Stroke Warrior Quotes

Then you do not belong here. Death holds no sweetness in this house. We are not warriors, nor soldiers, nor swaggering bravos puffed up with pride. We do not kill to serve some lord, to fatten our purses, to stroke our vanity. We never give the gift to please ourselves. Nor do we choose the ones we kill. We are but servants of the God of Many Faces." "Valar dohaeris." All men must serve. "You know the words, but you are too proud to serve. A servant must be humble and obedient." "I obey. I can be humbler than anyone." That made him chuckle. "You will be the very goddess of humility, I am sure. But can you pay the price?" "What price?" "The price is you. The price is all you have and all you ever hope to have. We took your eyes and gave them back. Next we will take your ears, and you will walk in silence. You will give us your legs and crawl. You will be no one's daughter, no one's wife, no one's mother. Your name will be a lie, and the very face you wear will not be your own.

You are too kind, and I am unused to it. For your own sake, do not stroke my misery. It knows not how to respond, but with a vicious bite.

Today this courtyard was filled with great warriors. What is more? But it was not filled with great men who have the heart to rule a kingdom. Any man can kill, Finnikin. It is a stroke, an action with one's hand. But not every man knows how to lead.

I’d always admired Raihn’s skill as a warrior. He wielded a sword the way an artist wielded a paintbrush, each stroke an exercise in grace and beauty. Now, it awed me, the elegance of his instincts and movements, all these new angles of his brutality visible only as its target. Perhaps I could only appreciate every brushstroke of death once I was the canvas.

Gently he probed her mouth, his tongue stroking hers in an erotic rhythm that had her nipples tightening and her pussy dampening.

And Willowkit.” Crookedstar stroked the smoky black kit. “I want her to have your name.

Another fallen warrior, Capitol Police Officer Brian Sicknick, died in the line of duty. On January 6th, Officer Sicknick engaged rioters and was badly injured around 2:30 p.m., when he was sprayed with chemicals by someone in the crowd. Later that evening, while still on duty guarding the Capitol, he suffered a series of strokes. He died the following morning.

Isn't he beautiful? His silky hair, his muscles so strong and powerful yet amazingly, he trembles slightly at my touch, and the more I stroke him, the more he leans into my hand," Keirah said her eyes remaining on the horse. Yes, Keirah, the horse is a fine one," Wharick said as he slowly walked closer to her. "What I said was not to you, Gwarda," she teased, "I was speaking to the horse.

Maybe you've heard the story of the man who was so driven by this curiosity that he roamed among soldiers in battlefields. He sought a man who had died and returned to life amid the wounded struggling for their lives in pools of blood, a soldier who could tell him about the secrets of the Otherworld. But one of Tamerlane's warriors, taking the seeker for one of the enemy, cleared him in half with a smooth stroke of his scimitar, causing him to conclude that in the Hereafter man is split in two.

As he gazed into her golden eyes and stroked her dark hair, he finally put a name to the feeling. I love you, Mags. Gods help me, but I do. She wouldn’t want to hear that either, so he kept the feeling quiet, caught in his heart like a fossilized insect in amber.

Looking down she arched her back, giving him more. His tanned complexion against her milky, slightly freckled skin was visually stark and sexually exciting. She watched as his mouth claimed her other nipple, stroking it with his tongue, and her vision blurred as he rhythmically rocked his erection against her sex. Hot, damp, desperate, she braced herself with her hands on his knees behind her and met him thrust for thrust, pushing hard. Breathing as heavy as he was, she trembled with the flash fire of passion overtaking them both.

I am.” A soft hand stroked his cheek. “I love what you are.” “I saw your eyes, D. When I went feral.” “Well, yeah. Under the circumstances, I had reason to be afraid. But, for heaven’s sake, Tighe, it’s your own fault you scare us humans. You guys are so damned secretive, no one knows you even exist. So of

That’s because you are a warrior queen, made to shed the blood of our enemies,” he tells me, a fierce pride in his tone as one hand comes up to stroke down the side of my face. “And you are perfect, Lilly Vanderbilt. Just right for us.” A shiver runs down my spine at his words, my inner demon preening at his praise and acceptance. After all, what better way to defeat the monsters that plague us than by becoming monstrous ourselves?

That’s because you are a warrior queen, made to shed the blood of our enemies,” he tells me, a fierce pride in his tone as one hand comes up to stroke down the side of my face. “And you are perfect, Lilly Vanderbilt. Just right for us.” A thrill runs down my spine at his words, my inner demon preening at his praise and acceptance.  After all, what better way to defeat the monsters that plague us than by becoming monstrous ourselves?

She may even be married to the previously described wiling warrior. Her needs, gallantly subjugated to his towering prowess, are only shared with those who will stroke her selflessness and provide her with an awe-filled “I don’t know how you do it.” Indeed, this lovely yet unabashed matron of martyrdom craves applause even as her self-effacing wisdom and perfectly perky posture leave us squirming, as if listening to the screech of nails on a chalkboard.

Her son was small but perfectly formed, fair-skinned, with a remarkable quantity of black hair. His eye color was indeterminate at the moment, but Win thought his eyes would eventually turn out to be blue. She lifted him higher against her chest until her lips were close to his miniature ear. And in accordance with Romany tradition, she told him his secret name. “You are Andrei,” she whispered. It was a name for a warrior. A son of Kev Merripen could be no less. “Your gadjo name is Jason Cole. And your tribal name …” She paused thoughtfully. “Jàdo,” came her husband’s drowsy voice from beside her. Win looked down at Kev and reached out to stroke his thick, dark hair. The lines on his face were gone, and he looked relaxed and content. “What does that mean?” she asked. “One who lives outside the Rom.” “That’s perfect.” She let her hand linger in his hair. “Ov yilo isi?” she asked him gently. “Yes,” Kev said, answering in English. “There is heart here.” And Win smiled as he sat up to kiss her.

It was as she remembered, a haven of comfort and serenity. With a glad sigh, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the side of the bed.Smiling, she patted the mattress beside her. Her husband scowled. It seemed to have become his habit. "We aren't here to relax." "Wolscroft may not even be in the area. It could take days for this to be settled." "He's here," Dragon said with certainty. "He will know what happened at Winchester, and he will be looking for a way to stop us before we can threaten him further." Privately, Rycca believed the same but she saw no reason to stress it. Nothing would happen until dark. Of that she was confident. Which meant... "We have hours to fill.Any ideas?" When he realized her meaning,he looked startled. With a laugh,she scrambled off the bed and went to him. "Oh,Dragon,for heaven's sake, do you really want to mope around here all day? I certainly don't. I still haven't gotten over being afraid Magnus was going to kill you,and I simply don't want to think about death anymore. I want to celebrate life." "There are three hundred men out there-" "Which is why we're in here." She raised herself on tiptoe, bit the lobe of his ear, and whispered, "I promise not to yell too loudly." A shudder ran through him. Even as his big hands stroked her back,he said, "Warriors don't mope." "No,of course they don't.It was a poor choice of words.But you'll be pacing back and forth, looking out the windows, or you'll go get that whetstone I noticed in the stable and sharpen your sword endlessly, or you'll be staring off into space with that dangerous look you get when you're contemplating mayhem. You'll be totally oblivious to me and-" He laughed despite himself and drew her closer. "Enough! Heaven forbid I behave so churlishly." "Speaking of heaven..." With the covers kicked back,the bed was smooth and cool.They undressed each other slowly, relishing the wonder of discovery that still came to them fresh and pure as their very first time. "Remember?" Rycca murmured as she trailed her lips along his broad, powerfully muscled shoulder and down the solid wall of his chest. "I was so nervous..." "Really?" Fooled me....Ah..." "I'd never seen anything so beautiful as you." "Not...beautiful...you are..." "I can't believe how strong you are. Why am I never afraid with you?" "Know I'd die 'fore hurting you? Sweetheart..." "Ohhh! Dragon...please..." His hands and lips moved over her, sweetly tormenting. She clutched his shoulders, her hips rising, and welcomed him deep within her. Still he tantalized her, making her writhe and laughing when she squeezed him hard with her powerful inner muscles. But the laughter turned quickly to a moan of delight. She looked up into his perfectly formed face,more handsome than any man had a right to be, and into his tawny eyes that were the windows of a soul more beautiful than any physical form. A piercing sense of blessedness filled her that she should be so fortunate as to love and be loved by such a man. Her cresting cry was caught by him, hismouth hard against hers, the spur to his own completion that went on and on,seemingly without end.

He put his mouth by her ear. “Easy, now, Senna.” His thumb stroked her jaw as if he were gentling a wild thing. His sculpted body was hot behind hers. “Be easy " “Stop touching me,” she pleaded in a whisper. His thumb stopped moving. “What?” “Kiss me.” The rest of him went completely still... “What did ye say?” he asked in a low, masculine rumble… Her heart started a strange thudding. Their voices were so quiet that the breeze blowing over them nearly drowned them out. Both were held paralyzed by the riders on the highway below. No one was going anywhere. In fact, it might all be over in a matter of minutes. And all she wanted was his touch. If I am going to die, she suddenly decided, it will not be absent the touch of this Irishman.She touched his hand and slid it across the mere inch back to her lips. Shutting her eyes, she trailed the tip of her tongue over his warm flesh.His body rippled slightly, like wind over waves. She felt every muscle in his body shift, very minutely, very definitely. He brushed his thumb once over her parted lips. Her breath shuddered out. “Did ye tell me to kiss ye, Senna?” “I did.” Her whisper trembled. “Why?” “Because,” she whispered, “if I’m going to die, it will not be lacking all the things I am lacking at present.” A pause. “Ye’re lacking a kiss, then?” She nodded.

and these he concluded had probably been made by Jane Clayton's abductors. It had only been to minimize the chance of error by the process of elimination that he had carefully reconnoitered every other avenue leading from A-lur toward the southeast where lay Mo-sar's city of Tu-lur, and now he followed the trail to the shores of Jad-ben-lul where the party had embarked upon the quiet waters in their sturdy canoes. He found many other craft of the same description moored along the shore and one of these he commandeered for the purpose of pursuit. It was daylight when he passed through the lake which lies next below Jad-ben-lul and paddling strongly passed within sight of the very tree in which his lost mate lay sleeping. Had the gentle wind that caressed the bosom of the lake been blowing from a southerly direction the giant ape-man and Jane Clayton would have been reunited then, but an unkind fate had willed otherwise and the opportunity passed with the passing of his canoe which presently his powerful strokes carried out of sight into the stream at the lower end of the lake. Following the winding river which bore a considerable distance to the north before doubling back to empty into the Jad-in-lul, the ape-man missed a portage that would have saved him hours of paddling. It was at the upper end of this portage where Mo-sar and his warriors had debarked that the chief discovered the absence of his captive

Dagon left his office and made his way down to the infirmary. Adaos looked up when he entered. Eliana lay curled on her side, covered by a sheet. Though dark wavy tresses hid much of her face, she appeared to be sleeping deeply. “She still rests,” Adaos murmured. “Her injuries?” “All damage to her skeletal system has healed completely. Some of the damage to her musculature and skin has as well. The damage to her organs is still repairing.” “Did you give her a silna to accelerate her healing?” Even with the serum, it would take Segonian warriors longer to recuperate from such wounds. Adaos shook his head. “A silna wasn’t necessary. Her ability to repair and regenerate rivals that of the Sectas with their nanodocs.” “Amazing.” Dagon crouched next to the bed. Reaching out, he gently drew the hair back from Eliana’s face and tucked it behind her ear. “She’s too thin,” he whispered, noting the prominent cheekbones. Though the burns had healed, some of the cuts and bruising remained. “Did you provide her with sustenance before she fell asleep?” “Yes. I also fed her fluids and nutrition intravenously.” “She doesn’t like needles.” “She slept through it.” Eliana’s eyelashes fluttered. Her lids rose, revealing deep brown eyes bereft of the amber glow. She studied him a moment, then offered him a sleepy smile. One small hand burrowed out from under the covers and stretched toward him. Soft fingers came to rest on his cheek and stroked the stubble there. “Dagon.” Warmth unfurled in his chest at the tender touch. His pulse picked up its pace. “Eliana.

PROLOGUE Some years ago in the Planet Orfheus ... It was dark when Lucius reached the rendezvous which had been chosen to be the new hideout. The latter had been used for several months and they were concerned that they were being followed and were close to being discovered. "I thought you were not coming. I've been waiting for you for almost an hour. I was getting anxious," Sofia said, relieved. "Sorry, love. It is becoming increasingly difficult. I almost didn't make it today. The troops were ambushed in the last invasion. Igor and many warriors returned seriously injured," Lucius replied. He looked worried. Why this sudden encounter? They had agreed that the next would be the following week. Lucius gave her a big hug, pulled her close to him, and remained silent for a few moments. His longing and desire consumed him. She meant the world to him. Without Sofia, his life would never make sense. He would never forget those eyes, serene and sincere, with a blue so bright and clear that were able to see the soul of the tormented warrior that was he. With her golden hair, Sofia looked like an angel. "Is there a problem? You're so quiet and deep in thought," she asked, puzzled. He answered, "I'm thinking about us. How long are we keeping it secret?" He walked away from her, sighing. "We can't keep lying and pretending that all is well. You have no idea how much I have to endure when you are away from me, or when I see you with him." "Love, not now. We have already discussed this subject several times. You know that our only alternative would be to flee and pray they will never find us," she replied. Sofia knew very well that the laws of the kingdom could not be disregarded. Love, respect, and loyalty were key factors that were part of the hierarchy of Orfheus. Although she had always been in love with Lucius who had never shown any interest in her, Sofia was bound to his brother Alex as a result of a pact. Over the centuries, Lucius began to change and express loving feelings for her. She never ceased to love him and both succumbed to the temptation and passion of it. Inevitably, a love affair developed between the two. Interrupting her thoughts, Lucius grabbed her by the hand and led her into the hut. This hut was located inside a vast and beautiful forest. He pulled her by the waist, gave her a passionate kiss, stroked her hair, and said softly, "Love, I missed you so much." "I also felt homesick but the real reason I came here today is to tell you something very important. I need you to listen carefully and keep calm," she said as she ran her hands through her hair which contrasted with her pale skin. Sofia did not want to scare him. However, she imagined that he would be upset and angry with the news. Unfortunately, the revelation was inevitable and sooner or later, everything would come out. "I'm pregnant," she said unceremoniously. For a brief moment, Lucius said nothing. He just stared at her without any reaction. He seemed to be in a silent battle with his own thoughts. "But how?" he babbled, not believing what he had just heard. It was surely a bombshell revelation. That would be the end for them. Sofia said, "Stay calm, love. I know this changes everything. What we were planning for months is no longer possible." She sat on a makeshift stool and continued with tears in her eyes. "With the baby coming, I cannot simply go through the portal. The baby and I would die during the crossing." Lucius replied, "Could we ask for help from Aunt Wilda? She is very powerful. Probably she would be able to break through the magic of the portals." Sofia had already thought of that. She was well aware that it was the only choice left. Aunt Wilda had always been like a mother to her. The sorceress adopted her when she was a girl, soon after her family had died in combat.

Worse than a toddler,' she thought, and stretched out beside him. He flicked her a glance that said, 'I'll allow you to pet me.' Except, when she reached out to stroke the soft fur behind his ear, his glare said, 'But only with your gaze.

Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped. Beatrix tried to compare the man standing before her with the cavalier rake he had once been. But it seemed impossible that he could be the same person. No longer a god descending from Olympus... now a warrior hardened by bitter experience. His complexion was a deep mixture of gold and copper, as if he had been slowly steeped in sun. The dark wheaten locks of his hair had been cut in efficiently short layers. His face was impassive, but something volatile was contained in the stillness. How bleak he looked. How alone. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to touch him. The effort of standing motionless caused her muscles to tremble in protest. She heard herself speak in a voice that wasn't quite steady. "Welcome home, Captain Phelan." He was silent, staring at her without apparent recognition. Dear Lord, those eyes... frost and fire, his gaze burning through her awareness. "I'm Beatrix Hathaway," she managed to say. "My family-" "I remember you." The rough velvet of his voice was a pleasure-stroke against her ears. Fascinated, bewildered, Beatrix stared at his guarded face. To Christopher Phelan, she was a stranger. But the memories of his letters were between them, even if he wasn't aware of it.

Nerissa, mo grá,” he said weakly, from where he had been dragged to a corner and propped up against someone’s jacket. “Mo cróga, bean laoch álainn.” He was still in the bloodied breeches, a clean band of linen wound just above one knee. “My brave, beautiful warrior woman.” His eyes, deep and bottomless in the lantern-lit darkness, looked up at her through their absurdly long lashes, and she reached a hand, still smelling of gunpowder, down to touch his bristled cheek. He closed his eyes and held it there, reluctant to ever let her go, and she reveling in the warmth of his skin beneath hers, the knowledge that his heart still pumped his lifeblood beneath her hand. “I could not let you die,” she breathed, kneeling down beside him and offering him the strength of her own slim, lithe body. His face was ghostly from loss of blood, and she could see that it was an effort for him to even keep his eyes open, let alone press her hand to his cheek. She sat down on the hard, blood-stained planking and gently gathered him in her arms, stroking his heavy curls as he rested his forehead against her shoulder. “Tá tú mo banlaoch,” he whispered. “My heroine. My savior….” “Sleep, Ruaidri. The ship is back in your men’s hands and you, my love, are safe in mine.” She threaded her fingers up through his hair and gently caressed his scalp, wincing at the hard swelling she found there. She did not want to think about how he must have received it. She did not want to think of him being hurt, she did not want to think of anything but how grateful she was that he was alive and safely in her arms. Hadley… the Royal Navy… Lucien. Strength and a hard, ruthless confidence filled her heart. She had come this far. She could deal with all of them. Ruaidri’s forehead grew heavy against her collarbone. He murmured something unintelligible and, with her hand still quietly caressing him, finally gave himself up to the demands of his body and slept.

You’re certainly looking like a true warrior now. Like one of our own,” Alistair said in a thoughtful voice. His thumb stroked one of the pauldrons covering her shoulder. “I am one of you.” “That you are, lass.

In my world, you wouldn’t be smart, either.” “That is good. The tosi tivo way is boisa.” “How so?” He nodded toward a scrawny mesquite tree that had sprung up in a cluster of rock. “He plants dead trees in the earth, and the trees fall over. That tree does not.” Loretta’s stallion did a restless sidestep. She shifted her weight and reined him back into line, stroking his neck as she squinted to see through the dust the other horses were stirring up around them. “No, it doesn’t fall over, but it’s not where it needs to be for a fence, either.” “A fence says the earth belongs to the tosi tivo? He will become dust in the wind, the fence will rot, and the earth will still be. Another tosi tivo will come, and he will plant more dead trees. It is sure enough boisa.” “But the tosi tivo buys the land. It belongs to him. He puts up the dead trees so others will know where his boundaries re, so his livestock won’t run away.” “He cannot buy the land. Mother Earth belongs to the true People.” Loretta gazed after the other warriors, silent and thoughtful. “The true People. Your people?” “Yes.” “That is your belief. But according to ours, the land can be bought. And fenced. You understand? No one means to steal from you. They’re just taking what’s been given to them by the government or what they’ve paid for. You must learn to be open-minded. There’s lots of land, plenty for all.” Hunter grunted. “Let the tosi tivo find the lots of land, plenty for all, and plant dead trees there. This is Comanche land, and it cannot be given or bought.” “And we say it can. As you’re so fond of saying, it is not wise to fight when you cannot win. We are the stronger. We have better weaponry. When you’re outnumbered and outflanked, you must surrender your ways and accept the new.” He looked over at her. “Strong is right?” “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that.” “You say a woman cannot be bought. I say she can. I am strong. I am right.

Ryder showed me his left wrist, the Scorpio tattoo now embellished with intricate feathers surrounding it and the words My Hope curving underneath it. I followed the line of his forearm up to the Leo tattoo surrounded by flames with the words My Joy beneath it. Beyond that, he’d inked the Gemini symbol to his flesh with lightning daggering around it and the words My Mercy under it. Next was the Aquarius symbol with a rainbow arching over it like the stroke of a paintbrush and beneath it were the words My Duty, and finally Elise’s symbol of Libra with small Xs all around it like the mark he had branded on his chest. The words My Life sat beneath it and I looked up at Ryder with a frown.

Lutian?” she called, knowing he, too, must be dead. But without his body being there, she thought mayhap he’d escaped somehow. Her fool could be most wily at times. But Lutian didn’t answer her. Consumed by guilt and anger over the senselessness of his death, Adara picked up a pitchfork and launched it at the knight, who tried to dodge it while he fought her husband. It caught him in the shin. He yelped as Christian parried his sword stroke. She seized the pitchfork and went for the knight again, only to have Christian kill him before she could. Still she lunged for the fallen knight. “My lady, he’s already dead.” “Not dead enough!” she sobbed. “He killed my men. And…and…poor, helpless Lutian.” “Hello?” Adara couldn’t breathe at the sound of the wonderfully familiar voice. To her immediate relief, Lutian stuck his head up from a pile of hay. Pieces of straw were stuck and tangled in the brown locks of his hair, even in his beard. It was the most precious sight she’d ever beheld. “Oh, thank the Lord and His saints for their mercy!” she cried as she ran to him and embraced him without decorum. “You’re alive!” “Only a fool would be fighting them, my queen, and though I am a fool, I’m not that foolish.” -Adara, Christian, & Lutian

Phantom choked on the porridge. Brother Thomas pounded him on the back while Phantom reached for, then drank from a small wooden cup. He gave a menacing glare to Thomas, who immediately halted his hand in the mid-pounding stroke position. “Pardon?” Phantom asked once he’d regained some composure. “I wish to go home and I need a guide and guard.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll get neither from me, Your Majesty. I will not return there. Ever.” “Why are we returning with Phantom, my queen?” She glanced over to Lutian. “I’ll explain later.” Then she looked back at Phantom. “I can pay you a fortune.” Phantom scoffed at that. “Coin is ever useless to a corpse.” She arched a brow at him. “Are you afraid, then?” He laughed bitterly. “Hardly, and you’ll never get me to agree by calling me craven.” “Then what will it take?” Phantom wiped his mouth, then gave Brother Thomas an almost amused smirk. “You haven’t enough money, power, or influence to buy me, Your Majesty. There are some things—few, I grant you, but some—that are not for purchase. My loyalty, or in this case stupidity, will not be bartered for any price.” He picked his cup up and lifted it in a mock salute. “Work your wiles on your husband. He’s the greater fool of the two of us.” Her throat tight, Adara struggled for composure. “And therein lies the problem. I’ve no wish to work my wiles on him, either. He’s suffered enough in this.” -Phantom, Adara, & Lutian

Adara watched her husband through the trees while she struggled to lace her gown. He tended his horse with a gentle touch and a high regard even while Lutian was annoying him with questions and comments. “I don’t think your horse likes you to stroke him there,” Lutian said while Christian rubbed it down. He bent over and picked up two clumps of grass similar to the ones Christian was using, then studied them closely. Christian continued without pause. “I’ve owned this horse a long time and I know what he likes.” “Aye, but how do you know he likes that? Has he ever told you so?” “He’s not kicking me. I take that as a good sign.” “I’m not kicking you, either, but that doesn’t mean I like you or that I’d be grateful for your rubbing clumps of dirt over my body.” Lutian held one of the grass clumps to his cheek and rubbed it against his skin. “Hmmm…although, it could be pleasurable, perhaps…” Lutian turned around and poked his rear toward Christian. “Here, rub some on my flank and let me judge.” Christian looked horrified by the mere thought. “I’d most certainly rather not.” -Lutian, & Christian

You’re still awake?” She turned her head to find Christian drawing near. “Aye. I was wondering if you would retire this night.” “We had much to discuss.” Adara didn’t say anything more while he disrobed, then joined her in the bed. As was his custom, he lay beside her and kept his hand on her stomach so that he could feel their baby moving. “He’s active tonight.” “Aye,” she said with a smile. “He’s much like his father and ever on the move. He has been tossing about for hours now.” Christian stroked her distended stomach with the tenderest of touches. “I can feel his foot against my hand.” “I can feel his foot against my bladder.” He laughed. “Does he hurt you much?” “Nay, not at all.” Christian leaned forward at that and placed a light kiss to her stomach before he settled down to sleep.

The first surviving manuals of European swordsmanship date from the early fourteenth century, so it is impossible to know precisely how William trained and fought with this weapon, but it is clear that he honed his ability to wield his sword both while mounted and on foot. This must have required the daily repetition of practice sword strokes through his teenage years and beyond – so as to develop strength and acquire muscle memory – and regular sparring to refine coordination and agility. By the time he became a knight, Marshal was an effective swordsman, but so far as the History was concerned, his primary gift was not flashy technique, but the brutish physicality that enabled him to deliver crushing blows. With sword in hand, William was, in the words of his biographer, a man who ‘hammered like a blacksmith on iron’. Marshal probably also trained with a number of other mêlée weapons popular with twelfth-century knights, including the dagger, axe, mace and war-hammer, but much of his time would have been devoted to mastering the lance. By construction this was a fairly rudimentary weapon – often simply a ten- to twelve-foot-long straight spar of hewn wood, usually of ash – but it was fiendishly difficult to use from horseback. The lance would be held under the arm (or couched) during a charge, and directing its point towards a target with any accuracy required immense skill. Lances often broke after one or two uses, but a successful strike could cause devastating damage to an opponent. In the course of his career, William would witness the lethal potential of this weapon with his own eyes and he would also be called upon to charge down one of the greatest warriors of the age, Richard the Lionheart, with lance in hand.

He had a warrior’s body, all lean muscles and strength. Her hands tingled even though she carefully skirted his bicep. When he realized what she was doing, he caught her hand, brought it back up, and placed it directly over his tattoo. “I can protect you from that, now that I know you’re sensitive to it.” After a few seconds, he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “I am sorry that happened, Lena. That darkness is my burden to carry. You shouldn’t have to share it.” She twined her hands behind his neck and leaned into him, pleasing them both with the press of her breasts against his chest. “We all have darkness that haunts us, Sandor. Yours may be worse than most, but I have a few nightmares of my own.” He sat back on his haunches and lifted her to straddle his lap. “Then share them with me. Maybe I can ease them for you.” She shot him an incredulous look and gave his erection a long, low stroke. “You want to trade bad memories right now?” “Actually, no.” His chuckle was low and rough. “Remind me later.

Talana,” he murmured, stroking her hair tenderly. Enjoying his gentle caress, she nuzzled closer. “I…I’ve never told anyone besides Liv and Kat what happened that night. And I never even told them about how Burke threatened me afterwards—I didn’t want them to worry.” He growled softly. “Thank you for trusting me. I will keep your confidence until the day I die.” Again with the formal vows. But it was kind of nice, in a way. They were quiet for a long, long time and Sophie was almost certain he’d drifted off to sleep when Sylvan spoke again. “No wonder I frightened you. I can see now why you say you don’t want an ‘alpha male.’” “I’m glad you understand,” Sophie said gratefully. “And I hope I didn’t uh, offend you when I told you that.” “No.” He sighed. “It’s all right. There’s more standing in the way between us than just your aversion to large aggressive males.” “I know.” Sophie felt unaccountably sad. How had they gotten so close so fast? And was she actually letting herself feel for the big warrior? How stupid is that? whispered a little voice in her head. You know you can never have him. Even if he wanted you enough to break his vow you could never give him what he needs. It was true but she still felt like she might cry again. And she really didn’t want to do that—she’d cried more than enough already tonight. “It really wasn’t your fault, you know.” His voice was a quiet rumble in the dark. “I know,” she whispered. “Well, I mean, I shouldn’t have gone with him—that was stupid. I just didn’t think he would really…try anything like that.” “Some males have no honor.” Sylvan’s voice was fiercely protective as he stroked her hair. “I swear to you as long as you’re under my care, nothing like that will ever happen to you again.” “Thank you.” Sophie looked up at him in the darkness. “Thank you for everything, Sylvan. For not…not making me feel stupid when I told you.” “You’re not stupid.” He cupped her cheek, his hand warm and comforting against her skin. “Naïve, maybe. Inexperienced. But not stupid.” “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said a little huffily. “Although, well, I haven’t been with anyone since…since Burke. I just…never felt like I could trust anyone enough again.” “That’s understandable. But to me you’re perfect the way you are. Except for this.” The pad of his thumb found her hurt lip and brushed it gently. “You can see that?” “Kindred night vision is very sharp.” Sophie was surprised and a little nonplussed. “All this time I was telling you, I kept thinking how glad I was that you couldn’t see me because of what a mess I am.” “Didn’t I just tell you you’re perfect?” His voice was almost stern.

Moving to stand between his spread knees, she began washing his face with gentle strokes of the cloth over his smooth, tan brow. His eyes drifted closed, and she took the opportunity to drink in his stunning masculinity. Cinnamon-colored beard stubbled his strong jaw since he hadn’t shaved in more than a day. His nose was straight and broad and slightly reddened by the sun. Between his proud cheekbones and slashing eyebrows, a shade darker than his dark-blond hair, he looked every bit as intimidating as she’d first found him at Berringer’s field. Except now, she wasn’t afraid. Now, he was hers. Tentative wonder filled her chest. She set down the cloth and, starting at the tips, began combing her fingers through the wind-blown tangles falling around his face. The prolific number of split ends didn’t detract from the beauty of his majestic mane. In fact, they leant his soft locks a roughness that reminded her of the way his warrior exterior disguised the core of vulnerability he hid from the world. What she wouldn’t give to see his hair washed and combed properly, to have those strands skate over the bare skin of her stomach, her breasts. She sighed. She was a goner for Darcy.

So you’ve run off from him, have you?” Beatrix asked, smoothing the wiry ruff on his head. “Naughty boy. I suppose you’ve had a fine old time chasing rabbits and squirrels. And there’s a damaging rumor about a missing chicken. You had better stay out of poultry yards, or it won’t go well for you in Stony Cross. Shall I take you home, boy? He’s probably looking for you. He--” She stopped at the sound of something…someone…moving through the thicket. Albert turned his head and let out a happy bark, bounding toward the approaching figure. Beatrix was slow to lift her head. She struggled to moderate her breathing, and tried to calm the frantic stutters of her heart. She was aware of the dog bounding joyfully back to her, tongue dangling. He glanced back at his master as if to convey Look what I found! Letting out a slow breath, Beatrix looked up at the man who had stopped approximately three yards away. Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped. Beatrix tried to compare the man standing before her with the cavalier rake he had once been. But it seemed impossible that he could be the same person. No longer a god descending from Olympus…now a warrior hardened by bitter experience. His complexion was a deep mixture of gold and copper, as if he had been slowly steeped in sun. The dark wheaten locks of his hair had been cut in efficiently short layers. His face was impassive, but something volatile was contained in the stillness. How bleak he looked. How alone. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to touch him. The effort of standing motionless caused her muscles to tremble in protest. She heard herself speak in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “Welcome home, Captain Phelan.” He was silent, staring at her without apparent recognition. Dear Lord, those eyes…frost and fire, his gaze burning through her awareness. “I’m Beatrix Hathaway,” she managed to say. “My family--” “I remember you.” The rough velvet of his voice was a pleasure-stroke against her ears. Fascinated, bewildered, Beatrix stared at his guarded face. To Christopher Phelan, she was a stranger. But the memories of his letters were between them, even if he wasn’t aware of it. Her hand moved gently over Albert’s rough fur. “You were absent in London,” she said. “There was a great deal of hullabaloo on your behalf.” “I wasn’t ready for it.” So much was expressed in that spare handful of words. Of course he wasn’t ready. The contrast would be too jarring, the blood-soaked brutality of war followed by a fanfare of parades and trumpets and flower petals. “I can’t imagine any sane man would be,” she said. “It’s quite an uproar. Your picture is in all the shop windows. And they’re naming things after you.” “Things,” he repeated cautiously. “There’s a Phelan hat.” His brows lowered. “No there isn’t.” “Oh, yes there is. Rounded at the top. Narrow-brimmed. Sold in shades of gray or black. They have one featured at the milliner’s in Stony Cross.” Scowling, Christopher muttered something beneath his breath.

As he and Beth hit the stairs, he called out to his brothers, “Thanks for having my back once again.” The group stopped and turned to face him. After a beat of silence, they formed a half circle around the foot of the grand staircase, each making a thick fist with his weapon hand. With a great whoop! of a war cry, they went down on their right knee and slammed their heavy knuckles into the mosaic floor. The sound was thunder and bass drums and bomb explosions, ricocheting outward, filling all the rooms of the mansion. Wrath stared at them, seeing their heads bent, their broad backs curled, their powerful arms planted. They had each gone to that meeting prepared to take a bullet for him, and that would ever be true. Behind Tohr’s smaller form, Lassiter, the fallen angel, stood with a straight spine, but he wasn’t cracking any jokes at this reaffirmation of allegiance. Instead, he was back to staring at the damn ceiling. Wrath glanced up at the mural of warriors silhouetted against a blue sky and could see nothing much of the pictures that he’d been told were there. Getting back with the program, he said in the Old Language, “No stronger allies, no greater friends, no better fighters of honor could a king behold than these assembled afore me, mine brothers, mine blood.” A rolling growl of ascent lifted as the warriors got to their feet again, and Wrath nodded to each one of them. He had no more words to offer as his throat had abruptly choked, but they didn’t seem to need anything else. They stared at him with respect and gratitude and purpose, and he accepted their enormous gifts with grave appreciation and resolve. This was the ages-old covenant between king and subjects, the pledges on both sides made with the heart and carried out by the sharp mind and the strong body. “God, I love you guys,” Beth said. There was a lot of deep laughter, and then Hollywood said, “You want us to stab the floor for you again? Fists are for kings, but the queen gets the daggers.” “I wouldn’t want you to take chips out of this beautiful floor. Thank you, though.” “Say the word and it’s nothing but rubble.” Beth laughed. “Be still, my heart.” The Brothers came over and kissed the Saturnine Ruby that rode on her finger, and as each paid his honor, she gave him a gentle stroke of the hair. Except for Zsadist, who she smiled tenderly at. “Excuse us, boys,” Wrath said. “Little quiet time, feel me?” There was a ripple of male approval, which Beth took in stride—and with a blush—and then it was time for some privacy.

His warm breath, smelling of clean spice, stroked her cheek and ear. A thrilling shiver coursed over her, the wound on her arm only a minor sting. Then his lips—those full, sensuous lips—grazed her jaw and the soft spot behind her ear, the hairs of his beard brushing her sensitive skin. Her shivers locked her muscles tight. A bolt of tantalizing heat shot down her center. He leveraged closer, all that warrior brawn pressing hard against her side, linen rasping over skin, an exquisite feeling. Yes. This.

The voice sounded calm and sweet, but for the first time James felt scared. “It must be bad,” he thought. “If they’re like sending for a priest or something they must think I’m gonna die.” Ten minutes later James’ parents were standing over him and his mother was gently stroking his face. “Are you in pain, Jimmy?” she asked. “Yes, I need something, but they won’t give me anything.” James’ dad tried to sound authoritative as he spoke, “You’re just fine. They have to do a little surgery to repair your leg, but you’re just fine, son.

Easy, Lilenta.” The deep voice from her dreams filled her ears and Liv told herself she had to be dreaming again. But was she dreaming the warm, spicy scent of his skin? Was she dreaming the long fingers that stroked strands of hair away from her cheek so tenderly? Suddenly she knew where she was and what was going on. And none of it was a dream. The dark man! Liv sat up and jumped to her feet, staggering a few steps before his hand shot out to catch her. She backed away just before his fingers closed on her wrist. “How long have I been out?” She couldn’t believe she’d fainted in the first place—what a horribly weak and girly thing to do! But it had been so shocking, seeing what she thought was a dream turned into hard, cold reality. Well he’s certainly hard but I’d say hot describes him better than cold, jabbered a little voice in her brain. As in hotter than any guy you’ve ever been with. Liv hated that little voice but she had to agree with it—the Kindred warrior certainly put Mitch in the shade. “You collapsed.” There was a look of concern in his amber eyes. “How do you feel?” “How do you think I feel? I’m here against my will in nothing but my underwear,” Liv threw at him. “So I see.” Hot amber eyes raked her body again, making Liv flush when she realized she’d practically just given him permission to stare. “Who are you?” she demanded, pulling her thin lace robe tightly around her. “And what have you been doing in my head?” “The dreams you mean?” he asked, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to dream of him. “Yes, of course,” Liv snapped. “What the hell are those all about?” “I dreamed of you, too,” he said simply, ignoring her question in the most infuriating manner. “It was the only thing that kept me sane.” “I…I…

Easy, Lilenta.” The deep voice from her dreams filled her ears and Liv told herself she had to be dreaming again. But was she dreaming the warm, spicy scent of his skin? Was she dreaming the long fingers that stroked strands of hair away from her cheek so tenderly? Suddenly she knew where she was and what was going on. And none of it was a dream. The dark man! Liv sat up and jumped to her feet, staggering a few steps before his hand shot out to catch her. She backed away just before his fingers closed on her wrist. “How long have I been out?” She couldn’t believe she’d fainted in the first place—what a horribly weak and girly thing to do! But it had been so shocking, seeing what she thought was a dream turned into hard, cold reality. Well he’s certainly hard but I’d say hot describes him better than cold, jabbered a little voice in her brain. As in hotter than any guy you’ve ever been with. Liv hated that little voice but she had to agree with it—the Kindred warrior certainly put Mitch in the shade. “You collapsed.” There was a look of concern in his amber eyes. “How do you feel?” “How do you think I feel? I’m here against my will in nothing but my underwear,” Liv threw at him. “So I see.” Hot amber eyes raked her body again, making Liv flush when she realized she’d practically just given him permission to stare. “Who

Swift Antelope caught Hunter’s arm before he could go inside his mother’s lodge. “Hunter, about the little yellow-hair.” “Yes, what about her?” Swift Antelope glanced uneasily at Bright Star, then plunged ahead. “I would like to make arrangements with you--to take her as my wife. Not right away, of course. When she grows old enough.” The young warrior straightened his shoulders. “I will pay a fine bride price, fifty horses and ten blankets.” Hunter smothered a grin. After a year of raiding, Swift Antelope had only ten horses. How much horse stealing did he plan to do? “Swift Antelope, I don’t think she even likes you.” “Your yellow-hair doesn’t like you too well, either.” He had a point. Hunter stroked his chin, acutely aware of a sparrow singing nearby, of cottonwood leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. Such a peaceful sound. He had enough problems without Swift Antelope adding to them. “Can we discuss this another time?” “No! I mean…well, I’ve heard some other warriors talking. I’m not the only one who wants her. If I wait, you may accept the suit of another. She is very fine, is she not?” Hunter wondered if they were talking about the same skinny girl. Then he focused on Swift Antelope, who was only a few years Amy’s senior. He supposed a younger man might find Amy’s coltish prettiness appealing. “I can see your concern. But you forget one thing, Swift Antelope. You have proven yourself my loyal friend. I will not accept the suit of another. Does that ease your mind?” Swift Antelope still gripped Hunter’s arm. “May I visit with her?” “I don’t know about that. She’s been through a terrible time. Having a young man around might upset her.” “Old Man told me what happened to her. But someone must help her walk back to the sunshine, eh?” Again, Hunter had to concede the point. A difficult path lay ahead of Amy, and her way would be made easier if she had a good friend, a young man who could teach her to trust again. “You will take great care with her?” Swift Antelope grinned. “I will protect her with my life. Your mother says she will be strong enough to go on a walk tomorrow. May I take her?” Hunter placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “She won’t want to go. You do realize that?” Swift Antelope nodded. “I can handle her until she gets used to me.” “She’s a fighter.” “And I am twice her size.” Hunter almost wished he could go on this walk. It might prove interesting. Little did Swift Antelope know how useless strength could be when tussling with a frightened female. “Come to my lodge late tomorrow afternoon.” Swift Antelope beamed. “I think we should change her name. Aye-mee? It sounds like a sheep baaing. Golden One. That is a good name for her.

This is what rural people mean when they say that Trump ‘speaks our language,’ something we were told more than once during our travels. It's not that he understands their culture in any substantive way; instead, it's more visceral. Trump stroked people’s darkest impulses and said: You deserve to feel this way. You have been wronged and cheated and mocked. Now I will be your wrath. Look at everyone you hate – those overeducated liberals and Hollywood elites and arrogant city people and social justice warriors trying to make you feel bad for being White and being a man and being American. They despise me just as much as they despise you. Let's show them who this country really belongs to.

Shyness feathered through me at the intensity in his eyes. I indulged myself, stroking and petting his shoulders, then his arms. The texture of the scars versus the undamaged skin was so wildly different—his two sides; the healer and the warrior. The poetry wasn’t lost on me, nor was the irony.

In large-scale strategy, the presence of numerous troops is linked with an extra-long sword. Smaller numbers are consistent with the use of a short one. Is it not viable for a small number of troops to take the fight to a larger force? The virtue of strategy is precisely that smaller numbers can triumph [if guided correctly]. From the earliest days, there are many examples of small forces crushing big armies. In our school, this kind of narrow-minded preconception is to be rejected above all else. Research this well. (2) About Schools That Use Swords with Force （一、他流におゐてつよみの太刀と云事） One should not consider a sword [stroke] in terms of being strong or weak. The cut will be coarse if the sword is brandished with too much brute force. Such an uneven technique will make victory difficult. You will not succeed in cutting through human flesh and bone if you think only of striking with brute force. It is also bad to use too much power when testing the cutting power of a blade (tameshi-giri).4 When punishing some mortal foe, nobody thinks of cutting feebly or brutishly. “Cutting to kill” it is not achieved with a mind to do it strongly, and certainly not weakly. It is achieved with just enough power to ensure death. Your own sword could break into pieces by hitting the enemy’s sword with excess strength. Consequently, it is senseless to strike with excessive force. In large-scale strategy, relying on force of numbers to rout the enemy will lead to him countering with equal force. Both sides will be the same. Winning at anything is not achievable if correct principles are ignored. Thus, the underlying principle of my school is to defeat the enemy in any situation by applying strategic wisdom, without incorporating anything that is “excessive.”5 This must be researched attentively. (3) Schools That Use Short Swords （一、他流に短き太刀を用る事） Some warriors try to win using only short swords but this is at variance with the true Way. Since antiquity, swords were called tachi and katana, proving that distinctions have long been made between short and longer lengths.6 Warriors of superior strength can brandish a long sword as if it were light and thus there is no reason for them to prefer a shorter sword. They are, in fact, capable of wielding even longer weapons, such as yari (pikes) and naginata (glaives). With shorter swords, it is ill advised to look for openings as the enemy swings his blade and closing the distance to grab him. Aiming for an opening as the opponent attacks gives the impression of relinquishing the initiative and should be avoided as your swords will become entangled.

Never let a fight last more than a few strokes of a blade. Never let a man who outweighs you get a firm hold on any part of your body.

He was bending her custom, and creating new rules, but he wanted her to be reminded that he held a part of her. More importantly, he wanted her to grow familiar with him holding that part. He stroked his fingertips across her palm.

The energies around the world are harsh everyday and that is just the sad reality now. Despite this, everything is slowly shifting in a more positive way thanks to the many evolved souls who have incarnated from the Realms and Spirit Worlds that exist. With those shifts comes the tantrum throwing by lower evolved human souls. This is what you are bearing witness to around the world. Before the harsh energies came at you once in awhile, but now it is out of control and happens on a daily basis. The internet, technology and phone apps that exist have positive uses, but most do not use it for positive purposes. Technological devices spit out toxic energy at your aura and latches onto your soul. If one is using the devices for selfish reasons, such as to spew negativity, or for ego stroking, then you and the person they direct the energy to will be a magnet for some of these harsh energies.

Forget all else, Junah, but remember this: You are never alone. You have your caddie. You have me. “More devoted than a mother, more faithful than a lover, I stand by your side always. I will never abandon you. No sin, no lapse, no crime however heinous can make me desert you, nor yield up to you any less than my ultimate fidelity and love. “Who walks his path beside me Feels my hand upon him always. No effort he makes is wasted, Nor unseen, unguided by me. “Therefore, Junah, rest in me. Enter the Field like a warrior. Purged of ego, firm in discipline, seeking no reward save the stroke itself. Give the shot to me. I am your Self, the Ground of your being, your Authentic Swing.

His lips are rough as I crash into him. I’ve been told before that I kiss like a freight train. I’ve never bothered with anything gentle or tentative. I go right for the good stuff, slipping my tongue inside and stroking against his until he sighs.