Quotes About Violence

Now she was a killer, a mercenary. And that was all.

The sad truth is, men love to follow a man other men fear," said Clover. "Makes them feel fearsome, too. We tell the odd fond story of the good men. The straight edges. Your Rudd Threetrees, your Dogmen. But it's the butchers men love to sing of. The burners and the blood-spillers. Your Cracknut Whirruns and your Black Dows. Your Bloody-Nines. Men don't dream of doing the right thing, but of ripping what they want from the world with their strength and their will.

severed heads,' Cosca was explaining, 'never go out of fashion. Used sparingly and with artistic, sensibility,They can make a point a great deal more eloquently then those still attached.

War is no place for good men.

Let Father Peace spill tears over the methods. Mother War smiles upon results.

He's really dead?" Benna blew out his cheeks. "Well, his head's off, and spiked above the gates, so unless you know one hell of a physician...

sad to say, not all men that die are killed by me.

In bloody days, swords were worth more than gods.

The only difference between war and murder is the number of the dead.

On the battlefield there are no rules.

Her knee caught him between the legs with pitiless accuracy, driving the wind from his chest, making him teeter for a breathless moment, then bringing him down like a sledgehammer to a house of cards. As he slid groaning to the carpet in that special, shooting agony that only a blow to the fruits can produce, it was little consolation that he had been right. His Queen was quite evidently a woman of rare and fiery passion.

Watching a man's entrails spilling out is excellent entertainment, but the sight of his cock, well, that would be obscene.

You stick a bunch of drunken murderers together, ain't long before some turn to thieving, then to lying, then to bad language, and pretty soon to sobriety, raising families and making an honest living.

Some men are made for doing violence. Some are meant for planning it. Then there are a special few whose talent is for taking the credit.

You know my work. One more step and I'll set to work on you, you fucking swollen pig.

The Bloody-Nine opened his mouth, and shrieked out all of his bottomless love and his endless hate in one long wail.

Logen pulled the knife out of his boot and rammed the blade into the side of the giant's neck. He looked surprised, for just a moment, then blood dribbled from his mouth and down his chin. He let go of Logen's shirt, stumbled back, spun slowly round, bounced off one of the stones and crashed on his face. Seemed that Logen's father had been right. You can never have too many knives.

Shock and surprise, my little beauties, and quickness to strike, and lack of pity. These are the things that make a killer.

Not sneering Emperors with world-conquering designs. Not cackling demons plotting in the darkness beyond the world. It was small men with their small acts and their small reasons. It was selfishness and carelessness and waste. It was bad luck, incompetence and stupidity. It was violence divorced from conscience or consequence. It was high ideals, even, and low methods.

You were a hero round these parts. That's what they call you when you kill so many people the word murderer falls short.

Cut your head off," whispered Never, eyes all scary-wide. "Pull your guts out and cook 'em," growled Jolly Yon. "Skin your face off and wear it as a mask," rumbled Brack. "Use your cock for a spoon," said Wonderful. They all thought about that for a moment.

I apologise, your Highness. Murder can be a painful business.

Sometimes Wile wondered whether a cause could be right that needed folk burned, cut and otherwise mutilated.

The Shanka might be ever so full of mad fury, but even they had to fear him. Everything did. Even the dead, who felt no pain. Even the cold stone, which did not dream. Even the molten iron feared the Bloody-Nine. Even the darkness.