Warhammer Quotes

My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer and I have my mind...and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone if it is to keep its edge. That's why I read so much Jon Snow.

I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind… and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge. That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.

I’ll go talk to them,” Annwyl said. But she cracked her knuckles. “Right now.” Izzy cut in front of Annwyl, forced a smile. “Why don’t I talk to them? Daddy listens to me.” “You want my sword?” Izzy blinked. Hard. “No. I don’t think that’s necessary. To talk to my father and uncles that I adore.” “You want me warhammer then?

Why do you read so much?" "I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind… and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge. That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.

Everything is darkest," Xaphen mused, "before the dawn." "That, my brother, is an axiom that sounds immensely profound until you realize it's a lie.

So I fight for a Father who I never loved, against a brother that I did. I defend an empire that never wanted me against an army that would have taken me in a heartbeat.

You came to me asking how my faith survived the Day of Judgement. I will tell you a secret. When the stars fell, when the seas boiled and the earth burned, my faith didn’t die. That is when I began to believe. God was real, and he hated us.

Blessed is the mind too small for doubt.

The rewards of tolerance are treachery and betrayal.

Sulien held up the broken spear, one piece in each hand. “A warhammer did this?” “You saw that hammer the Lightning almost hit Addolgar with. And that’s not even the one he uses during battles. That one is bloody huge. Nearly as big as the bastard’s head.” Her father chuckled and stepped around her. “The only purpose of this spear was to protect you—and it did. Its job is now done.” He started to throw the pieces into a bin he kept for trash. “Don’t you dare throw that out.” “Why not? It’s broken, and repairing it would be useless. It’l only break again.” “But you made it for me.” “You cling to what is meaningless, child. Just like your mother sometimes, only with her it’s mostly grudges.

You brothers-such a nest of rivalries. I warned him to make you sisters, that it would make things more civilized. He thought I was joking, I wasn't." - Malcador

After a dozen deaths, you learn not to care. After a hundred, you can’t even if you wanted to.

Better our evil empire than theirs.

We do not know what our chances of survival are, so we fight as if they were zero. We do not know what we are facing, so we fight as if it was the dark gods themselves. No one will remember us now and we may never be buried beneath Titan, so we will build our own memorial here. The Chapter might lose us and the Imperium might never know we existed, but the Enemy — the Enemy will know. The Enemy will remember. We will hurt it so badly that it will never forget us until the stars burn out and the Emperor vanquishes it at the end of time. When Chaos is dying, its last thought will be of us. That is our memorial — carved into the heart of Chaos. We cannot lose, Grey Knights. We have already won." ~Justicar Alaric

There is no time to plan, there is no space to think. No respite. No forgiveness. There is only war.

You stupid bastard,’ sneered Orikan. ‘You got us box seats to a coup.’ ‘Well, the reviews were very good.

Trazyn. Our ships are without atmosphere, unpressurised,’ Orikan said. ‘Do orks… breathe?’ A pause. ‘They have lungs.’ Prepare to repel boarders, Orikan signalled. In case.

My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.

Sometimes I think I’m dead to horror, but then some new abomination steps up to the challenge and shoves the truth down my throat: horror can never be sated and no man will ever be allowed his fill. There is always more and worse to come.

Because it is on the anvil of pain that the gods forge heroes.

Remember, my Jokers, a dropzone is like a woman. Land on her firmly, and make sure you have the vital parts located before you get going.’ Hurtado Bronzi

If you allow cracks to appear in glass, then you should not be surprised when it breaks and bloodies you.

All of creation suffers, young ones. Only in accepting our own mortality can we make a difference. Only in bearing the burden of our failures can we find the strength to go on. Only in detachment from glory, or honour, or jealousy... from life itself can we hope to spare others from grief. We are Doom Eagles. And we are dead already. -- Librarian Secundus Thryn of the Doom Eagles

But they are many and he is alone. This has not come to pass yet, he thinks, this is not happening. I am not dying. This is my fate, what shall be. This is the future, it has not happened yet.

There must come a moment when the soul knows: this far, and no further. But we are cursed never to hear that warning until it is too late.’ – attributed to the remembrancer Ignace Karkasy [M31]

My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.” Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. “That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.

The gods demand entertainment. They demand trial and contest. We could not be allowed to defeat our own daemons, for that would be boring, and boredom is the only thing the eternals fear. We are being lined up, one by one, to tear at each other's throats. I do not think they wish to see a victor. I think they wish us to fight forever, locked in madness until the universe's end

The gods couldn’t be trusted. They gave a man everything he wanted, even when he begged them to stop.

I'm not going to fight them, you fool. I'm going to kill them. - Malus Darkblade.

They’re so busy playing, they’ve taken their eyes off the board

Words and poetic sentiment did not change the truth of a thing. A kill was a kill, a life a life, and an executioner a murderer by any other name.

Ghosts do not exist. Do not offend the Emperor by believing in such nonsense.

You let the city burn so that you would have light to load your guns by.

I asked myself in the aftermath of the Siege of Terra whether the so-called victory was worth the cost. Now I wonder if we won at all.

History requires two parties – the historian and their audience. Without that, one is just talking to oneself. So kindly stop screaming and you might learn something.

And in the end. It's just a man killing his son with a stone...then the galaxy burns

Thing was, after the hurricane, life went on. You had to buy milk, fix the broken windows, play some Warhammer, discuss some girls. Wow!

My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.

The dead do not squabble as this land’s rulers do. The dead do not fight one another. The dead have no desires, no petty jealousies or ambitions. A world of the dead is a world at peace…

What would you know of struggle, perfect son? When have you fought against the mutilation of your mind? When have you had to do anything other than tally compliance's and polish your armor? The people of your world named you "Great One". The people of mine called me slave. Which one of us landed on a paradise of civilization to be raised by a foster father, Roboute? Which one of us was given armies to lead after training in the halls of the Macraggian High Riders? Which one of us inherited a strong, cultured kingdom? And which one of us had to rise up against a kingdom with nothing but a horde of starving slaves? Which one of us was a child enslaved on a world of monsters, with his brain cut up by carving knives? Listen to your blue clad wretches yelling courage and honor, courage and honor, courage and honor! Do you even know the meaning of those words? Courage is fighting the kingdom which enslaves you, no matter that their armies outnumber yours by ten-thousand to one. You know nothing of courage! Honor is resisting a tyrant when all others suckle and grow fat on the hypocrisy he feeds them. You know nothing of honor!

The world goes quiet and warm. I am dying, he thinks, I have failed and there will be nothing left, nothing but ash and hungering darkness. Something within him dims, fluttering to nothing like a flame fading to cold embers. He tries to raise his sword. He is falling… He was… … running the ashes of a dead world through his fingers.

Victory slipped through our fingers the moment Horus chose to reach into the dark and something reached back. We sacrificed our ambitions on the altar of his hubris, and when he fell, he dragged us all down inexorably with him. And not just Horus- Fulgrim as well. And Angron. Magnus. Lorgar. The gods you worship are nothing save lies, hidden behind masks of folklore and superstition. Interdimensional cancers, their mindless hunger confused for sentience amongst the lost and the damned".

I will tell you how this ends, Jarl Grimnar. It ends with you on your knees, as the first High King of Fenris to bare his throat to a foe's blade. Refuse, and suffer the excommunication of your Chapter and the Exterminatus of your miserable home world

-My mind is my weapon. my brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind... and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge." Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. "That's why I read so much, Jon Snow.

For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium, for whom a thousand souls die every day, for whom blood is drunk and flesh eaten. Human blood and human flesh – the stuff of which the Imperium is made. To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. This is the tale of those times. Forget the power of technology, science and common humanity. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for there is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter and the laughter of thirsting gods.

I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.” Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. “That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.

I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.” Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. “That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.

A world of death is a world of stagnation, without the change that makes it worthwhile. What you call uncertainty, I call life itself.

Let our battle commence, Third War-Hammer Yolathian of Jeradia. I shall not be merciful again.

Envy is always the flaw of those who crave influence.

This war has created monsters, and not all are in the camps of the enemy.

The sound of mechanized brutality that could only come from one species.

Claims of innocence mean nothing: they serve only to prove a foolish lack of caution.’ – Judge Traggat, Selected Sayings, Vol. III, Chapter IV

The first steps of damnation are always wrapped in the costume of piety.

There is nothing more elusive than trust, and so nothing more valuable.

Faith was cheap, for the desperate. It was only valuable for those with the strength to understand its purpose.

Luck runs out, Blackmane. Aye. But not today, singer.

Nothing better awaited her in the long night ahead.

Sometimes the threat is so grave, the worst of enemies must become the best of friends.

You can’t just run away when things aren’t going well. The Emperor has His plan for all of us. By denying it, you are at the risk of heresy, and we’ll all be held accountable.

Everyone is a kind of story that they tell themselves.

Presence of mind in all things, I counsel. Be aware of thyself before all else.

As I said, be careful from whom one gains knowledge and be aware of the price of its acquisition.

When one has no power, one will seek hope from any source.

If we cannot laugh at cruelty, then it has already bested us.

Lord General, show me an island and my Guardsmen will take it. It is not a question of victory or defeat. It is a question of how many waves you are willing to lose.

You killed him, remember?" "That was a fair fight." "It was only to first blood." "I only hit him once." "You decapitated him." "There was a lot of first blood.

You can't run from the truth. It runs faster.

When inquisitors fall, in my experience, they do so very hard indeed.

He did not answer, nor did he watch as I left. He was seeing Sigismund again, dwelling on replies he could never speak to a brother he had once admired and who had died despising him.

As you well know, data can change the systems that take it in. Data can carry a curse. That is impossible. The sermon makes a believer a fanatic. The political treatise turns the indifferent into a revolutionary. A lie exposed ruins a friendship. New information always affects the system that consumes it, at times catastrophically. That is the curse of data. All data. But data can be corrupted as well.

The war is over, Diocletian. Win or lose, Horus has damned us all. Mankind will share in his ignorance until the last man or woman draws the species’ last breath. The warp will forever be a cancer in the heart of all humans. The Imperium may last a hundred years, or a thousand, or ten thousand. But it will fall, Diocletian. It will fall. The shining path is lost to us. Now we rage against the dying of the light.

The past keeps drawing him back, there is just so much of it. Too much to bear. The past is a weight that pulls him down beneath dark and cloudy waters. An image comes unbidden to his mind. A vision of a wheel, and the wheel no longer turns. It is not that I prefer the company of the dead, he thinks, it is that the dead are the only company I have, the only company I deserve. There is another existence, a wheel that still turns, and I can see it, but I see it as if through a veil.

Now he does not care. Mostly, this lassitude appals him. He cannot understand why he no longer cares. But, deep down, buried where his old heart once beat, there is something else. Something infinitely shameful, so that he does not think of it often and pretends that it is just another part of his sickness, but it is there all the same – relief. He no longer has to make the effort, and that is a pleasure in itself. It is like falling asleep, or sinking into a warm pool of water. He lets it all slide, all degrade. He can feel his muscles atrophy and does not intervene. He can feel his bowels swell with inflammation, and it matters not. This is a kind of release. This is like a fist, clenched for a lifetime, slowly relaxing.

Yours is a curious case, brother... Consistently exposing yourself to the extra-dimensional intelligencies that you and our deluded brethren worship has provoked a uniquely malignant form of of schizophrenia to take root within your mind." - Fabius Bile

Would that Ned had been able to say the same. Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm’s End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.

Win or lose, the gods feast on our deeds. A man pets a stray, and his small pleasure in the act of kindness feeds Slaanesh. A woman strikes her crying child and that awful moment of elation she feels feeds Khorne. A Munitorum drone considers suicide. Nurgle grows fat on his despair. A merciful strategist devises a plan for bloodless victory, and Tzeentch is content. The Word Bearers think the gods crave worship. But the gods care for nothing save filling their bellies with our sorrows. Intentionally or not, we are all meat for the beast. Even you.

We are but motes of dust, drifting in an endless sea; sparks that flare all too briefly. Our light does little to illuminate the fading universe, but it is in our nature to fight, to wrestle back the encroaching dark, to find a way. Thus, we open not our eyes, but our minds, and we are terrified by what it is we see.

I wanted their stories to be a reminder that, no matter what insignia the behemoths may wear, or what philosophy they may spout, a bully is a bully, and no matter how much they beat you down, as long as you've got one finger left, you can still poke the bastards in the eye. -Blackhearts: Author's Introduction: A Finger In The Eye: By Nathan Long

Loken tried to imagine the future, but the image would not form. Death would wipe them all from history. Not even the great First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon would survive forever. There would be a time when Abaddon no longer waged bloody war across the territories of humanity. Loken sighed. That would be a sad day indeed. Men would cry out for Abaddon’s return, but he would never come. He tried to picture the manner of his own death. Fabled, imaginary combats flashed through his mind. He imagined himself at the Emperor’s side, fighting some great, last stand against an unknown foe. Primarch Horus would be there, of course. He had to be. It wouldn’t be the same without him. Loken would battle, and die, and perhaps even Horus would die, to save the Emperor at the last. Glory. Glory, like he’d never known. Such an hour would become so ingrained in the minds of men that it would be the cornerstone of all that came after. A great battle, upon which human culture would be based. Then, briefly, he imagined another death. Alone, far away from his comrades and his Legion, dying from cruel wounds on some nameless rock, his passing as memorable as smoke. Loken swallowed hard. Either way, his service was to the Emperor, and his service would be true to the end.

This is not our home. We can turn away and leave it to the skaven. We can abandon our brothers to slavery and atrocity at the paws of these beasts. We can go crawling back to Middenland. And when the skaven again come, when they bring this great horror against our homes, who will there be to stand with us? Who will help us fight? No, it is here we make our stand. A man can die but once. Do we die on our feet or on our knees?

Ragnar stared at his kin, his mouth slightly open. “What’s that look for?” Vigholf asked. “You said to do it.” “Even gave a suggestion,” Meinhard tossed in. “I thought you two were joking. Have you both lost your bloody minds?” “We were trying to be nice,” his brother argued. “And when that crazed human monarch cuts off the rest of your hair, I don’t want to hear any more—” “Who did it?” Annwyl demanded from behind him. Ragnar faced her, “My lady—” “Who? I want to know whose idea this was”—she held up the training mace, battle ax, warhammer, and shield, perfectly sized for a two-year-old girl with both human and dragon blood—“and I want to know now!” Vigholf and Meinhard raised their hands, and the queen’s eyes filled with tears. “This is so sweet! Thank you. Thank you both!” She hugged them, arms going wide to reach around their chests. That’s when Ragnar let Annwyl know, “It was I who suggested the shield.

We know no fear. It was cut from our souls at birth. We can feel it only as an absence, as an empty shadow cast by the light of annihilation. In the face of a future of atrocity I stand mute, numb to the only feeling that would make me human. But I remember what fear was: its cold pulse in my veins; its echo in my ears. I remember fear, and remember that I was once human. I look towards what must come to pass and I wish that I could meet it as my ancestors did, with fear. The future deserves that, it deserves fear.

‘Who are you to say that I may not sit at this hearth? Am I not as you? Did we not once break bread, laugh, bleed and weep together? Am I not the one who set off into the world at your side till paths and time set our steps towards different suns? Am I not returned to this place called home, weary with time and the weight of the sword? Is the only rest you would give me that of the bed of knives? Shall we not sit and talk and remember that once we were brothers?’ – from the Voice of the Stones, pre-unification Terra, exact era and author unknown

Roboute Guilliman was able to focus on dozens of things at once and give them attention in excess of what most mortal minds could achieve dealing with just one such subject. It was what made him such a good logistician, and while the Lion might not have a great many compliments ready for his brother, the Lord of Ultramar’s organisational skills could not be denied: many of the Ultramarines’ successes came down to simply never encountering a situation for which they were not prepared. Guilliman himself had only ever been an adequate combatant in person, however; at least so far as their brotherhood went. The Lion has sometimes wondered if that was because Roboute was never able to properly give his full attention to anything.

Sometimes, I consider whether the Emperor hated the Primarchs the way Fulgrim hates us." "Speak for yourself. Our father does not hate us." "Of course he does. From afar, you feel the lie of his warmth, the false affection you all so urgently crave. And he gives it to you but always from pity. You are his champion, yet still you cannot see it. You will never be as close to him as I was. You never see the way he really looks at us. Never seeing the wonders we wrought, only the limitations. Not our triumphs, just our flaws. He hates us, Lucius, because to Fulgrim, we are not his sons. We are a mirror, holding up an image before him that he can never do anything other than hate. We are his own failure made manifest, the miscarriage that comes about when a father tries to mould his children into something better than himself.

Sentinels died and wards fade, but I am everliving.

The king does seal himself from his subjects and will not speak on such matters, but the Grudge price must be set and so it shall be. For the desecration of the Third Deep: one thousand urk heads. For the lost lives of two hundred and thirteen dawi in defiance of such barbarism: two thousand urk heads. For the abduction of Queen Morga, the lustre of Azul, and those others of King Kazador’s blood: their safe return with five thousand urk heads, or the restoration of their remains to the Ancestor Chambers of Karak Azul and no fewer than six thousand of the greenskin dead. Of Kazador’s son, the king does forbid our speaking beyond the pages of the kron. The prince is no longer of sound mind and the king does command his confinement until he can be found recovered. Let it be known that that for the brutal shaming of brave Prince Kazrik upon the very seat of the Iron Throne itself, King Kazador will accept no price. May this grudge against the urk of Black Crag stand forevermore. The greatly wronged king did then rouse from his grief to issue one mighty decree: half his wealth to any that returns his lost kin, and the pick of his own treasures to any that can avenge his son’s torture upon the squatter king. The thanes did each raise voice against so rash and unprecedented an oath, but the king, so mined of passion that even the wealth of Karak Azul could afford him no joy, was resolute. Thus is it recorded, and by Grimnir let it soon be done.

None destroys a city like Queek

You have achieved nothing. Do you not see? Nothing. We scurry through time, like the rats in Fizqwik’s wheel. Over and over the same mistakes. I am glad to be done. I am sick of it.

I think the Horned Rat prefers his children blind or we would surely have the world now. And he knows we would betray even him if we could.

The skaven will not prevail! Here they will be broken, shattered upon our steel! They fight for domination, to sate their greed. We fight for our homes, for our families, for those we would keep safe from the horrors of Old Night. It is our cause that is just; it is our fight that is righteous!

Up! Up into man-thing nest! Up to their streets and their cellars! Up to their granaries and their stockyards! Up to their homes and their temples! All-all belongs to Rictus! All-all belongs to Vecteek!

Watch-see, Holy One, my grave-rats will kill-kill all dead-things. We show-tell Fester-rats how to fight. Show-tell why Fester-rats should stay true to Horned One.

The Grey Seers visited every Skaven stronghold up and down the Under-way. They give a single ultimatum - be at the annual feast of Vermintide or suffer the wrath of the Great Horned Rat.

Only one advantage still remained to Mandred, an edge that Vrrmik could never take from him. The soldiers who marched behind his banner were men and it was the hearts of men that beat within their breasts, hearts that could be moved to selflessness, could be stirred to valour and fired with courage. However numerous Vrrmik’s horde, they were skaven, they were cringing beasts driven by fear and greed, incapable of believing in anything more vital than their own skins. Terror and avarice were the forces that drove them on, but such things could only stretch so far, overcome only so much. Mandred’s troops could endure more than Vrrmik’s monsters. That was the one strength the skaven could never equal.

See-smell, man thing. Hear us, touch us. We are broken. Many times we die-die. Change bodies to burn and still back we come. Many times, again, and again, and again, forever-ever.

He ground his teeth and pushed hard. His muscles screamed from the effort. But where he pushed, the legions of the Damned pushed with him. They were innumerable, thousands upon thousands. There were farmers, fishwives, merchants and priests. And there were warriors. Felix saw the outline of armour and axes, Magnus's army, the shades of those that had once battled Chaos and would now battle it once more at Felix's side.

All who ever lived. All who ever died.

Why is it, I wonder, that Sigmar felt compelled to burden you with such poor imaginations? Very well. Judicate me, if you can.