“He was the sort of person who stood on mountaintops during thunderstorms in wet copper armor shouting "All the Gods are bastards!”

“Let's just say that if complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting 'All Gods are bastards.”

“If complete and utter chaos was lightning, then he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour and shouting 'All gods are bastards!”

“He was an embittered atheist (the sort of atheist who does not so much disbelieve in God as personally dislike Him), and took a sort of pleasure in thinking that human affairs would never improve.”

“A poet is a person who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightening five or six times.”

“Apologize to the lady,” Blake’s voice was smooth, calm, and deadly. He’d also unleashed his bright green eyes on the poor bastard, who looked like he might wet his pants.”