Warrior Definition Quotes

To be heroic is to be courageous enough to die for something; to be inspirational is to be crazy enough to live a little.

This is Night Vale. Our mayor once led an army of masked warriors from another dimension through magic doors to defeat an army of smiling blood-covered office workers. There is definitely, definitely another way.

Really? Well, you'd definitely be interested in the fact that I just read To Kill A Mockingbird." I smiled and elbowed him. "Everyone's read that." I've read it five times." Nu-uh." Yep. I can even quote parts of it." That's bullpoopie." And then Stark, my big, bad, macho Warrior raised his voice, put on a little girl's Southern drawl, and said, "'Uncle Jack? What's a whore-lady?'" I do not think that's the most important quote from that book," I said, but laughed anyway. Okay, how about: 'Ain't no snot-nosed slut of a schoolteacher ever born c'n make me do nothin.!' That one's really my favorite." You got a twisted mind, James Stark.

When we stand up for what we believe in—for what’s right—there is always a chance that we risk the very things we fight for: our safety, our lives, our freedom. But if we stand down, the risk is definite.

If women work together instead of trying to hurt or compete against each other, we most definitely will be a powerful force. We have to be open-minded and realize that if we come together and do the unexpected, everything will work together for good. Not only will it work together for good but we will be strong warriors from the side effects that tried to weaken our inner peace of mind.

I think it's vital that we do not sleep together. You know, for the safety of the world." His eyes sparkled and there was just a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "Okay," I said, and smiled back at him. "But kissing is allowed, right?" "Oh, definitely," he said, pulling me close. "After all, the warrior always wins the heart of the fair young...man.

The key to warriorship and the first principle of Shambhala vision is not being afraid of who you are. Ultimately, that is the definition of bravery: not being afraid of yourself.

How many demons and people are enslaved here? (Jericho) Define slavery. (Asmodeus) Kept against their will. (Jericho) Good definition. Counting me? (Asmodeus) Why not? (Jericho) Probably a couple of million…you know it’s really hard to count to a million, plus they’re always dying and new ones are coming in. I tried to count once, but it got really depressing so I stopped. The constant adding and subtracting. Not my forte, really. (Asmodeus)

War?' The word held too much definition for three letters.

She may, in fact, love you; she may want you, but she will rarely admit to ever needing you. Falling in love with a Warrior Princess Submissive is definitely not for the faint of heart.

...among the Aztecs, for example, who had a number of heavens to which people's souls would be assigned according to the conditions of their death, the heaven for warriors killed in battle was the same for mothers who died in childbirth. Giving birth is definitely a heroic deed, in that it is the giving over of oneself to the life of another.

is Night Vale. Our mayor once led an army of masked warriors from another dimension through magic doors to defeat an army of smiling blood-covered office workers. There is definitely, definitely another way.

To receive, you must be active. Keep in mind your purpose. You will receive in direct proportion to your clarity of vision, your definiteness of purpose, the steadiness of your faith, and the depth of your gratitude.

I have never battled a gargoyle before.” Zacharel shook his head, a dark lock of hair tumbling into one emerald eye. Damp from the melting snow, the hair stuck to his skin. He didn’t seem to notice. “But I am certain these will murder Paris before willingly carrying him inside.” As if he were the only intelligent life form left in existence, William splayed his arms. “And the problem with that? He’ll still be inside, exactly where he wants to be. And by the way,” he added, blinking at Paris with lashes so long they should have belonged to a girl. “Your new permanent eyeliner is very pretty. You’ll make a good-looking corpse.” Do not react. He did, and the teasing about his ash/ambrosia tattoos would never end. “Thanks.” “I prefer the lip liner, though. A nice little feminine touch that really makes your eyes pop.” “Again, thanks,” he gritted. He wants us! Stupid demon. William grinned. “Maybe we can make out later. I know you want me.” Tell him yes! Not another word out of you, or— “Paris? Warrior?” Zacharel said. “Are you listening to me?” “No.” Zach nodded, apparently not the least offended. “I enjoy your honesty, though I believe you suffer from what the humans call ADD.” “Oh, yeah. I definitely have attention deficient demon.

If in fact your time to be called before God, you typically won't know it. Sometimes you will, and these are the hardest of times: When the blood pours from your nose and down your throat, clogging it, causing you to spit and gag. You heave for breath in the smoke and dust. Your equipment seems to suffocate you. You wipe the salty sweat and grime from your eyes, only to realize that it is blood, either yours or that of the enemy. You would stand, but you can't move your legs. You grasp the open, gaping wounds in your body, trying not to pass out from the pain. You feel the anger thinking of the loved ones you will never see again, and losing your life infuriates your soul. You rage to get to your feet and grab for a weapon, any weapon. Regardless of your race, culture, or religion, you want to die standing, fighting like a warrior, an American, so others won't have to. For those looking for a definition, this is the price of freedom.

Father of the Constitution,” said: “The accumulation of all power – legislative, executive, and judiciary – in the same hands . . . may justly be pronounced the very definition of tyranny.

You won this part of the battle—you let me sink and I drowned in the thoughts you put in my head. …but I came back to life… I am a new person. You’ve made me stronger. I am a warrior and I am most definitely a survivor. You had me fighting and beating myself up day and night, around the clock, for years. You are the reason why I was battling myself. I made myself my own worst enemy.

The Warrior archetype is hard-wired into our brain structure. Socialization means repression, which only keeps aggressiveness in an all the more volatile, compressed, and explosive form. But aggression is not, in and of itself, a bad thing. In many ways legitimate aggression contributes vitally to our lives. In aggression we find our drives for life, career, social contact, self-definition, and service. Perseverance and fidelity are products of the Warriors determination. Though the Lover initiates a relationship, it is the Warrior who maintains it-without the Warrior the Lover is merely promiscuous. The answer then is not to banish any of the archetypes, but to work on achieving the maturity necessary to manage them.

Definite atonement is beautiful because it tells the story of the Warrior-Son who comes to earth to slay his enemy and rescue his Father’s people. He is the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep, a loving Bridegroom who gives himself for his bride, and a victorious King who lavishes the spoils of his conquest on the citizens of his realm.

Hey, what are you doing with your hand?”   Eli’s voice came out high pitched in surprise, as she clutched at Rafe’s shoulders. “It’s the best place for leverage if you’re going to make that ladder.” “My ass?  Really?” “What can I say, I’ve done the math, factored in the weight and height ratios and your ass is definitely where I will gain the most leverage in lifting you.

Definitively categorizing oneself as a switch (or as anything, really) should only be done after accumulating considerable experience in the lifestyle, getting at least a few deep and lasting D/s relationships under your belt, and after a great deal of reflection and self-exploration. Adopting the label of a “Switch” should never be the result of a “default” classification for those who are simply unsure about their D/s orientation.

He removed his hat, something a wizard doesn't ordinarily do unless he's about to pull something out of it, and handed it to the Bursar. Then he tore a thin strip off the bottom of his robe, held it dramatically in both hands, and tied it around his forehead. "It's part of the ethos," he said, in answer to their penetratingly unspoken question. "That's what the warriors on the Counterweight Continent do before they go into battle. And you have to shout --" He tried to remember some far-off reading. "-er, bonsai. Yes. Bonsai!" "I thought that meant chopping bits off trees to make them small," said the Senior Wrangler. The Dean hesitated. He wasn't too sure himself, if it came to it. But a good wizard never let uncertainty stand in his way. "No, it's definitely got to be bonsai," he said. He considered it some more then brightened up. "On account of it all being part of bushido. Like...small trees. Bush-i-do. Yeah. Makes sense, when you think about it." "But you can't shout 'bonsai' here." said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "We've got a totally different cultural background. It'd be useless. No one will know what you mean. "I'll work on it, " said the Dean.*

Mandalorians are surprisingly unconcerned with biological lineage. Their definition of offspring or parent is more by relationship than birth: adoption is extremely common, and it’s not unusual for soldiers to take war orphans as their sons or daughters if they impress them with their aggression and tenacity. They also seem tolerant of marital infidelity during long separations, as long as any child resulting from it is raised by them. Mandalorians define themselves by culture and behavior alone. It is an affinity with key expressions of this culture—loyalty, strong self-identity, emphasis on physical endurance and discipline—that causes some ethnic groups such as those of Concord Dawn in particular to gravitate toward Mandalorian communities, thereby reinforcing a common set of genes derived from a wide range of populations. The instinct to be a protective parent is especially dominant. They have accidentally bred a family-oriented warrior population, and continue to reinforce it by absorbing like-minded individuals and groups.

Safe?” he said, a sudden lightness in his tone. “It may or may not be safe, but it will most definitely be worth it.

I refuse to cut the joy from the lives of others in fear I might lose my own. Only the former is definite, and may be controlled. The latter is up to fate.

Some problems screamed Let the big muscly warriors handle this—and killer mutant newborn trolls was definitely one of them.

Raphael, Saint George and the Dragon, 1504-06 It’s hard to talk about what you believe while you are believing it. Fervor reduces thought to shorthand and all we get is an icon. Give a man a weapon and you have a warrior. Put him on a horse and you have a hero. The weapon is a tool. The horse is a metaphor. Raphael painted this twice—white horse facing east against the greens, white horse facing west against the yellows. The maiden flees or prays, depending. A basic dragon, the kind you’d expect from the Renaissance. Evidence of evil but not proof. There’s a companion piece as well: Saint Michael. Paint angels, it’s easier: you don’t need the horse. Michael stands on Satan’s throat, vanquishing, while everything brown burns red. All these things happened. Allegedly. When you paint an evil thing, do you invoke it or take away its power? This has nothing to do with faith but is still a good question. Raphael was trying to say something about spirituality. This could be the definition of painting. The best part of spirituality is reverence. There are other parts. Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice. If you don’t believe in the world it would be stupid to paint it. If you don’t believe in God, who are you talking to?

Old age is a crossroad in the sense that it is the point at which two forces cross at right angles. The one force is the unyielding temptation to rest; the other is the determination to go on. If the warrior surrenders to the temptation to rest, the aging process of the body pulls the plug on his personal power, and before long he will have become just as feeble as any average man in his old age. If, on the other hand, the warrior fights off the temptation to rest, he performs yet another miracle, and so brings about a ninety degree shift in his awareness which enables him to enter into that peculiar state termed the definitive journey of a warrior.

Luminet males had definite differences from human ones. They were taller, generally bigger, their bones were denser, but the really big difference was the ability to elongate their tongues. She'd heard about it even before Aeron, but actually feeling it...

And so, for the rest of the day, I learned a few things from Steve. While we were crafting tools, he asked if he could borrow the wooden stick I’d been playing with earlier. I told him it’d be his for the low, low price of just twenty emeralds . . . Yeah. I’m definitely learning.

He burned,his body drawn bow-taut. If he did not sheathe himself soon within his wife's silken depths... She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and candid. "All day I have wanted to...touch you." His dark brows rose. All day? Well that was certainly pleasing but it didn't make his condition any easier to bear. Harshly, he said, "You don't have to ask permission to touch me." She shrugged her lovely, almost bare shoulders. "I know,but under the circumstances..." Her gaze drifted down his body, rather pointedly, he thought. Which definitely did not help matters at all. "You can touch me later," he said and reached for her again. She pressed her palms against his chest, tossed back her gleaming hair, and laughed. Really,he was going to die from this. "Just a little now...please?" Dragon squeezed his eyes shut and reached deep down inside for the control that was so instrinsic a part of his warrior's nature.It had to be in there somewhere.Any moment now he'd stumble across it.

Definitely a warrior. She’s not afraid to level the death blow,” Cope muttered, amusement lacing his tone. “I may miss a lot of things, but one of those will never be how fucking gorgeous you are. Doesn’t matter if you’re covered in grease or flour or have dark circles you’re drowning in. None of it will take away an ounce of your beauty.

The key to warriorship and the first principle of Shambhala vision is not being afraid of who you are. Ultimately that is the definition of bravery: not being afraid of yourself. In the face of the world’s great problems, we can be heroic and kind at the same time. We must try to think how we can help this world. If we don’t help, nobody will. It is our turn to help the world. (p. 10)

I’d better redefine some terms for you. ‘Mind’ is one of those slippery terms like ‘love.’ The proper definition depends on your state of consciousness. Look at it this way: You have a brain that directs the body, stores information, and plays with that information. We refer to the brain’s abstract processes as ‘the intellect.’ Nowhere have I mentioned mind. The brain and the mind are not the same. The brain is real; the mind isn’t. “‘Mind’ is an illusory reflection of cerebral fidgeting. It comprises all the random, uncontrolled thoughts that bubble into awareness from the subconscious. Consciousness is not mind; awareness is not mind; attention is not mind. Mind is an obstruction, an aggravation. It is a kind of evolutionary mistake in the human being, a primal weakness in the human experiment. I have no use for the mind.

Among those troops that I had joined were plenty of regular units with reliable officers, crowds of restless adventurers on the lookout for a fight and with it the chances of loot and relaxation of ordinary rules of conduct. Patriots could not bear the idea of break down of law and order at home and wish to guard the frontiers from the incursion of the Red Flood. There was the Baltic Landswehr, recruited from the local gentry who were determined at all cost to save their 700 year old traditions, their noble and vigorous yet fastidious culture, the Eastern bulwark of German civilization. And there were German battalions consisting of men who wanted to settle in the country who were hungering for land. Of troops desiring to fight for the existing government there were none. The like-minded ones were soon dissociated from general mass which was swept eastwards by crash of Western front. We seemed suddenly to have collected as if a secret signal. We found ourselves apart from the crowd. Knowing neither what we are we sought not gold. The blood suddenly ran hotly through our veins and called us to adventure and hazard. Drove us to wandering and danger. And herded together those of us who realized our profound kinship with one another. We were a band of warriors, extravagant in our demands, triumphantly definite in our decisions. What we wanted we did not know, but what we knew we did not want. To force our way through the prisoning walls of the world. To march over burning field, to stamp over ruins and scattered ashes, to dash recklessly through wild forests, over blasted heaps to push, conquer, eat our way towards the East, to the white hot dark cold land that stretched between ourselves and Asia. Was that what we wanted? I do not know if that was our desire and they was what we did. And the search for reasons why was lost in the tumult of the continuous fighting.

Carnegie dreamed up the Hero Fund himself. For all his ruthlessness as a businessman, he had a soft spot for civility. He disdained football as a sport for savages, so he donated a lake to Princeton University to give athletes another outlet. He was a pacifist and railed against the traditional definition of heroes as warriors. “The false heroes of barbarous man are those who can only boast of the destruction of their fellows,” he wrote. “The true heroes of civilization are those alone who save or greatly serve them.

A villain. The enemy. Sandor watched Sophie tug on her eyelashes—her nervous habit, back in full force. “Nothing is going to happen,” he promised, tucking her blond hair behind her ear with a surprisingly gentle touch for a seven-foot-tall goblin warrior. It definitely helped having Sandor back at her side—especially after almost losing him during the battle on Mount Everest. And Sandor wasn’t the only goblin at Foxfire anymore. Each of the six wings in the main campus building had been assigned its own patrol, with two additional squadrons keeping watch over the sprawling grounds. The Council had also added security throughout the Lost Cities. They had to. The ogres were still threatening war. And in the three weeks since Sophie and her friends had returned from hiding with the Black Swan, the Neverseen had scorched the main gate of the Sanctuary and broken into the registry in Atlantis. Sophie could guess what the rebels had hoped to gain from the elves’ secret animal preserve—they obviously didn’t know that she’d convinced the Council to set the precious alicorns free. But the registry attack remained a mystery. The Councillors kept careful records on every elf ever born, and no one would tell her if any files had been altered or stolen. A bubble popped on Sophie’s head, and Sandor caught the box of Prattles that had been hovering inside. “If you’re going to eat these, I should check them first,” he told her. Sandor’s wide, flat nose scented no toxins in the nutty candy, but he insisted on examining the pin before handing them over. Every box of Prattles came with a special collectible inside, and in the past, the Black

when evangelicals define themselves in terms of Christ’s atonement or as disciples of a risen Christ, what sort of Jesus are they imagining? Is their savior a conquering warrior, a man’s man who takes no prisoners and wages holy war? Or is he a sacrificial lamb who offers himself up for the restoration of all things? How one answers these questions will determine what it looks like to follow Jesus. In truth, what it means to be an evangelical has always depended on the world beyond the faith. In recent years, evangelical leaders themselves have come to recognize (and frequently lament) that a “pop culture” definition has usurped “a proper historical and theological” one, such that today many people count themselves “evangelical” because they watch Fox News, consider themselves religious, and vote Republican. Frustrated with this confusion of “real” and “supposed” evangelicals, evangelical elites have taken pollsters and pundits to task for carelessly conflating the two. But the problem goes beyond sloppy categorization. Among evangelicals, high levels of theological illiteracy mean that many “evangelicals” hold views traditionally defined as heresy, calling into question the centrality of theology to evangelicalism generally.

Tactical ethics, by my own definition, is the moral and ethical armor that accompanies our warriors into battle. It applies to the engaged unit as well as to the individual. The Laws of Land Warfare and theater-specific rules of engagement (ROEs) define the legal combat boundaries within which our warriors must function. Tactical ethics augment these legal constraints. Together, they define the limits and structure—the permissions and the prohibitions—that govern the lethal work of combat. They allow the warrior to take life in the name of his nation and his profession, and they guide him in issues of discrimination and proportionality in the use of force.

He staggers through the forest. The burning forest. Bits of brush smoldering. A stormtrooper helmet nearby, charred and half melted. A small fire burns nearby. In the distance, the skeleton of an AT-AT walker. Its top blown open in the blast, peeled open like a metal flower. That burns, too. Bodies all around. Some of them are faceless, nameless. To him, at least. But others, he knows. Or knew. There—the fresh-faced officer, Cerk Lormin. Good kid. Eager to please. Joined the Empire because it’s what you did. Not a true believer, not by a long stretch. Not far from him: Captain Blevins. Definitely a true believer. A froth-mouthed braggart and bully, too. His face is a mask of blood. Sinjir is glad that one is dead. Nearby, a young woman: He knows her face from the mess, but not her name, and the insignia rank on her chest has been covered in blood. Whoever she was, she’s nobody now. Mulch for the forest. Food for the native Ewoks. Just stardust and nothing. We’re all stardust and nothing, he thinks. An absurd thought. But no less absurd than the one that follows: We did this to ourselves. He should blame them. The rebels. Even now he can hear them applauding. Firing blasters into the air. Hicks and yokels. Farm boy warriors and pipe-fitter pilots. Good for them. They deserve their celebration. Just as we deserve our graves.

Their gazes locked,he said,"I made a mistake." "Confusing your wife with a goat?" What was that he had thought about the difficulty of having a wife who was a truthsayer? He took a breath,let it out slowly, and sent with it a prayer. "There was a time-a brief time-when I considered you might be guilty." Truth. Rycca smiled. She freed her hands, cupped them to his face,and rose on her toes to touch her mouth to his. "What is that for?" he asked, caught between relief and bewilderment. Likely she would always keep him so off balance and likely he would always be glad of it for truly fortune smiled upon him. A great knot seemed to be untangling in his chest. "For believing me." "I only briefly didn't," he repeated. "No,I mean for believing I am a truthsayer." "And you know that because-" She laughed and took his hand again. "Because you are a wise and canny man, Lord Dragon. You could as easily have insisted you never even flirted with the thought that I might be guilty and thereby saved yourself what must surely have been an uneasy moment for a husband." He was slightly stung but not too much, for her ready forgiveness was as a balm over all else. "Generally speaking, I do tell the truth for its own sake." "I never thought otherwise. And I would be as truthful with you. Last night, I realized suddenly that I was not afraid. All things considered, that was rather ridiculous but it was how I felt nonetheless." The knot was definitely gone. Indeed, a great warmth seemd to suffuse him. If a woman who had every reason to fear Vikings could be tied to a punishment post by her own Viking husband and not be afraid, that could mean only one thing. "You trust me." "And you trust me." At that moment, looking down at her, his face held nothing of the mighty warrior and jarl. He looked instead like a boy handed the world. She wanted only to give it to him again and again. "I would say," Rycca murmured, "that for a rocky beginning, we are managing well enough." It was an incongruously happy note upon which to discuss a dead man.

Over the years I have seen the power of taking an unconditional relationship to life. I am surprised to have found a sort of willingness to show up for whatever life may offer and meet with it rather than wishing to edit and change the inevitable...When people begin to take such an attitude, they seem to become intensely alive, intensely present. Their losses and suffering have not caused them to reject life, have not cast them into a place of resentment, victimization, or bitterness. From such people, I have learned a new definition of the word 'joy.' I had thought joy to be rather synonymous with happiness, but it seems now to be far less vulnerable than happiness. Joy seems to be part of an unconditional wish to live, not holding back because life may not meet our preferences and expectations. Joy seems to be a function of the willingness to accept the whole, and to show up to meet with whatever is there. It has a kind of invincibility that attachment to any particular outcome would deny us. Rather than the warrior who fights toward a specific outcome and therefore is haunted by the specter of failure and disappointment, it is the lover drunk with the opportunity to love despite the possibility of loss, the player for whom playing has become more important than winning or losing. The willingness to win or lose moves us out of an adversarial relationship to life and into a powerful kind of openness. From such a position, we can make a greater commitment to life. Not only pleasant life, or comfortable life, or our idea of life, but all life. Joy seems more closely related to aliveness than happiness. The strength that I notice developing in many of my patients and in myself after all these years could almost be called a form of curiosity. What one of my colleagues calls fearlessness. At one level, of course, I fear outcome as much as anyone. But more and more I am able to move in and out of that and to experience a place beyond preference for outcome, a life beyond life and death. It is a place of freedom, even anticipation. Decisions made from this perspective are life-affirming and not fear-driven. It is a grace.

Life sometimes is like tossing a coin in the air calling heads or tails, but it doesn’t matter what side it lands on; life goes on. It is hard when you’ve lost the will to fight because you’ve been fighting for so long. You are smothered by the pain. Mentally, you are drained. Physically, you are weak. Emotionally, you are weighed down. Spiritually, you do not have one tiny mustard seed of faith. The common denominator is that other people’s problems have clouded your mind with all of their negativity. You cannot feel anything; you are numb. You do not have the energy to surrender, and you choose not to escape because you feel safe when you are closed in. As you move throughout the day, you do just enough to get by. Your mindset has changed from giving it your all to—well, something is better than nothing. You move in slow motion like a zombie, and there isn’t any color, just black and white, with every now and then a shade of gray. You’ve shut everyone out and crawled back into the rabbit hole. Life passes you by as you feel like you cannot go on. You look around for help; for someone to take the pain away and to share your suffering, but no one is there. You feel alone, you drift away when you glance ahead and see that there are more uphill battles ahead of you. You do not have the option to turn around because all of the roads are blocked. You stand exactly where you are without making a step. You try to think of something, but you are emotionally bankrupt. Where do you go from here? You do not have a clue. Standing still isn’t helping because you’ve welcomed unwanted visitors; voices are in your head, asking, “What are you waiting for? Take the leap. Jump.” They go on to say, “You’ve had enough. Your burdens are too heavy.” You walk towards the cliff; you turn your head and look at the steep hill towards the mountain. The view isn’t helping; not only do you have to climb the steep hill, but you have to climb up the mountain too. You take a step; rocks and dust fall off the cliff. You stumble and you move forward. The voices in your head call you a coward. You are beginning to second-guess yourself because you want to throw in the towel. You close your eyes; a tear falls and travels to your chin. As your eyes are closed the Great Divine’s voice is louder; yet, calmer, soothing; and you feel peace instantly. Your mind feels light, and your body feels balanced. The Great Divine whispers gently and softly in your ear: “Fallen Warrior, I know you have given everything you’ve got, and you feel like you have nothing left to give. Fallen Warrior, I know it’s been a while since you smiled. Fallen Warrior, I see that you are hurting, and I feel your pain. Fallen Warrior, this is not the end. This is the start of your new beginning. Fallen Warrior, do not doubt My or your abilities; you have more going for you than you have going against you. Fallen Warrior, keep moving, you have what it takes; perseverance is your middle name. Fallen Warrior, you are not the victim! You are the victor! You step back because you know why you are here. You know why you are alive. Sometimes you have to be your own Shero. As a fallen warrior, you are human; and you have your moments. There are days when you have more ups than downs, and some days you have more downs than ups. I most definitely can relate. I was floating through life, but I had to change my mindset. During my worst days, I felt horrible, and when I started to think negatively I felt like I was dishonoring myself. I felt sick, I felt afraid, fear began to control my every move. I felt like demons were trying to break in and take over my life.

When Nietzsche made his famous definition of tragic pleasure he fixed his eyes, like all the other philosophers in like case, not on the Muse herself but on a single tragedian. His “reaffirmation of the will to live in the face of death, and the joy of its inexhaustibility when so reaffirmed” is not the tragedy of Sophocles nor the tragedy of Euripides, but it is the very essence of the tragedy of Æschylus. The strange power tragedy has to present suffering and death in such a way as to exalt and not depress is to be felt in Æschylus’ plays as in those of no other tragic poet. He was the first tragedian; tragedy was his creation, and he set upon it the stamp of his own spirit. It was a soldier-spirit. Æschylus was a Marathon-warrior, the title given to each of the little band who had beaten back the earlier tremendous Persian onslaught.

The president-elect did take the threats seriously. Either he or his friend, Illinois’s new governor, Richard Yates—likely operating with Lincoln’s consent—sent the state’s adjutant general, Thomas Mather, to Washington to discuss the troubling rumors with Winfield Scott. In the bargain, Lincoln hoped that Mather might also learn definitively whether the ancient, Southern-born general could himself be relied upon to remain loyal to the Union in the event the secession crisis widened to include his native state of Virginia. In the capital, the “old warrior, grizzly and wrinkled…breathing [with]…great labor,” wheezed in reply to Mather’s inquiries that Lincoln could confidently “come to Washington as soon as he is ready.” Scott promised to “plant cannon on both ends of Pennsylvania avenue, and if any of them [secessionists] show their faces or raise a finger I’ll blow them to hell.” Mather returned home to “assure Mr. Lincoln that, if Scott were alive on the day of the inauguration, there need be no alarm lest the performance be interrupted by any one.

Take off your clothes. Better yet, I’ll do it.” “Oh, no!” She stepped back quickly in alarm, which prompted a swift frown from him. It vanished when Rycca said, “I saw how you manhandled that tunic. You aren’t about to do the same to this gown. Just wait a moment . . .” Even as she spoke, she deftly undid the laces down the side of the garment and lifted it carefully but quickly over her head. Her husband was in a mood, ridden by tension she could not understand. She wanted to placate him, yet she also wished to surrender to the urges he so effortlessly unleashed within her. Naked save for the gauzy chemise that hid nothing from his eyes, she stood before him, her head lifted proudly to conceal the quivering she felt within. She gloried in his gaze, hot and potent, raking over her. But when he reached for her, she stepped back again. “I ask a boon, lord.” She had never asked him for anything—save freedom and that he could not give. Caught, knowing he could hardly refuse, Dragon rasped, “What?” He had not meant to be so curt but speech was almost beyond him. He wanted her with a desperation he had never felt before save every time he lay with her, and even then he usually managed to maintain some semblance of control. Not now. He burned, his body drawn bow-taut. If he did not sheathe himself soon within his wife’s silken depths . . . She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and candid. “All day I have wanted to . . . touch you.” His dark brows rose. “All day?” Well, that was certainly pleasing but it didn’t make his condition any easier to bear. Harshly, he said, “You don’t have to ask permission to touch me.” She shrugged her lovely, almost bare shoulders. “I know, but under the circumstances . . .” Her gaze drifted down his body, rather pointedly, he thought. Which definitely did not help matters at all. “You can touch me later,” he said and reached for her again. She pressed her palms against his chest, tossed back her gleaming hair, and laughed. Really, he was going to die from this. “Just a little now . . . please?” Dragon squeezed his eyes shut and reached deep down inside himself for the control that was so intrinsic a part of his warrior’s nature. It had to be in there somewhere. Any moment now he’d stumble across it.

He glanced at Dehstroy, covered from head to toe in leather, courtesy Behr’s closet. He was still on the light side, his body still recovering from decades of torture and being held in a constant state of near starvation while being kept virtually immobile, chained to a dirty, rat feces-covered floor, but he was beginning to fill out now. His muscles were definitely more defined, he thought, catching a hint of pectoral outline through the black cotton T. But, Behr thought, he didn’t compare to his own thick, robust frame. “What are you grinning about over there?” Dehstroy asked, and Behr wiped his expression clear. “Were you just checking me out?” “What are you babbling about?” Flipping back his duster, Behr double checked his-hip holster, counting his blades, making sure everything was in its place. Definitely not trying to avoid the question. “Something you need to tell me?” Arching a thick brow, Dehstroy flashed a toothy, mocking smile his way. “Yeah, I was just wondering if you were an A cup or a B.” He shrugged. Looking down at his chest, Dehstroy adopted a thoughtful expression, then lifted his hands and cupped his pecs. “Nah, you’re way off. Definitely a C cup.

You mentioned that Palermo, the part of Buenos Aires where you were brought up, had been a violent place full of bohemians and bandits. There they had two names for the knife, ‘the blade’ and ‘the slicer’. The two names described the same object, but ‘the blade’ was the thing itself, and ‘the slicer’ described its function. ‘The blade’ could fit in the hand even of a sickly child shut up in his father’s library, ‘the blade’ could be any of the superannuated daggers and swords belonging to his warrior grandfather or great-grandfather and displayed on the walls of his house, but ‘the slicer’, the knife in the hand slicing back and forth, in and out, existed only in his imagination, in a fascinating world of rapid settlings of accounts and duels over honor, an insult or a woman, in dark street where you never went, where no writer went, except in the literature he wrote. ‘I’ve always felt that in order to be a great writer, one should have the experience of life at sea, which is why Conrad and Melville and, in a way, Stevenson, who ended his days in the South Seas, were better than all of us, Vogelstein. At sea, a writer flees from the minor demons and faces only the definitive ones. A character in Conrad says that he has a horror of ports because, in port, ships rot and men go to the devil. He meant the devils of domesticity and incoherence, the small devils of terra firma. But I think that having experience of “the slicer” would give a writer the same sensation as going to sea, of spectacularly breaking the bounds of his own passivity and of his remoteness from the fundamental matters of the world.’ ‘You mean that if the writer were to stab someone three times, he could allege that he was merely doing so in order to improve his style.’ ‘Something like that. Soaking up experience and atmosphere.’ ‘It’s said that the artist Turner used to have himself lashed to the ship’s mast during storms at sea so that he could make sure he was getting the colours and details of his painted vortices right.’ ‘And it worked. But neither you nor I will ever experience “the slicer”, Vogelstein. We are condemned to “the blade”, to the knife purely as theory. Even if we used “the slicer” against someone, we would still be ourselves, watching, analyzing the scene, and, therefore, inevitably, holding “the blade” in our hand. I don’t think I could kill anyone, apart from my own characters. And I don’t think I would feel comfortable at sea either. There aren’t any libraries at sea. The sea replaces the library.

The Israelites called Yahweh “the God of our fathers,” yet it seems that he may have been quite a different deity from El, the Canaanite High God worshipped by the patriarchs. He may have been the god of other people before he became the God of Israel. In all his early appearances to Moses, Yahweh insists repeatedly and at some length that he is indeed the God of Abraham, even though he had originally been called El Shaddai. This insistence may preserve the distant echoes of a very early debate about the identity of the God of Moses. It has been suggested that Yahweh was originally a warrior god, a god of volcanoes, a god worshipped in Midian, in what is now Jordan.17 We shall never know where the Israelites discovered Yahweh, if indeed he really was a completely new deity. Again, this would be a very important question for us today, but it was not so crucial for the biblical writers. In pagan antiquity, gods were often merged and amalgamated, or the gods of one locality accepted as identical with the god of another people. All we can be sure of is that, whatever his provenance, the events of the Exodus made Yahweh the definitive God of Israel and that Moses was able to convince the Israelites that he really was one and the same as El, the God beloved by Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

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.

On the other side of the mountain, Drizzt Do'Urden opened his eyes from his daytime slumber. Emerging from the cave into the growing gloom, he found Wulfgar in the customary spot, poised meditatively on a high stone, staring out over the plain. "You long for your home?" the drow asked rhetorically. Wulfgar shrugged his huge shoulders and answered absently, "Perhaps." The barbarian had come to ask many disturbing questions of himself about his people and their way of life since he had learned respect for Drizzt. The Drow was an enigma to him, a confusing combination of fighting brilliance and absolute control. Drizzt seemed able to weigh every move he ever made in the scales of high adventure and indisputable morals. Wulfgar turned a questioning gaze on the drow. "Why are you here?" he asked suddenly. Now it was Drizzt who stared reflectively into the openness before them. The first stars of the evening had appeared, their reflections sparkling distinctively in the dark pools of the elf's eyes. But Drizzt was not seeing them; his mind was viewing long past images of the lightless cities of the drow in their immense cavern complexes far beneath the ground. "I remember," Drizzt recalled vividly, as terrible memories are often vivid, "'the first time I ever viewed this surface world. I was a much younger elf then, a member of a large raiding party. We slipped out from a secret cave and descended upon a small elven village." The drow flinched at the images as they flashed again in his mind. "My companions slaughtered every member of the wood elf clan. Every female. Every child." Wulfgar listened with growing horror. The raid that Drizzt was describing might well have been one perpetrated by the ferocious Tribe of the Elk. "My people kill," Drizzt went on grimly. "They kill without mercy." He locked his stare onto Wulfgar to make sure that the barbarian heard him well. "They kill without passion." He paused for a moment to let the barbarian absorb the full weight of his words. The simple yet definitive description of the cold killers had confused Wulfgar. He had been raised and nurtured among passionate warriors, fighters whose entire purpose in life was the pursuit of battle-glory - fighting in praise of Tempos. The young barbarian simply could not understand such emotionless cruelty. A subtle difference, though, Wulfgar had to admit. Drow or barbarian, the results of the raids were much the same. "The demon goddess they serve leaves no room for the other races," Drizzt explained. "Particularly the other races of elves." "But you will never come to be accepted in this world," said Wulfgar. "Surely you must know that the humans will ever shun you." Drizzt nodded. "Most," he agreed. "I have few that I can call friends, yet I am content. You see, barbarian, I have my own respect, without guilt, without shame." He rose from his crouch and started away into the darkness. "Come," he instructed. "Let us fight well this night, for I am satisfied with the improvement of your skills, and this part of your lessons nears its end." Wulfgar sat a moment longer in contemplation. The drow lived a hard and materially empty existence, yet he was richer than any man Wulfgar had ever known. Drizzt had clung to his principles against overwhelming circumstances, leaving the familiar world of his own people by choice to remain in a world where he would never be accepted or appreciated. He looked at the departing elf, now a mere shadow in the gloom. "Perhaps we two are not so different," he mumbled under his breath.

That is one definition of the setting-sun mentality: trying to conquer the earth so that you can ward off reality

He opened the car door. She followed him and started to climb into the car but stopped. She saw her image in the car window. A goddess. Her breath caught, heartbeat quickened. She couldn't pull away from her reflection. It was as if the warrior goddess had emerged, and she looked less human, more dangerously beautiful. Stanton seemed to know what had stopped her. "That's how I've always seen you," he said. "Since the first night." Her head jerked around and she caught something in his eyes before they turned hard again. It wasn't her imagination this time. She definitely saw something gentle and caring.

Hey, how was I supposed to know that it wasn’t in good taste to throw the full bottle out the window? And I certainly hadn’t noticed the car behind us or I definitely wouldn’t have risked throwing what amounted to a piss-bomb at their windshield. Even Toby couldn’t have screwed up that magnificently, I had to admit.

Every morning and evening at Lakefield, the fruit bats would come and go from the trees near our campsite. During the day, you could hear them in the distance as they squabbled over territory. Each fruit bat wanted to jockey for the best position on a branch. But when evening came, as if by silent agreement, all the bats knew to fly off at the same time. Steve grabbed me and the kids one evening just at dusk, and we went out into the river to watch the bats. I would rank that night as one of the most incredible experiences of my life, right up there with catching crocs and swimming with manatees. Sitting at dusk with the kids in the boat, all of a sudden the trees came alive. The bats took flight, skimming over the water to delicately dip for a drink, flying directly over our heads. It was as if we had gone back in time and pterodactyls flew once again. It was such an awe-inspiring event that we all fell quiet, the children included. The water was absolutely still, like an inky mirror, almost like oil. Not a single fish jumped, not a croc moved. All we heard were the wings of these ancient mammals in the darkening sky. We lay quietly in the bottom of the boat, floating in the middle of this paradise. We knew that we were completely and totally safe. We were in a small dinghy in the middle of some of the most prolifically populated crocodile water, yet we were absolutely comfortable knowing that Steve was there with us. “One day, babe,” Steve said softly to me, “we’ll look back on wildlife harvesting projects and things like croc farming the same way we look back on slavery and cannibalism. It will be simply an unbelievable part of human history. We’ll get so beyond it that it will be something we will never, ever return to.” “We aren’t there yet,” I said. He sighed. “No, we aren’t.” I thought of the sign Steve had over his desk back home. It bore the word “warrior” and its definition: “One who is engaged in battle.” And it was a battle. It was a battle to protect fragile ecosystems like Lakefield from the wildlife perpetrators, from people who sought to kill anything that could turn a profit. These same people were out collecting croc eggs and safari-hunting crocodiles. They were working to legalize a whole host of illicit and destructive activities. They were lobbying to farm or export everything that moved, from these beautiful fruit bats we were watching, to magpie geese, turtles, and even whales.

One day, babe,” Steve said softly to me, “we’ll look back on wildlife harvesting projects and things like croc farming the same way we look back on slavery and cannibalism. It will be simply an unbelievable part of human history. We’ll get so beyond it that it will be something we will never, ever return to.” “We aren’t there yet,” I said. He sighed. “No, we aren’t.” I thought of the sign Steve had over his desk back home. It bore the word “warrior” and its definition: “One who is engaged in battle.” And it was a battle. It was a battle to protect fragile ecosystems like Lakefield from the wildlife perpetrators, from people who sought to kill anything that could turn a profit. These same people were out collecting croc eggs and safari-hunting crocodiles. They were working to legalize a whole host of illicit and destructive activities. They were lobbying to farm or export everything that moved, from these beautiful fruit bats we were watching, to magpie geese, turtles, and even whales.

One day, babe,” Steve said softly to me, “we’ll look back on wildlife harvesting projects and things like croc farming the same way we look back on slavery and cannibalism. It will be simply an unbelievable part of human history. We’ll get so beyond it that it will be something we will never, ever return to.” “We aren’t there yet,” I said. He sighed. “No, we aren’t.” I thought of the sign Steve had over his desk back home. It bore the word “warrior” and its definition: “One who is engaged in battle.” And it was a battle.

I thought of the sign Steve had over his desk back home. It bore the word “warrior” and its definition: “One who is engaged in battle.

Most of the old Indian dances had very definite purposes. The Hopi Snake Dance and other dances of the Southwest were prayers for rain. Some dances were for healing purposes, some were for pleasure, some were for death, and some were for marriages. In the old days the Indians danced the war dance to incite the warriors before they went into battle. When the braves returned, victory dances were held to celebrate their success. Authentic Indian dances were never intended for general public entertainment. Many of the dances were very long and drawn out. For instance, the Sun Dance went on continuously day and night for several days until the dancers dropped from fatigue. This dance, by the way, is still practiced among certain tribes but has been modified considerably.

Strength doesn’t always mean a woman never cries or has a breakdown, or a woman who never gives an inch to man because that could be interpreted as her being weak. But it definitely means a woman who quietly rebuilds her life after it is shattered through no fault of her own. You’re a fucking warrior, Snow.

The little boy touched his dust-streaked hand to Loretta’s hair and made a breathless “ooh” sound. He smelled like any little boy who had been hard at play, a bit sweaty yet somehow sweet, with the definite odor of dog and horse clinging to him. Blackbird concentrated on Loretta’s blue eyes, staring into them with unflinching intensity. The younger girl ran reverent fingertips over the flounces on Loretta’s bloomers, saying, “Tosi wannup,” over and over again. Loretta couldn’t help but smile. She was as strange to them as they were to her. She longed to gather them close and never let go. Friendly faces and human warmth. Their giggles made her long for home. With a throat that responded none too well to the messages from her brain, Loretta murmured, “Hello.” The sound of her own voice seemed unreal--an echo from the past. “Hi, hites.” Blackbird linked her chubby forefingers in an unmistakable sign of friendship. “Hah-ich-ka sooe ein conic?” Loretta had no idea what the child had asked until Blackbird steepled her fingers. “Oh--my house?” Loretta cupped a hand over her brow as if she were squinting into the distance. “Very far away.” Blackbird’s eyes sparkled with delight, and she burst into a long chain of gibberish, chortling and waving her hands. Loretta watched her, fascinated by the glow of happiness in her eyes, the innocence in her small face. She had always imagined Comanches, young and old, with blood dripping from their fingers. A deep voice came from behind her. “She asks how long you will eat and keep warm with us.” Startled, Loretta glanced over her shoulder to find Hunter reclining on a pallet of furs. Because he lay so low to the floor, she hadn’t seen him the first time she’d looked. Propping himself up on one elbow, he listened to his niece chatter for a moment. His eyes caught the light coming through the lodge door, glistening, fathomless. “You will tell her, ‘Pihet tabbe.’” Trust didn’t come easily to Loretta. “What does that mean?” A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “Pihet, three. Tabbe, the sun. Three suns. It was our bargain.” Relieved that she hadn’t dreamed his promise to take her home, Loretta repeated “pihet tabbe” to Blackbird. The little girl looked crestfallen and took Loretta’s hand. “Ka,” she cried. “Ein mea mon-ach.” “Ka, no. You are going a long way,” Hunter translated, pushing to his feet as he spoke. “I think she likes you.” He came to the bed and, with an indulgent smile, shooed the children away as Aunt Rachel shooed chickens. “Poke Wy-ar-pee-cha, Pony Girl,” he said as he scooped the unintimidated toddler off the furs and set her on the floor. His hand lingered a moment on her hair, a loving gesture that struck Loretta as totally out of character for a Comanche warrior. The fragile child, his rugged strength. The two formed a fascinating contrast. “She is from my sister who is dead.” Nodding toward the boy, he added, “Wakare-ee, Turtle, from Warrior.” Loretta didn’t want the children to leave her alone with their uncle. She gazed after them as they ran out the lodge door.

The tall warrior angel described joy as living on the edge of a huge laugh motivated by a constant awareness of the presence of God. I cannot help but smile thinking about that definition. I experience that feeling even today as I recall my experience in Heaven.

You’re really giving up everything you’ve worked for for love?” he scoffed like that made no sense to him at all and I hissed at him. “If you’re ever lucky enough to find what I have found, then you will realise you would give up everything to keep it,” I spat and his eyes widened, clearly thinking I was mad, but I knew what real madness was now. Remaining in my past, alone with no one to care for but myself was the definition of it.

It was enough to know that once they reached his place, she was his for another night. Every inch of his body liked that idea—especially certain inches that were definitely making their demands known right now. If he spent much more time in Lena’s company, he was going to have to buy looser jeans to keep from causing permanent damage to himself. He’d love to see the expression on her face if he were to tell her that one. Maybe he would later, just to hear her laugh.

scenes from the Legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table many lovely pictures have been painted, showing much diversity of figures and surroundings, some being definitely sixth-century British or Saxon, as in Blair Leighton’s fine painting of the dead Elaine; others—for example, Watts’ Sir Galahad—show knight and charger in fifteenth-century armour; while the warriors of Burne Jones wear strangely impracticable armour of some mystic period. Each of these painters was free to follow his own conception, putting the figures into whatever period most appealed to his imagination; for he was not illustrating the actual tales written by Sir Thomas Malory, otherwise he would have found himself face to face with a difficulty. King Arthur and his knights fought, endured, and toiled in the sixth century, when the Saxons were overrunning Britain; but their achievements were not chronicled by Sir Thomas Malory until late in the fifteenth century. Sir Thomas, as Froissart has done before him, described the habits of life, the dresses, weapons, and armour that his own eyes looked upon in the every-day scenes about him, regardless of the fact that almost every detail mentioned was something like a thousand years too late. Had Malory undertaken an account of the landing of Julius Caesar he would, as a matter of course, have protected the Roman legions with bascinet or salade, breastplate, pauldron and palette, coudiére, taces and the rest, and have armed them with lance and shield, jewel-hilted sword and slim misericorde; while the Emperor himself might have been given the very suit of armour stripped from the Duke of Clarence before his fateful encounter with the butt of malmsey. Did not even Shakespeare calmly give cannon to the Romans and suppose every continental city to lie majestically beside the sea? By the old writers, accuracy in these matters was disregarded, and anachronisms were not so much tolerated as unperceived. In illustrating this edition of “The Legends of King Arthur and his Knights,” it has seemed best, and indeed unavoidable if the text and the pictures are to tally, to draw what Malory describes, to place the fashion

that the willingness to die for another person was a special, maybe even unique, form of love – one that even religions failed to inspire. The experience of it changes a person profoundly, and permanently. What researchers and Army psychologists had slowly come to understand, but what any grunt in a foxhole with his squad works out in five minutes, is that courage in war simply is love – nothing more, and definitely nothing less. It was love that made warriors sacrifice for each other, even give their lives for each other, in a split-second, without hesitation. Courage was simply love made visible. In combat, neither could exist without the other. They were just different ways of saying the same thing. An old adage had it that warriors didn’t fight because of hatred for what was in front of them – but because of love for what was behind them. Ali, however, and everyone she had ever served with, would say that was bullshit. They fought for love of those to either side of them.

Which image do you prefer?” he asked, although his smug smile warned her he already knew the answer. “Definitely the duster.” She leaned closer to him. “But if there wasn’t a lot more to you than good taste in clothing, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.” His smiled widened. “Thanks. Can we go inside now? I’m a little old to be making out in a car.” “Where’s your sense of adventure?” she teased. His gaze turned hot and a little predatory. “Come inside and I’ll show you, and anything else you’re interested in.

This is definitely ‘a moment.’ Do either of you have a camera?” “Mom, a camera is not something I carry around in my purse. However, all is not lost. Nik has one in her car. I’ll scoot over there and get it.” Nikki fished in her pocket and tossed her the keys.

And as for Twin Moons—the home planet of Deep and Lock—she definitely didn’t want to go there. Because that was exactly where the twin warriors wanted to take her. Earlier, on the Kindred Mother ship, she’d caught a few snatches of thought from them that indicated they were homeward bound—and they wanted her to come with them. Not on your life! Kat thought, watching from above as Lock held her hand and Deep steered the shuttle through the blackness of space. Once they got me there, I’d never get away from them. Talk about having the home field advantage! But

What type of authority held together such an evidently organized, uniform and widespread society, if it truly did manage to prosper without palaces, royal graves, temples, powerful rulers and even priests? Why does the Indus civilization offer no definitive evidence for warfare, in the form of defensive fortifications, metal weapons and warriors – a situation without parallel in war-addicted ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt and China, not to mention all subsequent civilizations? Was

But maybe she’d have herself a little adventure in there somewhere. Maybe on her cruise, on one of her trips. Not with this kind of man, of course. He was too mature, for one thing. One look convinced her—he knew everything about men and women, while she knew very little. He looked a little dangerous and very, very physical. Scary. He had that warrior appearance, complete with tattoos. The sight of him bare-chested had rattled her, but the big horse beneath her had given her plenty of confidence. His shoulders were so large, strong and muscular, and he had a barbed-wire armband tattooed on his rippling left biceps. His belly was flat and hard with a trail of chest hair that disappeared into his jeans. The stubble along his jaw made his grin a little taunting and definitely naughty; it had made her shiver. And he had an aura of carelessness. He would take a bite of her, then pitch her out, forgetting her before morning. But while Shelby had looked him over, everything inside her had grown warm. Something about him, a forbidden quality, was absolutely delicious. Even the damn dirt looked good on him. Despite her common sense, she wondered, wouldn’t that be interesting? And her very next thought was, no, no, no, not him! My adventure will come in a polo shirt, cheeks as smooth as a baby’s butt, styled hair, no tattoos and hopefully an advanced degree. Not some scary Black Hawk pilot who has a Ph.D. in one-night stands! *

The Tools of Witchcraft 10 The Tools and Symbols of Streg 1eria Many people have noticed the resemblance of the witches' tools to the armor and weapons of a Knight. There is a definite connection, and any true `Witch must (to some degree) be a Spiritual `Warrior. This is equally true of anyone who walks a magickal path in life.

In the midst of escaping from Imperial warriors was definitely the wrong time to be mentally undressing flying women.

There are probably as many different definitions of leadership as there are roles for leaders. There are civic leaders, political, religious and academic leaders. There are “captains” of industry and “skippers” of sports teams. There are leaders by achievement, assignment or necessity. Some leaders are official, others just emerge. Some lead by insignia, some by action, some by both. Some lead in public and some, like the head of a family, lead in private. There are at least ten different theories of leadership and ten times ten books on how to lead. Despite this complexity of characterizing leadership, or more precisely effective leadership, there is one indisputable reality, a requirement common to all those who would effect successful action. They have the ability to handle crisis because they possess the necessary skills to remain calm and functional when others are rendered confused or overwhelmed by difficult circumstances.

Well?” Baird gestured again, obviously waiting for her to precede him but still Liv hung back. “Uh…I think I forgot something on the ship,” she said, backing away. “Do you mind if I go get it?” “You didn’t bring anything to forget.” There was a definite hint of impatience in the deep, growling voice. “Are you coming in or not?” “I choose not.” Liv shook her head. “I just…I don’t think so. No thanks.” Baird looked at her with obvious disbelief. “You have to come in—this is where I live. Where else would you stay?” “Um—well, do you guys have guest rooms or anything like that? I mean, it’s a big ship so you must have someplace else, right?” Liv was feeling more and more nervous and it wasn’t just the fact that he was big and dangerous and scary looking. She had a feeling that if she went into his suite, that she might not come out again as the same person. That somehow being near him twenty-four/seven for the next month would change her, make her lose control. “Olivia, you can’t stay in the guest quarters. You’re my bride and this is our claiming period.” The big warrior was practically growling with impatience. “What’s the problem?” “How can you ask me that?” she flared at him, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. “You stand there staring at me like I’m an antelope and you’re a really hungry lion and you’ve told me about twelve times how you can’t wait to get me in bed, or up against the wall, or anywhere at all for that matter. And now you want to know why I’m scared to go into a dark room and be alone with you? What do you think I am—crazy?” He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I can’t believe this. Haven’t I told you I would never hurt you?” Liv frowned up at him. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure about your definition of ‘hurt.’ I mean, forced sex isn’t always painful but just because it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it isn’t rape.” “Is that what you think of me? That I want to take you by force?” He swooped down on her suddenly, eyes blazing a molten gold. Liv backed up but before she knew it she was pinned against one cold metal wall with his thick, muscular arms on either side of her and his face inches from hers. “Well what am I supposed to think?” she demanded, hoping her voice didn’t tremble too much. “You can think whatever you want, Olivia, but you should know one thing.” He leaned even closer, his hot breath stirring her hair as he murmured in her ear. “When I take you—because I will take you—make no mistake about that,” he said, cutting off her protest. “When I do, I promise you’ll want it every bit as bad as I do. You’ll beg for it, Linlenta. Beg to have my shaft inside you, filling you up as I bond you to me forever.” “You arrogant bastard.” Liv narrowed her eyes at him. “You must have a pretty high opinion of yourself if you think I’ll welcome you with open arms and beg for more.” “It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact.

The biggest challenge men face is to be the kind of man who operates in contrast to the world’s definition of man. There is intense conflict between the two, and what our society desperately needs is for more men to step up and become warriors of strength and grace.

year with his original mentor at Castle Redmont, learning the finer points of the warrior’s craft. “Well,” he said at length, “to assault a castle, you need siege engines, of course.” “Siege engines?” Will repeated. He knew vaguely what Horace was talking about. He knew definitely that he didn’t have any. “Catapults. Mangonels. Trebuchets. The sort of things that throw rocks and giant spears and dead cows at the defenders and batter down the walls.” “Dead cows?” Will interrupted. “Why would you throw dead cows at the walls?” “You throw them over the walls. It’s supposed to spread disease and lower the defenders’ morale,” Horace told him. Will shook his head. “I don’t suppose it does much for the cows’ morale either.” Horace frowned at him, feeling they were getting off the point. “Forget the dead cows. You throw boulders and such to breach the walls.” Another

The Way insists that you learn to use the enemy’s strength as your own. The only reason a warrior is alive is to fight, and the only reason a warrior fights is to win.

encountered yesterday, you will crumble in the face of adversity. Nothing in life ever stays the same for long – you are always either headed on an uphill or downhill trajectory. Quite simply, if today is easier than yesterday, you are headed on a downhill trajectory by definition. If you wish to continue climbing until you reach your current goals and set new ones, you need to live by the motto of yesterday being your last easy day.

definition. If you wish to continue climbing until you reach your current goals and set new ones, you need to live by the motto of yesterday being your last easy day.

Feel the sadness without drowning in it MY teacher Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche once said: “Hold the sadness and pain of samsara in your heart and at the same time the power and vision of the Great Eastern Sun. Then the warrior can make a proper cup of tea.” The notion of holding the sadness and pain of samsara in my heart rang true, but I realized I didn’t do that; at least, I had a definite preference for the power and vision of the Great Eastern Sun—the quality of being continually awake. If you can live with the sadness of human life (what Rinpoche often called the tender heart or the genuine heart of sadness), if you can be willing to feel fully and acknowledge continually your own sadness and the sadness of life, but at the same time not be drowned in it, because you also remember the vision and power of the Great Eastern Sun, you experience balance and completeness, joining heaven and earth, joining vision and practicality.

a ‘zipper kid.’  I encourage you to take the pictures anyway.  Here is a picture I had taken myself, definitely not photographer quality, of Brody with his little oxygen up his nose and the IV up on his head. Within a few hours, the ambulance arrived from Kansas City to transport Brody up to Children’s Mercy.  I was sitting with him when the EMT’s arrived and reluctantly handed him over so they could put him in his new spaceship of a bed to transport him in the ambulance. 

You mean the lady –’ ‘– who just left, yes. Otrera, our first queen, daughter of Ares.’ ‘Mars?’ Hylla made a sour face. ‘No, definitely Ares. Otrera lived long before Rome, in a time when all demigods were Greek. Unfortunately, some of our warriors still prefer the old ways. Children of Ares … they are always the worst.

You can do something You can move forward You have a lot of courage You can change the world. Do not give up on yourself Never lose confidence in yourself. You leave the path of lies To walk on the path of truth. A lot of trouble comes in life Just face it. You are the future of the country Always remember this thing. Be confident You will be able to complete every task Keep your efforts up You will definitely succeed one day. You did something like this, Let the whole world sing your virtues. You become that of greats, Greatness also falls short. You dare to do so much, Bend the sword of the brave warrior also. You become so true Your name should be taken after Harishchandra.

Who was PFC Huzu, Sergeant?” asked MakRaven. The kneeling man just shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse and husky. “Just some kid who wanted to be a legionnaire,” he whispered. MakRaven heard that. Knew it. Had seen it more times than he could remember. Some kid from all the worlds of the galaxy, showing up scared and determined to be the one percent of the one percent of the one percent. Something honorable. A warrior without peer. He himself must have been that kid. Long ago. Then the old man he had become, who had seen all the things he had seen, spoke. “Well…” he said. “He definitely was that. He definitely was a legionnaire.

What was your college major?" "Criminal justice." She slid a hand down into the back of his pants and gripped a naked butt cheek. "I wanted to be an attorney. Do something for the greater good." He hissed in a breath as she slid that hand forward. "And now?" She smiled against his warm mouth. "I just want to be bad." He could definitely help with that.

These Germanic peoples live and move in hordes, or tribes, or whatever we may call them. They have some sort of kings, and something in the nature of a general assembly, which all men capable of bearing arms attend. But we should be chary of supposing anything properly answering to a state institution as understood among civilized people The king has no real authority; the warriors obey him to-day, and tum their back on him defiantly to-morrow; one day. their kings may lead them forth on any reckless enterprise; the next, they may be scattering, despite his orders, and in defiance of all political prudence, to their separate homes. And in their assembly, the method of procedure is simply that he who can use the most persuasive words wins over all the rest The warriors clash their weapons, and the matter is decided. They are like children in regard to coaxing and gifts. but fickle and ungovernable in regard to anything like obligation. indisposed to recognize any definite rule and order.

Yeah, with her singed clothes and all her wounds over her body, she could definitely make it to battle and kill a few giants (wink).

Panic is there to help us. As it is for many other animals, panic is our mind and body telling us to do something. Fight or flight. Run from the predator or fight the predator. But a supermarket is not a bear or a wolf or a cave-dwelling warrior. You can’t fight a supermarket. You can definitely run from one, but that will only increase your chance of having a panic attack the next time you have to go there. It might not just be that supermarket either. If you start playing the avoidance game, it might soon be all supermarkets that become triggers. Then all shops. Then the outside world.

There was probably something wrong with me, which I’ve known for a while, but it was really being hammered home lately. I had gotten used to sleeping with the snake who was now my roommate. Whenever I went to bed at night, it would slither underneath the covers with me and curl around my body as though it was trying to suck out all my warmth. Snakes were cold blooded. That meant its body was cold. I used to shiver every night and try to push it off my bed, but now I’d gotten so used to it that I’d wake up to find myself hugging it like it was a large pillow. Something was definitely wrong with me.

So as I’m walking up and down the grocery aisles, I notice this distinct, mildewy, putrid odor following me. And I keep looking around for the responsible party, until I discover that she is me. I stink. When I get home, Craig rolls out of bed to help me with the groceries and I say “Honey, smell me. I stink.” And he sniffs my shirt and says without surprise, “Yes, you do.” And I say “Well, what IS that? It’s disgusting.” And he says the following: “It’s mildew. All our clothes smell like that. We always stink.” I’ll just give you a few seconds to digest that information. I know I needed a little time. “WHAT? WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME, HUSBAND?” “I was scared to tell you. You get sensitive about …. housekeeping stuff.” “Oh. So let me clarify here. You’d rather reek all day at work and allow Chase to be THE STINKY KID IN CLASS than risk me getting mad? “Yes. Yes, I would. Definitely.

The most famous definition of the basic divisions in Proto-Indo-European society was the tripartite scheme of Georges Dumézil, who suggested that there was a fundamental three-part division between the ritual specialist or priest, the warrior, and the ordinary herder/cultivator. Colors might have been associated with these three roles: white for the priest, red for the warrior, and black or blue for the herder/cultivator; and each role might have been assigned a specific type of ritual/legal death: strangulation for the priest, cutting/stabbing for the warrior, and drowning for the herder/cultivator.

She wasn’t quite sure they had the same definition of friend that she did. But Gavriel looked at her from head to toe and back up again, then at Rowan, and said, “Be careful when you face Maeve. We’ll have given our reports by then.” Rowan’s stormy expression didn’t improve. “Travel swiftly,” he said, and kept walking. Celaena lingered, studying the Fae warrior, the glimmer of sadness in his golden eyes. Like Rowan, he was enslaved to Maeve—and yet he thought to warn them. With the blood oath, Maeve could order him to divulge every detail, including this moment. And punish him for it. But for his friend …

That was definitely a growl,” Plofnid added. “Perhaps some coffee? It’s direct from Earth.

His blue blush deepened, and he gave an embarrassed shrug. “Yeah, I did. I want you to have whatever you most want.” And isn’t that the truest definition of love that exists? the voice inside my mind insisted.

His gaze searched mine, and again I pushed back the insistent voice clamoring inside my head, repeating its new definition. Love: wanting the best for someone else even if it means you don’t get what you want.

The left don't attack racism, they attack the race, which of course is the definition of racism. They have this idea that no matter what is done or said to white people, it is not racism. That is their mentality.