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Dark Fantasy Quotes

Browse 368 quotes about Dark Fantasy.

Dark Fantasy Quotes

“Minha's gift was her sense of taste. Her ability to savor. Big, bold tango and fandango on her tongue. The shift, the hint, the smallest component of flavor eked out and found, considered, remembered. When the unwanted fairy godmother, unseen and unknown, turned up at her birth, she did not bequeath a prophecy, or a fairy-tale ending. No. She endowed the infant Minha with the ability to experience, wildly, vividly, appetite.”

“Unbidden, tears fell from the man’s eyes, and a low keening whine escaped his throat. The big man, whose name was Geralt, despised himself for the fear he felt, and he knew that he would tell the terrible child anything he wanted to know. Geralt’s magical ability was intuitive in nature. He could look at a person, and see their truth. When he looked at the boy he saw razed cities, sundered limbs, and broken bones. He saw vengeance made flesh, come to reap the bitter harvest the Chickenhawk gang had sown.”

“The trial awaiting Helen was known among the Toltecs as a Kazil, a special court convened to consider only those state crimes serious enough to be punished by death. It consisted of a joint session of the Kinshazen and the highest-ranking priests of the Temple of Kronos, who were referred to as the Host of the Faithful. A Kazil was always conducted at Kindred House, the building where the members of the Kinshazen met. Its outer layer consisted of massive blocks of polished pink granite, which had a decidedly dark cast to it. Kindred House was closest to Lake Shambhala of all the structures in the Nighthall government complex. Those summoned before a Kazil and convicted of the charges were invariably put to death within three days of the proceeding. And in only a few, very rare, instances had anyone been found innocent on trial before a Kazil.”

“He was beautiful in the way things born to power often are… He rode a silver-grey stallion that looked like it had been bred from starlight and arrogance. True love dies most beautifully in the mouths of poets and liars. She was beautiful in the way teeth are beautiful right before they bite. I am the scream behind the silence. I am the ending that learned how to dance.”

“They needed each other that in that moment. Two children cast in dire straits—opposite, yet so similar. Deep tragedy, near-complete amnesia, feelings of worthlessness, loneliness, and hatred eating both to the core, with no one on their side. In that moment, they discovered that they weren’t alone. That there was still hope. Still a chance for forgiveness.”

“She pushed herself through the opening, around an ornament that was simultaneously a hanging light bulb and a uvula, and stepped inside. She entered the Mouth, the Throne Room, the Jaws of the Devouring God, or maybe just another in a series of countless double-wides gutted and lashed together with scavenged steel and magic, the bare skeleton of an illusory power. Tongue. The Devourer. God, the Devil, or nobody at all.”

“Victoria was so wrong about me. I expected them to put me first, above everyone else. I am selfish. I am weak. I am bad. And I need Jasper. I need him like I need air to breathe. No—somehow, that cliché doesn’t seem quite right. He’s more like a shot of whiskey after a hard day. A burst of heroin in my burning veins. He is my drug. My ambrosia. I can’t live without him.”

“How can anyone call this angel a monster? How can anyone see this angel as a mistake? So young and alive, her soul is less than a day old, her body was made from scratch, but her blood holds billions of years of history… history passed down through her ancestors, history that she herself will soon tell future generations... And yet, new history begins with her.”

“Several weeks have passed since the incident at Lord Frisberts Hat Shop, and I’m saddened to say, I’ve yet to leave this hole. Rents due, and I could hear old Finby barking from down below, but my pockets run about as dry as the shavings on a chicken coop. On a good day, I’d gather some lint off my trousers, but not today. No, sir, not today.”

“The sandpaper of Greg's laugh fascinated Lexi as much as it frightened her. It was why she always thought of him as the Sandman, an interpretation not as sinister as E. T. A. Hoffman's but one that seemed to match, suddenly, in its role as a harbinger of death. Greg's voice rebounded around the building, dry and abrasive. Mirthless laughter is one of mankind's trademark noises. It's been used to mask pain for centuries.”

“My mind screams for me to run, but my feet are planted where they are. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. There’s no way this is real!”