Warrior Princess Quotes

Young girls are told you have to be the delicate princess. Hermione taught them that you can be the warrior.

...Often the hardest person to fight for is... yourself. But you must. Your heart is needed. You must be present and engaged in order to love well and fight on behalf of others. Without you, much will be lost." Chapter 11 "Warrior Princess

she was too much of a warrior to be considered a princess she never cared for the crown she preferred a sword

A warrior may change his metal, but not his heart.

Watch my sword, not my face!'he said. 'I'm going to stab you, not bite you!

I wish I could say that I suddenly discovered my inner warrior princess and expertly leaped at Archer, weapon hoisted high, teeth bared.That would have been cool. Instead I raised the stake to about shoulder height and took two, maybe three shuffling steps forward.

I grunted. “She’s not a delicate princess,” I said. “She’s a warrior. Warriors have enemies. Sometimes warriors get hurt.” I felt my jaws clench. “And then their friends even things up.

A Warrior Princess Submissive seeks not just a Dominant; she seeks a Dominant’s Dominant.

ONCE UPON A time, there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. He loved each of them dearly. One day, when the young ladies were of age to be married, a terrible, three-headed dragon laid siege to the kingdom, burning villages with fiery breath. It spoiled crops and burned churches. It killed babies, old people, and everyone in between. The king promised a princess’s hand in marriage to whoever slayed the dragon. Heroes and warriors came in suits of armor, riding brave horses and bearing swords and arrows. One by one, these men were slaughtered and eaten. Finally the king reasoned that a maiden might melt the dragon’s heart and succeed where warriors had failed. He sent his eldest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon listened to not a word of her pleas. It swallowed her whole. Then the king sent his second daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon did the same. Swallowed her before she could get a word out. The king then sent his youngest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, and she was so lovely and clever that he was sure she would succeed where the others had perished. No indeed. The dragon simply ate her. The king was left aching with regret. He was now alone in the world. Now, let me ask you this. Who killed the girls? The dragon? Or their father?

You must have the courage to face what happened today and to live with it in your heart and to use the memory of it to grow and be strong.

While her knight doesn’t necessarily have to be fighting on the same side as the Warrior Princess Submissive, he does need to be a fighter, and he had better be damn good at it.

The War Has Been Declared. Your Ally Been Ensnared. It Is Now Or It Is Never. Break The Code Or Die Forever. Time Is Running Out Running Out Running Out To the Warrior Give My Blade By His Hand Your Fate Is Made But Do Not Forget the Ticking Or the Clicking, Clicking, Clicking While a Rat's Tongue May Be Flicking With Its Feet It Does the Tricking For the Paw and Not the Jaw Makes the Code of Claw Time Is Standing Still Standing Still Standing Still Since the Princess Is the Key To Unlock the Treachery She Cannot Avoid the Matching or the Scratching, Scratching, Scratching When a Secret Plot is Hatching In the Naming Is the Catching What She Saw, It Is the Flaw Of the Code of Claw Time is Turning Back Turning Back Turning Back When the Monster's Blood Is Spilled When the Warrior Has Been Killed You Must Not Ingore the Rapping Or the Tapping, Tapping, Tapping If the Gnawers Find you Napping You Will Rot While They Are Mapping Out the Law of Those Who Gnaw In the Code of Claw

What did she say?” asked Matthias. Nina coughed and took his arm, leading him away. “She said you’re a very nice fellow, and a credit to the Fjerdan race. Ooh, look, blini! I haven’t had proper blini in forever.” “That word she used: babink,” he said. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?” Nina directed her attention to a stack of paper-thin buttered pancakes. “It means sweetie pie.” “Nina—” “Barbarian.” “I was just asking, there’s no need to name-call.” “No, babink means barbarian.” Matthias’ gaze snapped back to the old woman, his glower returning to full force. Nina grabbed his arm. It was like trying to hold on to a boulder. “She wasn’t insulting you! I swear!” “Barbarian isn’t an insult?” he asked, voice rising. “No. Well, yes. But not in this context. She wanted to know if you’d like to play Princess and Barbarian.” “It’s a game?” “Not exactly.” “Then what is it?” Nina couldn’t believe she was actually going to attempt to explain this. As they continued up the street, she said, “In Ravka, there’s a popular series of stories about, um, a brave Fjerdan warrior—” “Really?” Matthias asked. “He’s the hero?” “In a manner of speaking. He kidnaps a Ravkan princess—” “That would never happen.” “In the story it does, and”—she cleared her throat—“they spend a long time getting to know each other. In his cave.” “He lives in a cave?” “It’s a very nice cave. Furs. Jeweled cups. Mead.” “Ah,” he said approvingly. “A treasure hoard like Ansgar the Mighty. They become allies, then?” Nina picked up a pair of embroidered gloves from another stand. “Do you like these? Maybe we could get Kaz to wear something with flowers. Liven up his look.” “How does the story end? Do they fight battles?” Nina tossed the gloves back on the pile in defeat. “They get to know each other intimately.” Matthias’ jaw dropped. “In the cave?” “You see, he’s very brooding, very manly,” Nina hurried on. “But he falls in love with the Ravkan princess and that allows her to civilize him—” “To civilize him?” “Yes, but that’s not until the third book.” “There are three?” “Matthias, do you need to sit down?” “This culture is disgusting. The idea that a Ravkan could civilize a Fjerdan—” “Calm down, Matthias.” “Perhaps I’ll write a story about insatiable Ravkans who like to get drunk and take their clothes off and make unseemly advances toward hapless Fjerdans.” “Now that sounds like a party.” Matthias shook his head, but she could see a smile tugging at his lips. She decided to push the advantage. “We could play,” she murmured, quietly enough so that no one around them could hear. “We most certainly could not.” “At one point he bathes her.” Matthias’ steps faltered. “Why would he—” “She’s tied up, so he has to.” “Be silent.” “Already giving orders. That’s very barbarian of you. Or we could mix it up. I’ll be the barbarian and you can be the princess. But you’ll have to do a lot more sighing and trembling and biting your lip.” “How about I bite your lip?” “Now you’re getting the hang of it, Helvar.

Gear up, Warrior Princess. We've got some adventuring to do.

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.

She can be a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, inside a conundrum, rolled in a frito burrito. In other words, a total freaking mystery to anyone who isn't gifted with mind-reading abilities.

She instinctively knows that each pretender she eliminates brings her one step closer to the One, and in fact, it is not unusual to hear her use this exact terminology: The One. You can almost hear the Capitalization as she says it.

Pity the poor novice Dominant who attempts to “break” or “discipline” a Warrior Princess Submissive without her explicit consent. The best case result in that scenario is likely to involve a great deal of frustration and humiliation for him. The worst-case outcome is a little too gruesome to contemplate.

No, my career as a warrior princess, short as it had been, was over, I thought morosely. Violence only works if you're good at it. Otherwise, it hurts too much.

She may, in fact, love you; she may want you, but she will rarely admit to ever needing you.

When you fear nothing, you have nothing to fear

I kind of felt like a new kind of princess. A warrior princess, ready to swing her battle-ax through hordes of the fashion-challenged and the socially unfortunate.

I rest my forehead against hers, and we sit in a comfortable silence, translating our love through touch. The Princess and the Warrior, I decide in my head. When they tell the story of tomorrow, that is what they shall call it.

Fairy tale ‘adaptations’ are usually stripped of every moral and lesson the stories were originally intended to teach, and replaced with singing and dancing forest animals. I recently read that films are being created depicting Cinderella as a struggling hip-hop singer and Sleeping Beauty as a warrior princess battling zombies!” “Awesome,” a student behind Alex whispered to himself. Alex

She will reveal herself as a submissive to a stunned and suddenly perplexed world, announcing for all to hear, "This is who and what I am. I am a submissive. I am happy and fulfilled in my relationship as a submissive. You loved and respected me ten minutes ago... What do you think of me now?

They should have warned you that little princesses grow up to be red rocks and raging seas, fire dragons and warrior queens.

The Warrior Princess Submissive herself may be uncertain of her own submissive nature, so it is entirely understandable that the Dominant seeking to woo her might be somewhat tentative, himself. If the Dominant has even the tiniest iota of doubt about his own dominance or his D/s relationship skills, he is doomed. He will be eaten alive, and not in a good way.

I understand that you belittle all sentiments of generosity and kindness, but I do not, and I can convince your most doughty warrior that these characteristics are not incompatible with an ability to fight.

Despite the fact that living a BDSM lifestyle carries with it a certain social stigma, recent studies seem to indicate that BDSM may actually be good for you.

But it would be wise." "I've never been known for my wisdom,

That part is kind of fuzzy, because then I went all Xena Warrior Princess on his ass.

Her intensity often surprises and mystifies the people within the Warrior Princess Submissive's circle of associates. They will occasionally forget how deeply she feels and believes in her causes and, as a result, suddenly find themselves being pummeled in a debate that they hadn't expected, nor wanted.

My first thought is to tell him to take his "help" and shove it so far between his [butt] cheeks he'll waddle down the road—I stopped speaking like a princess the day I began training as a warrior—but I bite my lip.

A typical submissive lives to serve. She likely grew up believing that service to the people you care for is how you express your love for them. It had little or nothing to do with relationship dynamics, sex, kink, or anything anywhere near that complicated. It is a simple, sweet principle of love: If you care for someone, you do nice things for that person. It makes you feel better, it makes him feel better, and it makes the world - or at least your little corner of it - a better place for a time.

There is a pernicious notion held by many that being a submissive means being a victim or a doormat. The so-called Fifty Shades phenomenon gives this repulsive lie some very long legs, spreading it far and wide and giving it unwarranted credibility. This fallacy must be exposed for what it is. It is a despicable lie that mischaracterizes and tarnishes millions of good people living a healthy and enjoyable lifestyle. At the same time, it undermines the feminist cause, promotes rape culture, and ultimately revictimizes true victims of the very real problems of sexual abuse and violence in this country.

When the mere act of being in a D/s relationship or engaging in BDSM activities reaches a societal tipping point where it is no longer simply socially unacceptable, it becomes borderline criminal, an amazing thing will begin to happen. Some Warrior Princess Submissives will drop their stealth cloaks and step out of the shadows to defend the lifestyle and the Dominants that they love. They will do this, despite their intense fears and despite a whole host of other very real hardships that will ensue because they are, above all else, loyal to their Dominants. They will do it because they are righteous crusaders who aren't afraid to fight the good fight, no matter how unpopular or untenable their positions might seem. They will do it because they are the only ones who can.

Ah yes, a certain degree of rebelliousness is expected from youth. It is why we have stories of treasure-seeking princesses and warrior women that end with the occasional happiness. But they are expected to end—with the boy, the prince, the sailor, the adventurer. The man that will take her maidenhood, grant her children, make her a wife. The man who defines her. He may continue his epic—he may indeed take new wives and make new children!—but women’s stories are expected to dissolve into a fog of domesticity . . . if they’re told at all.

But as Luca slid into my passenger seat to accept my offer of a ride home, the most pressing question was already weighing heavy on my mind. What does a warrior princess wear for her first day on the throne?

Sometimes, I think our lifestyle has become the victim of a “World of Kinkcraft” gamer mentality, where people just want to download a cheat sheet or a step-by-step walk-through. Many newcomers yearn to "learn the rules" of the lifestyle as quickly as possible, so they can get right to "winning the game." These are relationships, people. Real BDSM relationships, involving real people with real feelings, living really complicated lives. If this was easy, everyone would be doing it. Stop looking for shortcuts and easy answers.

When it comes to loving D/ s relationships, the three little words mostly likely to have a significant , positive, and lasting impact on your partner’s well-being is probably “I love you.” Once we venture beyond that simple three-word endearment, however, the competition gets much stiffer. If I had to predict a winner in the four little words category, I’d choose “I believe in you.” When a Dominant believes in his submissive, she eventually grows to believe in herself. That sort of empowerment is priceless beyond measure, and almost always bears sweet fruit.

And then a strong gust blew against her, and her feet slipped just slightly. She jerked forward against the railing, ever so softly. But, rotten, it crumbled like paper, and May and Kitty went sliding forward, right through it. May scrambled to stop herself, but it was too late. They slid a few more feet, then fell off the edge of the roof. They looked like blackbirds faliing out through the sky.

If I had to describe the Ineffable Sub, I'd say she was... indescribably delicious! No, wait. That's Lucky Charms.

The only criterion for an Ineffable Sub's eclectic mélange of traditions from multiple submissive categories should be this only: Does it work for her?

You look like a princess. One with the heart and skill of a warrior.

You aren’t angry,” he said. “That she’s hurt.” “Like hell I’m not,” I said. “It’s coming. After we take care of her. When it’s time.” Michael grunted. “You aren’t more angry than you would be if it was me. Or Butters, here.” I grunted. “She’s not a delicate princess,” I said. “She’s a warrior. Warriors have enemies. Sometimes warriors get hurt.” I felt my jaws clench. “And then their friends even things up.

The Warrior Princess Submissive is - at least in my humble opinion - quite possibly destined to be the hope and salvation of the D/s lifestyle from an ever-increasing wave of attacks by a small cadre of radical feminists and misandrists who seek to equate D/s with misogyny.

I suppose we should contact the local authorities?” said Wilbur. “I’m a princess,” said Harriet. “We’re in the hamster kingdom. I kinda am the authorities.” “Yeah, but you’re more a hitting-things-with-a-sword princess than a rehabilitating-villains princess.” “Being hit with a sword can be very rehabilitating, under the right circumstances.

Yeah, well you remember this big man. I’m the princess of The Fallen MC, not some sniffling Disney nitwit without the means to save herself. I’m a warrior princess, the kind that’ll cut off your balls and serve them for fuckin’ tea, you feel me? So next time you threaten me, why don’t you remember that?

She was tall and stout with a firm jaw and a glossy platinum braid sitting on each shoulder. She was wearing denim overalls, a blue T-shirt, and lots of rings and gold bangle bracelets. I imagined her with one of those horned helmets that cartoon opera singers always wear. Nona’s very own Warrior Princess.

He picked up the small painting of the frozen forest and examined it again. “I’ve had many lovers,” he admitted. “Females of noble birth, warriors, princesses …” Rage hit me, low and deep in the gut at the thought of them—rage at their titles, their undoubtedly good looks, at their closeness to him. “But they never understood. What it was like, what it is like, for me to care for my people, my lands. What scars are still there, what the bad days feel like.” That wrathful jealousy faded away like morning dew as he smiled at my painting. “This reminds me of it.” “Of what?” I breathed. He lowered the painting, looking right at me, right into me. “That I’m not alone.” I didn’t lock my bedroom door that night.

KitKat 13:18:45: Who would your ideal prince be? Your childhood friend, Prince Charming, or a strong warrior? Gallows Humor 13:19:10: I don’t want to know which Disney Princess I am. I’ve told you before, stop doing online quizzes. Leave it. Gallows Humor 13:22:19: He would love me for myself. KitKat 13:22:57: Tell me about your dress.

She isn’t simply unafraid of a good fight, she lives for it, and will often actively go looking for a fight. This is what differentiates your run-of-the-mill fighter from a crusader. The Warrior Princess Submissive is no shrinking violet. She is that dyed-in-the-wool Republican who attends the Democratic National Convention wearing a Rand Paul t-shirt. She is the African-American woman who invites herself to a Ku Klux Klan rally without a hood... and hands out business cards to everyone there. She is the woman who invites the Jehovah's Witnesses into her home and feeds them dinner, just for the opportunity to defend Christmas - even though she may be a Pagan. When the other girls in high school or college were trying out for the pep squad or cheerleading, she set her sights on the debate team. While her friends agonize over how to “fit in” socially, she is war gaming ideas on how to change society to fit her ideals and principles. Are you someone she considers to be immoral or evil? Run. She will eviscerate you.

Some people believe that it isn’t so much power that is exchanged in TPE, as it is authority. The intrinsic difference between power and authority can best be explained thusly: If we were talking about a car, then power would be what was under the hood. Exercising that power would mean taking the car out for a spin. Having the authority to do so might involve a driver’s license, possessing the keys, or having the title and registration.

In our time women can demonstrate prowess in a thousand ways. Long ago the great Princess Sun of Ping fought for her father, the August Sovereign. At her funeral, His Majesty called for the trumpets and drums to be sounded, an honor reserved for men. My dear, from this day you must dress her as a boy. Give her an education worthy of her own determination.

The LORD will send a blessing on your barns and on everything you put your hand to. The LORD your God will bless you in the land he is giving you. DEUTERONOMY 28:8

Severus let slip a slight smile. His predictions were coming to pass. Now, she was ready.

Wow, put the girl through a couple of days of high-level stress, dress her in black leather and give her a gun, and suddenly she went all Xena: Warrior Princess.

Fierce scars suited warrior princesses.

And though, truly, she sometimes felt like something inside her had disappeared, it seemed that must be a natural part of growing up. Standing out too much made one feel too alone to do it forever.

How foolish I had been to think everything would work out, just like in the books I had read: the lost child found by his mother, the monster defeated by a valiant warrior, the princess saved by the prince. But I was no princess and fairy tales did not exist for the likes of me, not even in heaven.

Alec answered her, “You do know that it’s disturbing that you know all that, right? We thought you were some go-hard; take no prisoners, don’t-look-at-me-or-I’ll-bust-a-cap-in-your-ass, warrior.” She balled her hands up by her hips and barked in annoyance, “Well I wasn’t raised on G.I. Joes, you know! Mama raised me on princesses and fairy tales, I just happened to end up liking the swords better than the shoes in the stories, okay?” ~ Jenna

For the Warrior Princess Submissive, her feminism is less about “talking the talk,” and more about “walking the walk.” She doesn’t have to wear her feminism on her sleeve; she exudes it from every pore and typically demonstrates it in practically everything she does. No, the issue - when it comes to the Warrior Princess’ feminism - isn’t whether or not she is a feminist; it’s about how she reconciles her feminism with her submission and how she is perceived by those around her.

Doesn’t matter whether you’re a baker’s wife or a whore or a princess—if you have the strength, you can take a lover, write a motet, lead an army, rule a country. Women have. Not all, granted, but some. And we adore them, don’t we? In theory. We make statues of warrior women, paint them on our ceilings—goddesses with shields and togas and one fair breast exposed so there can be no doubt. The palaces of Europe are covered in them. The Opéra stages, too, for that matter. Yet most women I know—no matter how clever, no matter how strong—are dragged down by husbands or fathers or titles or too many petticoats, or priests clutching at their hems, telling them, ‘No, you cannot do that, you cannot be that.’ I never listened. That’s rare.

Michael watched my face closely as we carried her. “What?” I asked. “You aren’t angry,” he said. “That she’s hurt.” “Like hell I’m not,” I said. “It’s coming. After we take care of her. When it’s time.” Michael grunted. “You aren’t more angry than you would be if it was me. Or Butters, here.” I grunted. “She’s not a delicate princess,” I said. “She’s a warrior. Warriors have enemies. Sometimes warriors get hurt.” I felt my jaws clench. “And then their friends even things up.” “Damned right they do,” Butters said.

Bodkin was feeling surprisingly gloomy for now it was all over — he was a hero no more — just an ordinary assistant body guard. It had been one stolen day, one glorious 24-hours where he could ride and fight beside a princess just as if he were her equal and a proper warrior himself.

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.

Head on the crown and feet on the crowd, That's how the French Revolution started. Kings too proud, and people who bowed, That's never a good tale to get mparted. An evolution needs a revolution, A revolution leads to a solution, People have to follow intuition, Then it will all come to fruition.

...whoever would offer her injury or insult in the future must figure on making a full accounting to me. I understand that you belittle all sentiments of generosity and kindliness, but I do not, and I can convince your most doughty warrior that these characteristics are not incompatible with an ability to fight.

Warning: Contains a Norman warrior with a thirst for justice, a Welsh rebel princess with second sight and a steady bow hand, magical prophecies, and a plot of royal proportions.

For once, I’m the one looking down at the three men still sitting on the floor. A savage princess among the warriors of her kingdom. It’s time for me to get to work and end this.

Only the weak of heart threaten those who cannot fight back, Angor of Doeth Palas," he said.

I asked myself, 'What would Branwen do in these circumstances?'" He smiled. "The answer came very easily." "Then perhaps such questions are better left unasked," retorted Branwen.

She was not a rebel princess, shattering enemy castles and killing kings. She was a force of nature. She was a calamity and a commander of immortal warriors of legend.

Kings have the power to stop wars. The power to start wars too.

I'm not just a Princess, I'm a warrior.

It seemed, when all was said and done, that all souls were a little wild, in some way or another.

she wears her fears, embroidered to perfection. she wears the darkness like a dress. she slays her demons and still looks like a princess

Make no mistake about it, a perfect storm is forming, and it's coming our way. Its sudden onset and fierce intensity will surprise even its most vocal proponents and cheerleaders. Many people who are now in the fetish lifestyle will vainly leap into the fray, foolishly thinking that this will be an orderly battle of opposing ideas that can be fought civilly and rationally. They will quickly learn that they are tragically wrong in this assumption, and many of them will pay a terrible price emotionally, socially, and financially as a result.

Patrick West.” Nick spoke so quietly the words were hardly more than a soft exhalation. “Student. Swimmer. Fan of lurid supernatural romances, €linore, and BadMadRad. Casual gamer. Admirer of Jaguar, fictional warrior princesses, and soprano witch queens. Lover of historical buildings. Idealist who wants to build cities where people can live well. Owner of strong opinions he never hesitates to defend, no matter how obviously wrong. Quick to laugh. Spontaneous and unselfconscious, except when he thinks too much, or tries too hard. Talks too much, with hardly any filter between the brain and the mouth. Adaptable. Outgoing. Unreserved. Loud. Talented. Whole-hearted. Foolhardy. Stronger than he thinks. Wiser than he seems.

Although Branwen had no patience for dry lists of names and dates, she had always loved the thrilling tales of the old wars that were told and retold around the hearth in the Great Hall of Garth Milain.

Almost all these [Amerindian] societies took pride in their ability to adopt children or captives – even from among those whom they considered the most benighted of their neighbours – and, through care and education, turn them into what they considered to be proper human beings. Slaves, it follows, were an anomaly: people who were neither killed nor adopted, but who hovered somewhere in between; abruptly and violently suspended in the midpoint of a process that should normally lead from prey to pet to family. As such, the captive as slave becomes trapped in the role of ‘caring for others’, a non-person whose work is largely directed towards enabling those others to become persons, warriors, princesses, ‘human beings’ of a particularly valued and special kind. As these examples show, if we want to understand the origins of violent domination in human societies, this is precisely where we need to look. Mere acts of violence are passing; acts of violence transformed into caring relations have a tendency to endure.

The “death” of the Hero is the “death” of boyhood, of Boy psychology. And it is the birth of manhood and Man psychology. The “death” of the Hero in the life of a boy (or a man) really means that he has finally encountered his limitations. He has met the enemy, and the enemy is himself. He has met his own dark side, his very unheroic side. He has fought the dragon and been burned by it; he has fought the revolution and drunk the dregs of his own inhumanity. He has overcome the Mother and then realized his incapacity to love the Princess. The “death” of the Hero signals a boy’s or man’s encounter with true humility. It is the end of his heroic consciousness.

And you're ready to fight dressed like that?" Belet stopped. "Dressed like what?" "You're wearing unicorn footie pajamas, Belet." "So?" "You have a tail and a horn. They're pink." I tried to be diplomatic about this. "It's just not a look I associate with you. I was expecting something more Xena, Warrior Princess than...Disney Princess." She flicked the horn on her hood. "But unicorns are the deadliest, fiercest, and most bloodthirsty of all creatures, both mundane and supernatural. Their kill rate is six times higher than a dragon's....... One stab with a unicorn's horn and it's over. Doesn't matter how big and scaly you are.

I won’t even try to pretend to know what bugs think about during sex, but right about the time the male praying mantis is probably thinking that he’s quite the stud, the female does something pretty surprising. Yes, even for horny, bat-shit-crazy, homicidal copulating bugs. Once she has had enough of copulating, she moves on to the next phase, which is masticating. No, not masturbating... masticating. This is a fancy-schmancy word for chewing. She chews his head off. And no, I don’t mean like, “Why didn’t you bring me flowers and chocolate?” Oh, no. She literally bites his head off... and here’s where it gets really interesting: She eats it.

She smiled up at him playfully. 'Well, I guess in that case, it's a good thing I've just been told I need a warrior hero for my husband. Apparently, that's what the kingdom wants. For myself, I want a man who's strong and loyal and good. And, even more importantly, one who brings out the good in me. One who'll make me into a better queen. And I think you might be the only man for the job.

She walked to the doorway and looked up at the sky; even with the dust she could see Hormozd, the large red planet, just beginning to sink behind the mountains. On the other side of the sky, the heavens were a shade lighter than they had been just a while ago. The sun was preparing to rise. "I will do what needs to be done." "Of course, Princess. You would... you would make the warriors of old proud.

The Princess with Two Kingdoms.” At first the mom felt annoyed, because she had spent their whole lives trying to persuade her daughters not to want to be princesses—she hoped they’d want to be warriors. And because the girls loved their mom, of course they did as she wanted, or at least pretended to, then did the exact opposite, because it’s the duty of children not to pay the slightest bit of attention to their parents.

Even if she could have got so far without a quarrel, still there would have been a great hue and cry about the marriage itself. First, it never happened. Secondly, how could there be a marriage between a princess of the Warrior Caste and a boy of the priestly Brahman Caste? Her readers would have imagined at once that the writer was preaching against our social customs in an underhand way. And they would write letters to the papers.

You want to know who the strongest man in the Kabuki District is? You must be new in town. You won't last long with that attitude. Forget it. This town is on a whole different level. You got thugs, brawlers, vigilantes and rogue warriors from all over Edo here. It's like a haven for hooligans. This is for your own good. Have a drink and go back to the countryside. What's that? You want me to tell you about the top dogs before you go? You really like this stuff. First, there are four monsters on a level of their own: The Fierce and Divine Madamoiselle Saigo, Doromizu Jirocho the Gallant, Peacock Princess Kada and Empress Otose. The four factions are in a standoff which preserves a fragile balance of power. Who would be the strongest in a fight? You wouldn't be able to even scratch those beasts. Saigo and Jirocho in particular, were heroes during the Joui War. Well, they're too old to go on a tear now. If you want someone who's currently active, there's Katsuro Kuroguma, a young leader in the Doromizu Faction. He's the most feared man in Kabuki District right now. You'll also find a few former Joui in Saigo's Faction. There are rumours about Kada's Faction having ties to some crazy folk. Otose's Faction? It's just a bar, really. She's just an old lady with a soft heart. But if you try any funny business on her turf, you'll run into a certain guy. A guy who holds his own against the Big Three by himself. One hell of a monster, with hair that's completely white. A demon...

The grasslands are endless, And summer sings on, And Goldmoon the princess Loves a poor man’s son. Her father the chieftain Makes long roads between them: The grasslands are endless, and summer sings on. The grasslands are waving, The sky’s rim is gray, The chieftain sends Riverwind East and away, To search for strong magic At the lip of the morning, The grasslands are waving, the sky’s rim is gray. O Riverwind, where have you gone? O Riverwind, autumn comes on. I sit by the river And look to the sunrise, But the sun rises over the mountains alone. The grasslands are fading, The summer wind dies, He comes back, the darkness Of stones in his eyes. He carries a blue staff As bright as a glacier: The grasslands are fading, the summer wind dies. The grasslands are fragile, As yellow as flame, The chieftain makes mockery Of Riverwind’s claim. He orders the people To stone the young warrior: The grasslands are fragile, as yellow as flame. The grassland has faded, And autumn is here. The girl joins her lover, The stones whistle near, The staff flares in blue light And both of them vanish: The grasslands are faded, and autumn is here.

When the choice lies between the ultra-feminine and the virago, Shakespeare’s sympathy lies with the virago. The women of the tragedies are all feminine—even Lady Macbeth (who is so often misinterpreted as a termagant), especially Gertrude, morally unconscious, helpless, voluptuous, and her younger version, infantile Ophelia, the lustful sisters, Goneril and Regan opposed by the warrior princess Cordelia who refuses to simper and pander to her father’s irrational desire. Desdemona is fatally feminine, but realizes it and dies understanding how she has failed Othello. Only Cleopatra has enough initiative and desire to qualify for the status of female hero.

Often we allow our lives to be run by our Rule Makers, Inner Critics, Pushers, Perfectionists, Pleasers, Responsible Parents, and other selves. When we do, no real choices are available to us. We must continue to live our lives by their rules. We call this collection of primary selves our Operating Ego. When this Operating Ego is in charge, we are not driving our own psychological cars. Instead, they are driven by whichever of our primary selves is the strongest at the moment. Our disowned selves, such as our Boundary Setters, our Fun Lovers, our Daydreamers, our Self-Indulgent Princesses, our Warriors, our Incompetent Oafs, and our Irresponsible Children, are locked securely in the trunk.

He was a strong and noble lord with piercing eyes of grey. He sat upon his noble throne shining like the dawn. His sword flashed like the brightest star. He led our people well. Yet here and now he lays in blood pierced with arrows. He was the friend of many knights. He loved the warrior games. His heart was won by a lady fair for marriage they did wait. A kindly prince, his duty carried him to another's bed. And on her death true love returned, finally they wed. He felt the grief of children lost to murder and to pain. I was the youngest of his blood. I'll never be the same. Here lays my father and my lord. I know not what to say. Except my father and my lord was slain here on this day. Here lays my father and my lord. I know not what to say. Except my father and my lord was slain here on this day….

It’s probably long overdue for us to throw out what we think we know about love. Girls have grown up with too many fairy tale/date movies/romance bodice-rippers racing around in our heads—the warrior with his rippling muscles and the golden-maned damsel clinging to his breeches. The title is something like Savage Heat or Destiny’s Desire. This is the fairy tale world where men and women always orgasm at the same time or where the man wakes the sleeping princess with a kiss, or where the hero slays the dragon and rescues the damsel from a tower, or where, essentially, everyone lives happily ever after and no one writes what happens next. What happens next is that reality sets in. The golden bubble bursts. There are bills to pay. Someone has to walk the dog and clean the cat litter box and go to the grocery store for milk.

Truth is elusive, subtle, manysided. You know, Priscilla, there’s an old Hindu story about Truth. It seems a brash young warrior sought the hand of a beautiful princess. Her father, the king, thought he was a bit too cocksure and callow. He decreed that the warrior could only marry the princess after he had found Truth. So the warrior set out into the world on a quest for Truth. He went to temples and monasteries, to mountaintops where sages meditated, to remote forests where ascetics scourged themselves, but nowhere could he find Truth. Despairing one day and seeking shelter from a thunderstorm, he took refuge in a musty cave. There was an old crone there, a hag with matted hair and warts on her face, the skin hanging loose from her bony limbs, her teeth yellow and rotting, her breath malodorous. But as he spoke to her, with each question she answered, he realized he had come to the end of his journey: she was Truth. They spoke all night, and when the storm cleared, the warrior told her he had fulfilled his quest. ‘Now that I have found Truth,’ he said, ‘what shall I tell them at the palace about you?’ The wizened old creature smiled. ‘Tell them,’ she said, ‘tell them that I am young and beautiful.

This trip would be a lot easier if we had weapons bearers coming with us,” he grumbled, toeing his waiting pile of belongings. He looked rumpled, red-eyed, and hurting, not much of a surprise after all he’d had to drink the previous night. “You’d think every lad in Delphi would jump at the chance to join us on a fabulous quest like this.” “We’ll have weapons bearers when we reach our quest’s start at Iolkos,” Polydeuces told him. “Maybe before. We’ll pass through many cities before we reach Iolkos. Jason hasn’t completed his crew yet.” “I still don’t see why we can’t find any now,” Castor persisted. “It’s a fine opportunity for any boy would hopes to be a warrior someday. They can’t all have kinsmen to teach them about the warrior’s life and how to fight. We’d see to it that they learn how to use the sword and spear and shield they carry for us.” “You don’t have shields,” I pointed out. “We’ll get them in Iolkos!” Castor snapped, then winced and cradled his head tenderly in one hand. “Just as well I don’t have a shield yet: If that scrawny boy’d had the sense to become my weapons bearer, the weight of it would’ve crushed him.” “What scrawny boy?” I asked. “Someone with no stomach for adventure, that’s all,” Polydeuces said, resting one hand on my shoulder. “Not like us, eh, Helen?

Why didn’t they ask two of the guards to go with them?” Milo asked. “A soldier’s not a servant,” I told him. “The most loyal Spartan warrior would be insulted if he was asked to be a weapons bearer, even for a prince. It looks like Castor and Polydeuces will have to take care of themselves.” Milo looked away from me. I was puzzled by this sudden shyness and tried to catch his eye, but he deliberately avoided my gaze. He reeked of guilty secrets. “You’re the one,” I said. “You’re the scrawn--the boy Castor asked to go with him.” His silence was the same as shouting Yes! I knew it. “You just told me you wanted to join the quest for the fleece. You could have done it: Why didn’t you?” “I couldn’t,” he mumbled. “Why not? Because it’s safer to talk about dreams than to try making them real? What are you so afraid of?” “Nothing!” He yelled so fiercely that a pair of oxen grazing in a nearby field snorted and moved farther away from us. It was the first time I ever saw fire in Milo’s eyes. “I’m no coward. That’s not why I wouldn’t go with your brothers. I have to go with you.” “Who said so? You’re free now, Milo. Don’t you know what that means? You can come and go anywhere you like. You ought to appreciate it.” “I appreciate you, Lady Helen!” Once Milo raised his voice, he couldn’t stop. He shouted so loudly that the two oxen trotted to the far side of the pasture as fast as they could move their massive bodies. “You’re the one who gave me my freedom. If I love to be fifty, I’ll never be able to repay you!” Milo’s uproar attracted the attention of the two guards, but I waved them back when I saw them coming toward us. “Do you think you could be grateful quietly?” I asked. “This is between us, not us and all Delphi.

The wedding of David and Michal was a glorious affair. Though Saul was normally stingy with his money, he was not so with his daughters. Michal had started the day with a bath followed by a bodily anointing of oil. She wore a linen and silk dress with embroidered cloth of Phoenician purple. Her hair was brushed to a soft perfection and placed beneath her Tyrian style crown of gold. She was bedecked with gold and silver jewelry from Egypt. Bracelets, necklaces, ear coverings and a ring on her nose. She walked through the Gibeah streets in fine calf leather sandals, surrounded by a cadre of dozens of virgin bridesmaid companions dressed in white linen. A band of minstrels led her with rejoicing on tambourine, flute, and lyre. She felt like a queen. She would be a queen one day. She knew that she was marrying the mightiest warrior in all of Israel. The gibborim who had killed the giant Rephaim Philistine, who her own father, the anointed warrior king, could not conquer. All she could think of the entire journey to the palace were the lyrics she first heard her from the lips of her bridegroom upon their first acquaintance. She had never forgot them. They were burned into her heart. He had sung a song of virginal submission to a manly king as a sample of his musical talent to her father. But she knew he had sung those words for her. She knew by the look in his eyes, his unquenchable stare of desire for her. It was like a prophecy. Now those words were coming true, she was going to be living them out any moment. Hear, O daughter, and consider, and incline your ear: forget your people and your father’s house, and the king will desire your beauty. Since he is your lord, bow to him. The people of Israel lined the streets and cheered their beautiful princess as she approached the entranceway to the palace. She could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. Would he sing to her on their wedding night? Would he seduce her with his musical talent before he ravished her? All glorious is the princess in her chamber, with robes interwoven with gold. In many-colored robes she is led to the king, with her virgin companions following behind her. With joy and gladness they are led along as they enter the palace of the king.

I didn’t know this kind of shit was about to happen,’ Katrina hisses. ‘This fucker has suckered us in and sold us out. For the second time.’ Katrina lapses into this kind of tough guy dialogue when she’s stressed – she learned English from virtual shoot-’em-ups. Firelight flatters her face. She looks young and fierce and alert, a warrior-princess from the sagas in a black leather jacket, buckled biker boots and black leggings. All she lacks are mirrorshades.

The Story of the Volcano, An Aztec Myth Once upon a time there was a princess named Iztaccihuatl, more beautiful than any woman, and a handsome warrior Popocatepetl, who loved her. They were to be married, and all the kingdoms rejoiced...