera loved the paper.

Anjan was Batty because Bhattacharya had too many syllables. He’d told one man his first name; the fellow had blinked, and then had immediately dubbed him John. That’s who they thought he was: John Batty. These well-meaning English boys had taken his name as easily, and with as much jovial friendship, as their fathers had taken his country. And Emily had called him Bhattacharya. He’d fallen a little bit in love with her the moment she’d said his name as if it had value. His fist clenched, but he kept on smiling.

You’re annoying. You always act as if everything is so easy. ‘Well, Oliver, it seems to me that your choice is either to quit or continue,’” he mimicked, remembering his father’s advice when he’d been on the verge of leaving school. The other man only smiled. “I’m your father. It’s my job to annoy you.

I would have, Damien! I would have! I would have rather died a thousand painful, torturous deaths than watch you die one! I would have given up anything to go back to that day and relive it!” Damien takes a step back as I run shaky fingers through my hair. I lower my voice and cry, “When you died, I thought I lost everything. I was empty. Numb inside. And the pain...the pain of feeling my heart break over and over again was never ending. I'm sorry about what happened. I think you know that. But what I think you know more than anything is you haunting me and reminding me of what you sacrificed is the most mean-spirited thing you've ever done.” More tears well in my eyes, and I suck them back trying to be strong. “The Damien, I knew wouldn't want this for me. He wouldn't want me to live the rest of my life, loving his ghost. My Damien was too proud, good, and selfless for that.” The one thing that I forgot was that in this dream, this is not my Damien. He's a sinister, sick, and twisted version of the boy I loved. And I know this when he lunges at me, wraps both of his hands around my neck, cuts off the air in my throat, and whispers in a deadly voice, “Love me.” “No!” I bolt upright in my bed choking on air. “No!” I try to steady my breathing, but I'm too shaken up to concentrate

Recipes TOM PEPPER’S HOT BREW To soothe the throat or otherwise ease a long day. 1.4 drachm (1 tsp) local raw honey 16 drachm (1 oz) scotch or bourbon ½ pint (1 cup) hot water 3 sprigs fresh thyme Stir honey and bourbon at bottom of mug. Add hot water and thyme sprigs. Steep five minutes. Sip while warm. BLACKFRIARS BALM FOR BUGS AND BOILS To subdue angry, itchy skin caused by insect bites. 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) castor oil 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) almond oil 10 drops tea tree oil 5 drops lavender oil In a 2.7 drachm (10 ml) glass rollerball vial, add the 4 oils. Fill to top with water and secure cap. Shake well before each use. Apply to itchy, uncomfortable skin. ROSEMARY BUTTER BISCUIT COOKIES A traditional shortbread. Savory yet sweet, and in no way sinister. 1 sprig fresh rosemary 1 ½ cup butter, salted 2⁄3cup white sugar 2 ¾ cup all-purpose flour Remove leaves from rosemary and finely chop (approximately 1 Tbsp or to taste). Soften butter; blend well with sugar. Add rosemary and flour; mix well until dough comes together. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. Form dough into 1.25-inch balls; press gently into pans until 0.5-inch thick. Refrigerate at least 1 hour. Preheat oven to 375°F. Bake for 10–12 minutes, just until bottom edges are golden. Do not overbake. Cool at least 10 minutes. Makes 45 cookies.

This wasn’t the way he was supposed to fall in love. He was supposed to meet someone, to discover that her wants and wishes coincided with his, that their dreams overlapped. He didn’t want to meet a woman, to discover that the breath he drew seemed to come from her lungs, and then to realize that they couldn’t both breathe at the same time.

When the course of civilization takes an unexpected turn—when, instead of the continuous progress which we have come to expect, we find ourselves threatened by evils associated by us with past ages of barbarism—we naturally blame anything but ourselves. Have we not all striven according to our best lights, and have not many of our finest minds incessantly worked to make this a better world? Have not all our efforts and hopes been directed toward greater freedom, justice, and prosperity? If the outcome is so different from our aims— if, instead of freedom and prosperity, bondage and misery stare us in the face—is it not clear that sinister forces must have foiled our intentions, that we are the victims of some evil power which must be conquered before we can resume the road to better things? However much we may differ when we name the culprit—whether it is the wicked capitalist or the vicious spirit of a particular nation, the stupidity of our elders, or a social system not yet, although we have struggled against it for half a century, fully overthrown—we all are, or at last were until recently, certain of one thing: that the leading ideas which during the last generation have become common to most people of good will and have determined the major changes in our social life cannot have been wrong. We are ready to accept almost any explanation of the present crisis of our civilization except one: that the present state of the world may be the result of genuine error on our own part and that the pursuit of some of our most cherished ideals has apparently produced results utterly different from those which we expected.

The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country. We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, and our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of… It is they who pull the wires that control the public mind.

Marshall was watching her again, and Jane’s skin prickled under his perusal. That was when Jane realized she’d made a mistake. Those freckles, his background—they’d all misled her into thinking that he was a quiet little rabbit. He wasn’t. He was the wolf that looked as if he were lounging about on the outskirts of the pack, a lone hanger-on, when in truth he had adopted that position simply so that he could see everything that transpired in the fields below. He wasn’t solitary; he was waiting for someone to make a mistake. He looked willing to wait a very long time.

Dr. Fauci, Bill Gates, and WHO financed a cadre of research mercenaries to concoct a series of nearly twenty studies—all employing fraudulent protocols deliberately designed to discredit HCQ as unsafe. Instead of using the standard treatment dose of 400 mg/day, the 17 WHO studies administered a borderline lethal daily dose starting with 2,400 mg.61 on Day 1, and using 800 mg/day thereafter. In a cynical, sinister, and literally homicidal crusade against HCQ, a team of BMGF operatives played a key role in devising and pushing through the exceptionally high dosing. They made sure that UK government “Recovery” trials on 1,000 elderly patients in over a dozen British, Welsh, Irish and Scottish hospitals, and the U.N. “Solidarity” study of 3,500 patients in 400 hospitals in 35 countries, as well as additional sites in 13 countries (the “REMAP-COVID” trial), all used those unprecedented and dangerous doses.62 This was a brassy enterprise to “prove” chloroquine dangerous, and sure enough, it proved that elderly patients can die from deadly overdoses. “The purpose seemed, very clearly, to poison the patients and blame the deaths on HCQ,” says Dr. Meryl Nass, a physician, medical historian, and biowarfare expert.

Below us was a frozen lake. It was perfectly round, a great gleaming eye in which the moon and stars were mirrored. Lanterns glowing the same cold white as the aurora dangled from the lake's edge to a scattering of benches and merchant-stands, draped in bright awnings of opal and blue. Delicious smells floated on the wind---smoked fish; fire-roasted nuts and candies; spiced cakes. A winter fair.* * Outside of Russia, almost all known species of courtly fae, and many common fae also, are fond of fairs and markets; indeed, such gatherings appear in stories as the interstitial spaces between their worlds and ours, and thus it is not particularly surprising that they feature in so many encounters with the Folk. The character of such markets, however, varies widely, from sinister to benign. The following features are universal: 1) Dancing, which the mortal visitor may be invited to partake in; 2) A variety of vendors selling foods and goods which the visitor is unable to recall afterwards. More often than not, the markets take place at night. Numerous scholars have attempted to document these gatherings; the most widely referenced accounts are by Baltasar Lenz, who successfully visited two fairs in Bavaria before his disappearance in 1899.

But aside from those curling green tendrils, the gown was the bright pink of…of…of… All comparisons failed Oliver. It wasn’t the bright pink of anything. It was a furious shade of pink, one that nature had never intended. It was a pink that did violence to the notion of demure pastels. It didn’t just shout for attention; it walked up and clubbed one over the head. It hurt his head, that pink, and yet he couldn’t look away. The room was small enough that he could hear the first words of greeting. “Miss Fairfield,” a woman said. “Your gown is…very pink. And pink is…such a lovely color, isn’t it?” That last was said with a wistful quality in the speaker’s voice, as if she were mourning the memory of true pink.

It’s simple,” Jane insisted. “I know just how to do it. Instead of just locking up the women who are suspected of being ill, we should lock up all the women. That way, the ones who are well can never get sick.” At the foot of the table, Whitting scratched his head. “But…how would men use their services?” “What do men have to do with it?” Jane asked. “Um.” Lord James looked down. “I take your point, Bradenton. This is…perhaps not the best conversation to be having at the moment.” “After all,” Jane continued, “if men were capable of infecting women, our government in its infinite wisdom would never choose to lock up only the women. That would be pointless, since without any constraint on men, the spread of contagion would never stop. It would also be unjust to confine women for the sin of being infected by men.” She smiled triumphantly. “And since our very good Marquess of Bradenton supports the Act, that could never be the case. He would never sign on to such manifest injustice.

If people want you to stop talking, or to stop dressing the way you do, or to change who you are, it’s because you hurt their eyes. We’ve all been trained not to stare into the sun.

As African American scholar and filmmaker Omowale Akintunde says: “Racism is a systemic, societal, institutional, omnipresent, and epistemologically embedded phenomenon that pervades every vestige of our reality. For most whites, however, racism is like murder: the concept exists, but someone has to commit it in order for it to happen. This limited view of such a multilayered syndrome cultivates the sinister nature of racism and, in fact, perpetuates racist phenomena rather than eradicates them.”2

growth plans of the globalists. For this reason, Coleman wrote in Conspirators’ Heirarchy, Moro “was murdered by assassins controlled by P2 Masonry with the

The father of American propaganda, Edward Bernays,[cc] wrote in 1928 nearly a century ago in his seminal book Propaganda:

The next morning, Vera was awoken by a tapping, as of someone gently rapping on her chamber door.

Vera would rather be drawn and quartered than take ballroom dancing lessons, but she tried to appear excited.

Absolutely no food or drink in the archives. That’s rule number two.” “Oh.” Vera sighed. Then she asked, “What’s rule number one?” “Rule number one is whatever I say it is.

I do know he wore plaid, like a sinister brawny man. His sleeves were rolled up, like he was ready to chop up someone’s joy for the day.

Don’t worry. She promised to get us some news as soon as possible,” she said encouragingly.  “You seemed to be having a right go,” Sofia said.  The eccentric beauty rocked her head and the black wide hat that was sitting on it. “Oh, well, you know. This is Italy. They tend to respond best to impassioned discourse,” she said with a smile. “So, tell me what happened.

closing, I would like to thank you for all the opportunities you have afforded me during my employment. Regrettably, I cannot. My late father always told me that if I didn’t have anything kind to say then I should say nothing.

Rain. Spitting at the glass as if disappointed with her performance. None more than she. She realised that when it came to anything remotely emotional, she appeared incapable of dealing with it. An emotional cripple. It was a term she’d often heard but never truly understood, until now.

While the specifics of her fate still eluded her, the knowledge she had encountered on her journey did not. Her friendship with Victoria had taught her about ambition, obsession, and desperation. Janay had taught her about selflessness and the compulsion to put the wellbeing of others before oneself. Her foster father, Alan Cooper, had taught her about the strength of familial bonds, about being a decent human being, about righteousness. Doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. While she may not have had much time with her foster mother, Elena Cooper, even she had influenced her. It was Elena who had introduced Sofia to Venice and to the concept that monsters might just exist, if not in real life, then in the mind.  Sofia could see it all very clearly now. There was a reason why she was unable to integrate at school or to forge other meaningful relationships with any of the other children beyond her few friends. There was a reason she struggled to lay down roots. Her repressed sexuality, dormant for all her formative years and stifling her appetite for romance beyond the craving of her dreams, no doubt had its purpose too. While the nature of this remained a mystery to her, she still strongly believed that it was fate that had carved a path for her to Palazzo Rosso, and everything that had happened up until her epiphany in that hospital bed had happened for a reason. To teach her. To prepare her for what awaited. She knew this now. And she was ready. But this was her journey. Hers alone.

My thoughts were no longer my own; my desires, my wishes, my dreams. All were of Richard. All were focused on pleasing him. I could feel the final vestiges of my soul slipping away. Every day a little death.

What psych ward did our little London break you out of?” He stares her down.  Haide challenges his stare, as the corner of her mouth curves upward in a sinister smirk. “Well wouldn’t you love to know.

There was something about Harry that made you pay attention to him; Draco couldn't have put a finger on what it was, but knew somehow that it was this, this peculiar and indefinable quality, that he had always envied. Harry had it even when he was exhausted, even when he was asleep, and Draco thought with a relieved and sudden flicker that he no longer felt particularly envious of Harry in that way. It had passed and now, instead of hating Harry for possessing a quality that made people want to be around him, he wanted to be around him, too. He was happier when Harry was around -- he felt stronger, better, a healthier, more content version of himself; when Harry wasn't there he felt snappish and irritable and as if he'd lost something important. He had no idea what that meant -- perhaps it meant that he and Harry were becoming friends?

Charlie opened his mouth, with the stunned expression of someone who just knows there's a loophole in the logic he's just heard, but can't quite put a finger on what it is.

…if anything between you two is going to change, you´re going to have to be the one to change it.

She deserved nothing better, she thought, for being stupid enough to get involved with Draco in the first place. Not that they were, per se, involved. For being stupid enough to allow herself to have feelings for him, then. Of course, feelings couldn’t be controlled.

But the manticore is an evil creature," said Draco, still feeling dazed. "How can its blood heal?" "The manticore is only an animal," said the demon, and there was a sharpness in its voice. "It is only a living being. Evil and good are the words you humans use to put a name to a purpose. But an animal is just an animal, a tool just a tool, a sword just a sword. It is the use you make of it that determines its nature. It could be said that that manticore saved the life of your friend with its own dying blood, and how did you pay it for that? With steel and poison." "It would have killed us," said Draco faintly, although in his ears he heard the voice of the manticore as it died, Why do you slay me, Master? It was you who made me what I am.

You’ve done better than anyone could have expected or asked of you. I’m proud of you." Draco stared at Sirius for a moment. No one had ever said that to him before. Not once, not ever. "I didn’t have a choice," he said. "There’s always a choice," said Sirius. "When we say there’s no choice, we’re just comforting ourselves about the decision we’ve already made." His voice was, for a moment, bitter. "Even under threat or torture there is always a choice. And you’ve made the right ones. Draco..." He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. "Being a good person...it doesn’t mean adhering to some random set of rules you’ve imagined, or imposed on yourself. It means doing each right thing because it is the right thing; because it protects the people you care about. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life it’s not to be afraid of the responsibility that comes with caring for other people. What we do for love: those things endure." And his eyes darkened. "Even if the people you did them for don’t." Sympathy tore out of Draco what anger or condemnation would not have. His throat tightened, and he burst out, "I told Harry about his parents - that was wrong of me-- " Sirius silenced him with a gesture. "I know you’d rather cut your own hand off than hurt him. You did the wrong thing but for the right reasons. Maybe you saved his life. I did the wrong thing; I should have told him myself, before.

Let me tell you something, Malfoy, there's no such thing as what you are. You want to believe it because it means you don´t have to make any choices. But there are always choices. Every second of your life you’re choosing to be one thing or the other. And that´s what makes you who you are. So who are you, Malfoy?

Week Mon Tue Wed Thur Fri Sat Sun 1 1 2 1 1 2 2 1 1 2 1 2 1 3 1 2 1 2 1 2 4 1 1 2 1 1 2 When we count swing reps, we add the number of times the kettlebell has gone up and pay no attention to what the arms do. So, on one-arm swing days, do 10L—rest—10R—rest x 5. On two-arm swing days, it is 10T x 10. You must have guessed that “L,” “R,” and “T” stand for, respectively, “left,” “right,” “two-arm.” Set Number 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 One-arm swing day 10L 10R 10L 10R 10L 10R 10L 10R 10L 10R Two-arm swing day 10T 10T 10T 10T 10T 10T 10T 10T 10T 10T

It gave the impression that we were driving into a fairy tale—one of the proper old fairy tales that is, before they were Disneyfied, all sinister forests and crones and some sort of twisted moral.

Look where he put me. I can’t even leave my room without going through him.” Which puts a much more sinister slant on my stay here. I insisted that I wanted to stay before, and it’s true. What happens when I want to leave? Will he let me? “Yes, but look at the way he protects you.” My eyebrows lower, because I hadn’t realized I was in danger. “What do you mean?” She looks at my little bed, the plain desk. “This room. It doesn’t only keep you inside. It keeps everyone else out. They’d have to go through him to get to you.” I swallow hard, realizing that she’s telling the truth. It’s a place of both shame and honor. Which one did Damon Scott intend? Maybe both, because he’s nothing if not perverse.

Una’s book was The Worm and the Ring by Anthony Burgess, who Susan only knew for Clockwork Orange; Zoë, who was in her wheelchair at the head of the table, had a large old-looking volume called Book Repair and Restoration by Mitchell S. Buck propped up in front of her; Clement’s book Susan couldn’t identify as it was open flat on the table, but he was looking at a photo section in the middle of it, black-and-white photographs of castles or of one particular castle; Vivien was reading Red Moon and Black Mountain by Joy Chant, a hardcover with a very simple but fabulous blue-and-red dust jacket. It had to be the American first edition as Susan didn’t know it, and she immediately coveted it. Evangeline, who was closest to the door, had laid her book down faceup so Susan could easily read its title, Origins of the English Parliament by Peter Spufford;

You’re just going to walk away and let him face fuck me?” Aubrey screeches. “Fuck you, Hugo. I thought you loved me.” He chuckles, dark and sinister. “Who said I was walking away?” He hooks his finger into her tank top and bra strap, slowly tugging it down over her shoulder. “I’m staying right here.

Dr. Fauci, Bill Gates, and WHO financed a cadre of research mercenaries to concoct a series of nearly twenty studies—all employing fraudulent protocols deliberately designed to discredit HCQ as unsafe. Instead of using the standard treatment dose of 400 mg/day, the 17 WHO studies administered a borderline lethal daily dose starting with 2,400 mg.61 on Day 1, and using 800 mg/day thereafter. In a cynical, sinister, and literally homicidal crusade against HCQ, a team of BMGF operatives played a key role in devising and pushing through the exceptionally high dosing

He’d hurt her, but she’d make it like all the other hurts she’d received: nothing more than an act of propagation.

Now, I’d like to suggest we all get to leveling. The best idea is probably to go back to the boring ass golems. They were ridiculous experience once they fell. I’m not far from nineteen, which I know you guys must—wait, Ver you’re already nineteen. You suck. Everyone else, we need to level.” She turned on her heel and began to head back to their camp, Havoc glowering in her wake. “It’s amazing how there aren’t even bears in this wood. Wouldn’t you think there’d be bears?” A sudden roar tore through the trees causing snow to dislodge from the branches and tumble to the ground with a heavy thud like a fallen corpse. Sinister turned back to the group. “Is it too late to take that back?” You have encountered Disestru, the giant bear. He doesn’t like to be roused from his sleep. Watch out, his claws and teeth don’t need to touch you to kill you. Probably shouldn’t have been making so much noise before checking for caves in the area.

Evangelist Billy Graham, with whom Richard Nixon had prayed and agonized so often throughout the Presidency, once said, “I think there was definitely demon power involved. He took all those sleeping pills, and through history, drugs and demons have gone together.

I’m not a moral man—I do shady shit for twisted people with big bank accounts, and I’ve never lost a moment’s sleep over it. I thought I knew villainy. To be honest, I thought I saw it in the mirror every day. But this. This fucking display of evil is a variety of sinister malignancy that I have never encountered before.

Mostovskoy realized that everything dark and sinister was embodied in Liss. All rubbish heaps smelt the same;

The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath" About the Song: The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath delves into the dark and haunting theme of a lover poisoned by a sinister concoction found in the medieval Grand Grimoire. The song narrates the tragic tale of love tainted by the cruel hand of death, where a forbidden potion is meticulously prepared with arcane ingredients. The song's lyrics evoke a gothic atmosphere, intertwining elements of medieval alchemy and romantic tragedy. The potion's ingredients—Red Copper, Nitric Acid, Verdigris, Arsenic, Oak Bark, Rose Water, and Black Soot—are transformed into metaphors for the slow, inevitable demise of the lover. This deadly recipe becomes a symbol of both the destructive power and the twisted beauty of forbidden love. The music captures the essence of gothic black metal with its somber melodies, eerie harmonies, and intense, brooding instrumentals. Each note and lyric serve to illustrate the dark journey of love poisoned by betrayal and malice. The song's atmosphere is thick with melancholy and dread, inviting listeners into a world where passion and death intertwine in a tragic dance. Copyright Notice: The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath © 2024 Umbrae Sortilegium. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying, reproduction, or distribution of this song or its lyrics is prohibited. The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath. (Verse 1) In an ancient tome of shadowed lore, A secret poison to settle the score, A lover’s whisper, a deadly art, The composition to tear us apart. (Pre-Chorus) Red copper gleaming, nitric acid's burn, Verdigris and arsenic, from which there’s no return, Oak bark and rose water, a fatal serenade, Black soot to bind it, in darkness, it’s made. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Verse 2) A new, glazed pot, the spell's design, A potion brewed, in shadows confined, Your lips, a chalice of cold despair, In each embrace, a whispered prayer. (Pre-Chorus) Red copper gleaming, nitric acid's burn, Verdigris and arsenic, from which there’s no return, Oak bark and rose water, a fatal serenade, Black soot to bind it, in darkness, it’s made. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Bridge) In your gaze, the twilight's fall, A lover's kiss, the end of all, The Grand Grimoire, its secrets told, In every kiss, the poison’s cold. (Breakdown) A potion brewed from darkest sin, Your breath the gateway, let death begin, A recipe of doom, our fates entwined, In your arms, I lose my mind. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Outro) The final breath, a lover's sigh, In your arms, I’m doomed to die, The composition, a lover’s theft, Death upon your breath, my final bequest. Lyrics and ALL Vocals yours truly. Lead Guitar & Symphonics Raz Wolfgang Drums Alexander Novichkov Bass Auron Nightshade Guitarist Kael Thornfield

He'd been lying to himself all these months. He WAS in love with her. And he had no idea what to do about it.