"Behind Saint Felicitas is a garden. When I was the tender of the church a decade ago, I always ensured it was well maintained. The townswomen would also come and help tend to it. At all times, it was sprouting with life, each species interweaving with the others exquisitely. Now, it’s all overgrown; the large tree used as a centrepiece is dying, and its dark grey branches stretch across the yard as if pleading for water. The fountain, dryer than the branches, is cracked in the same way the surrounding walls are. The benches along the paved path that were once painted white and gold, similar to that chasuble of mine, are now chipped and rotten, and the rose bushes that surround the garden are full of wilted petals. I think it looks better this way. Swarthy and broken. Alive, but barely."
- Baelor

"The thought floats and swims around my clouded mind, its cordyceps stretching across the grooves and divots of my vulnerable pink brain, infecting everything it touches with the genius parasitic fungi. And I fight, and I fight; O how I fight! But you see, the more I scan and flip through my own personal pharmacopeia, desperately searching for more cephalexin, perhaps even penicillin, well, for lack of better words, I reach a certain resolve. Moreover, I recall a certain memoir and a certain voice, along with a certain whisper: “For a rainy day."
- Baelor

"That voice—the grim but sly tone, the smooth yet course manner of it. Suddenly, a headache seared through her head, pricked deep into her skull. All the devoted and compassionate words that had been spoken rang in her delicate ears. All the tangible connections, the faint strokes and sensual caresses, lingering on her body longer than they should have. Her grief, happiness, love—all of it soaring through her body, coursing through her veins. The hidden memories coming to her in waves of misery, bringing the Vándr within her to the fore.
You have found your open wound, ripped the stitches, and now you must ravage in the relentless and irrepressible fate."
- A Ghost's Shadow

"When all those demons talked about him, their king, they would swoon and itch with idolization, and I always rolled my eyes, believing the Devil was nothing but an ugly horned goat, but I was wrong. Their words, as surprising as it sounds, were honest. They would marvel and remark that the Devil was handsome, a force of beauty unlike any other, and now I can finally see it.
That he is."
- Baelor