I have never seen a vision, nor learned a secret, that would damn or save my soul.
The world changes, we do not; therein lies the irony that finally kills us.
I want some more.
And here it is. I hate you both!
Locked together in hatred. But I can't hate you
I was mortal until you gave me your immortal kiss.
You became my mother and my father, and so I'm yours forever.
But now it's time to end it. Now it's time to leave him.
I'll put you in your coffin!
Your evil is that you cannot be evil. And I shall suffer for it no longer!
Don't be afraid. I'm going to give you the choice I never had.
Evildoers are easier... and they taste better.
All I need to find you is to follow the corpses of rats.
Evil is a point of view. God kills indiscriminitely, and so shall we, for no creatures under God are as we are, none so like Him... as ourselves.
I assume I need no introduction.
Have you heard enough? I've had to listen to that for centuries!
I'm flesh and blood, but not human. I haven't been human for 200 years.
Most of all, I longed for death. I know that now. I invited it. A release from the pain of living. My invitation was open to anyone. To the whore at my side. To the pimp that followed. But it was a vampire that accepted.
And then I said farewell to sunlight, and set out to become what I became.
Forgive me if I have a lingering respect for life.
I go on, night after night. I feed on those who cross my path. But all my passion went with her golden hair. I'm a spirit of preternatural flesh. Detached. Unchangeable. Empty.
Whiny coward of a vampire who prowls the night feeding on... rats and poodles! You could have finished us both!
You condemned me to hell!
I don't know any hell.
You should consider yourself lucky. In Paris, a vampire must be clever for many reasons.
But you must know something about the meaning of it all
You'll soon run out of chickens
Where are we?
Where do you think, my idiot friend? We're in a nice, filthy cemetery. Does this make you happy? Is this fitting, proper enough?
We belong in Hell.
And what if there is no Hell, or they don't want us there? Ever think of that?
They had forgotten the first lesson, that we are to be powerful, beautiful, and without regret.
And as much as your invitation might appeal to me, I must regretfully decline.
Monks form the bulk of Clan Pestilens’ troops. The putrid stench and
swarms of flies that always surround them are a feared sign of the prescence of these acolytes of pestilence on the battlefield.
The air carried the essence of standing water and the sweet spicy aftertaste of corruption to their sensitive nostrils. For skaven, this was the sweet aroma of home…
You don’t need to be dead to haunt someone. Maybe your toothy smile stands in their memories like a bright marble headstone. Maybe its the feeling of your hand that crawls across their skin like rats crawl over corpses. Their stomach churns at the scent of your deodorant as if it were rotting flesh. Maybe you’re not dead but their memories of you are what is slowly killing them. Their hearts grow as empty as the coffin that your body would lay in. You don’t need to be dead for someone to be haunted by you.
During the Great War, troops in the front line had to endure many discomforts besides the danger of shell-fire and the sniper’s bullet. In the trenches, vermin were a constant irritation. The soldiers’ loathing of lice was only second to his hatred of rats. Surrounded by discarded scraps of food and corpses, the rat population increased with amazing speed. Men spoke of trenches and dug-outs which were plagued with ‘rats as big as cats’. In the interests of health, regular ‘rat hunts’ often became an essential past-time for troops.