I never skulk, and lurk only sometimes.

Truly, we are the gods' own children, forged in the fire of our tortured pasts, but also blessed with unimaginable gifts.

I comfort myself with the knowledge that if Duval ever feels smothered by me, it will be because I am holding a pillow over his face.

I am left with the conviction that an avalanche would be easier to dissuade than that man.

Perhaps that is because you mistake death for justice, and they are not the same thing at all.

Good intentions are only lies the weak tell themselves.

The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.