#andalusian glow

[sleebyconfy]

Andalusian Glow - Daniel Girón - Prisma

[totothewolff]

The Speed Game of Love

Toto x reader | comedy, crack humor (RuPaul's Drag Race bang), romance, fluff.

Summary: Three fierce queens will race for your love, but only one will win your heart. Could it be the spicy Carla LaTurbo Slayz, the fierce Adore D. Hammer, or the queen of England herself, GiGi Reigns? Or maybe that sexy host could get some! Hosted by the hot and only Toto Wolff. Author's note: It's short and fun. Y/N has the hots for Toto, as usual. Who doesn't?! Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts or if you have an idea, here I am."

More Toto Wolff fics right here > Masterlist

-

From the racing capital of the world is The Speed Game of Love.

And here is your host...

The hot and only Toto Wolff.

(Opening music plays, and the camera pans over the bright and sparkling stage. Toto Wolff is standing there in fullness, tallness, and hotness, just a few steps away from you. As you peek in from behind the entrance, he is looking as sexy as you expected that man to be, dressed in a sluty tight suit, his eyes set on you for a brief second making your knees and other regions jiggle as he starts the show).

"Welcome to the Speed Game of Love. I'm your hot, I mean host! Toto Wolff." he winks at you before moving to his mark at the cue.

(Cheers, gaps, and a loud moan come from the sound effect console as Toto passes a hand on his hair and smiles big and bright straight at the pro camera).

"Let's meet tonight's lucky heartracers!" he gestures with both arms to his left.

(Cut to a shot of the competitors, each one dressed in their best sickening drag looks, all sitting in white bar stool chairs next to each other)

"It's the Queen of tracks! And hearts! Adore D. Hammer!" Toto approaches a fierce-looking queen. "Ready to smash some?" Toto raises his eyebrows as he asks.

"Oh, dear, I'm more than keen for some hammer time!" Adore answers, thrusting with her hips slowly.

She's rocking a sparkly, sluty version of the iconic jumpsuit in neon yellow and black from MC Hammer's iconic "U Can't Touch This" music video, but cinched for the gods along with really high-platform sneakers.

The jumpsuit is embellished with rhinestones and sequins that shimmer and shine under the stage lights. Adore's dreadlocks hung loose around her ears but with a glamorous, over-the-top twist.

Her makeup is bold and bright, with bold eyeliner, vibrant eyeshadow, and a shining golden lip. Her skin is glowing with a subtle shimmery highlight that makes her look like she just stepped out of a disco ball.

Toto gives her a chuckle before moving along.

"Next, Carla LaTurbo Slayz!" He strolls to her, mic in hand. "Miss Turbo, I heard you got some horsepower tonight! How are you, honey?"

(After he asks the question, a loud moan is heard as a sound effect).

"I'm 'fuel'-tastic, Toto!" she blows a kiss to the camera and shows some lil' leg.

She's rocking a stunning, one-shoulder gown made from the finest silk in a rich, jewel-toned red that evokes the majestic flamenco dancers of Andalusia. The dress is fitted and figure-hugging, accentuating her curves in all the right places.

Her hair is a masterpiece; a few strategically placed braids and hairpins add a touch of Andalusian flair.

Her eyes are lined with bold, black kohl and smudged with shimmery gold eyeshadow to create a sultry, seductive gaze. Her lips are painted a deep, crimson red. Her accessories are chunky gold jewelry.

"Up next, it's GiGi Reigns. Is Your Highness ready to conquer this race?" Toto turns to her, bowing first.

"Keen to have a smooth pit stop and a great finish!" an old lady's voice with a thick Windsor accent answers.

She is rocking a look that's equal parts regal and ridiculous. She's donning a velvet-trimmed corset and hoop skirt that's so big it requires its own zip code.

The skirt is a riot of colors, with florals and patterns. GiGi's hair is a marvel; think Elizabeth I's famous ruff but on steroids! Her locks are styled in towering curls that resemble a pompadour.

Her makeup is a masterpiece of over-the-top opulence. Layers of foundation, blush, and powder are applied with the precision of the era, but they make her look old, really old, with wrinkles adorning her features.

Her accessories are an array of fake pearls that look like they belong on the Queen herself.

"Let's start your engines! Close that pit wall!" Toto instructs as the obstructing divider slides from the wall. It looks exactly like a pit wall fence but glamorous, all in metallic pink, blocking the view from both sides.  

As you are about to enter the stage, an empty, small white podium is waiting for you.

"Our wag tonight is from (Y/N's City/Country). Meet (Y/N's profession/studies), Y/N, Y/LN!" Toto introduces you as you step in, smiling at him.

"Mmm, you look good!" Toto runs his eyes all over your body as he approaches you and offers a hand to help you step on the podium.

You feel the heat instantly.

"What brings you smoking gear around here? Did your engine overheat?" Toto addresses you, starting to lean closer to you.

"I'm just looking for touch at this point!" you answer, plain and honest.

(Aww noises come from the sound effect panel).

"Uhmmhu!" Toto gets closer to you than his mark on the floor suggests. He gestures to you to articulate more as he stands by your side, slowly sliding a hand down on your back.

How you react to his touch makes him smile naughtily.

In between a nervous giggle, you explain: "I tried the apps and whatnot, but nothing worked, so my friends suggested I come here to speed up the process. You know, to look for something accelerated, fast-paced." You wink at him, gaining confidence, feeling his eyes traveling down your lips and neck.

"Oh, so you like it fast-paced? Who doesn't like to get their flag chequered hard!" Toto keeps your game of innuendos, flirting with you along.

You nod and bite your lip; he arches his eyebrow slightly.

"Then, you came to the right place!" his voice is deep, and he flexes his arm so you can enjoy the view of his muscles as Toto grabs his mic. "So, Y/N, here's how the game works: You ask the heartracers some questions, and they will try to win this lap for your heart with their answers. When the time runs out, you choose who steps into your podium. Are you ready to race?"

"I AM!" you feel pumped up!

(Engine noises are heard in the studio, indicating the start of the lap).

You read one of your cue cards. "Heartracer number one, finish the following sentence: If I was your car to run me on a race, you would leave me (blank...) at the end."

"In desperate need of a new set of wheels. Oh! I would run you relentlessly from one side of the circuit to the other!" Adore answers, jumping on her feet and doing the iconic MC Hammer moves, passing by in front of the other contestants.

You laugh and nod at the excellent answer. "And you, number two?"

"I would leave you revving for more! You would want me to run you down over and over again around these corners." LaTurbo answers with a very sexual voice, sliding her hand all over her body curves.

"And you, madam, number three?" you ask.

"At the finish line... eventually! I'm a lady of a certain age, darling." GiGi Reigns' elderly voice answers, making you and Toto burst into giggles.

"If it was me, I would have you shifting gears so hard that I would end up breaking you down. But that's me!" Toto jokes, inserting his answer there. "Let's move on to the next question, shall we, Y/N?"

"YES! Let me push that pedal all the way in!" you joke back.

"All the way in?!" Toto asks, now curious, in a high-pitched voice. "Fast-paced and all the way in. Taking notes!" He swaps his cue cards around.

"I think that one's hammer is starting to show! Haha," GiGi Reigns adds, inserting herself into the conversation, bumping Adore with her hand, and both of them taking a small peek at Toto's crotch.

"Please, give head, go ahead, I meant!" Toto jokes with you.

"Based on yourself, how would you prefer to be called if you were a fuel brand?" you ask the contestants.

"Piston Pumping, you gotta keep the hammering for miles long!" Adore gives her answer in perfect branding.

"Fuel-in' Around, just kidding," Carla waves her hand.

"The Lube for The Crown, cause at this age, darling, you need some extra help." GiGi slowly spreads open her legs, making rusted noises, cracking you up again.

"I'd be, Fuel Me Maybe, you know, like tonight, after this show," Toto flirts shamelessly as the game progresses, making it clear that he's interested in none other than you.

"Final question," you go ahead. "Imagine you are an F1 team. Sell yourself to me."

"On the Hammerella F1 Team, competition can't touch us! We are faster than you can say parachute pants!" Adore D. Hammer answers.

"On El Toro Racing, we are unleashing the bull full speed, with fury and passion and with a whole lot of rhythm, ahhhh." Carla LaTurbo's every word gets more sexual somehow as she answers your question, her hands going all over her neck and legs.

Finally is GiGi's turn: "On the Motor on the Bus, The Queen's Royal Racing Team, we race round and round, vroom and vroom, all through the town." She pauses before adding, "But with protocol, dear."

GiGi's stupid answer makes you gag.

"Oh, time is up! Y/N, who do you choose from our heartracers? Number one, two or three?" Toto comes near to you again.

Fuck! He smells so good! That's an arousing cologne.

(A dramatic pause comes before you turn straight at him to give your definitive answer).

"You," you point at Toto. "I choose you!" answering aloud to everyone's... actually... to no one's surprise!

"I'd love to take you for some good ol' laps!" he blows a kiss to you. "But first, let's meet the ones you didn't choose! Say hello to Adore D. Hammer."

"Oh! This hammer would have broken you in half, dear!" she jokes with you as she looks you up and passes along, thrusting the air on her way out.

"and Carla LaTurbo Slayz," Toto again shouts, extending his arm.

"This," she closes her hand at you, moving it around your body, "Has red flag all over," she says, belittling you as she goes out, pretending to be insulted by you rejecting her.

"Finally, GiGi Reigns! Madam..." Toto bows one last time.

GiGi takes her time walking there, making grunt noises as she grabs her back, complaining, making you two lose it.

"I, TOO, CAN COMMAND THE WIND, SIR!" She screams out of nowhere in the most Shakespearean voice, catching you two off guard.

Like GiGi got possessed for a second before she composes herself and gives "royal hand waves" politely as she dramatically exits.

"WHHAAT?" you say, catching your breath between laughs.

"Ready to blow my engine?" Toto triumphantly asks, holding you up like a trophy as he wraps his arm around your waist.

"Against the pit wall?!" you joke around, laughing on his lips, standing next to it.

"Another Speed Game of Love with a... happy ending! To me!" Toto winks. "Good night, everybody!"

(You two wave at the lense before you wrap him in a passionate kiss as the camera cuts to black)

You don't make it further than his dressing room.

The audio crew picks up the loud moans and smashing noises coming from there, as Toto is still wired, and they quickly turn off the equipment.

Join us at The Wolff Pack Discord Server > https://discord.com/invite/tpgArxqbfd

[lasmaravillasstables]

LMS Kismet, our Arabian X Andalusian cross is all grown up, and she’s had quiet the glow up 😍

She’s currently up for auction on the Equiliberty discord server!

https://discord.gg/equiliberty

[applesap-fics]

Snake Oil

Part one

FABril day 3 - Alternative Universe, llaneros/cowboy AU, also on ao3

Rated M

--

It was from doña Pilar’s girls that Bruno heard about the concoction first.

Before entering the narrow but bedecked house with its many rooms, he took the chanclas from his belt and placed them over his bare feet. The hostess didn’t like how dirty the llaneros were that frequented her establishment and, though the scathing words of a matriarch felt bizarrely comforting, Bruno wasn’t in for a scolding. Her Andalusian floors were her proud possession, and she did not like the indignity of their feet on them.

What mess her patrons made in the rooms with her girls was par for the course. Though, to their credit, the worn men also didn’t mind getting the llanos grime scrubbed off of them by nice gentle hands after going so long without a female touch.

Bruno wouldn’t know about any of that.

(When Bruno was a teenager and had just started to come along on treks, the older boys had played a prank on him. It had been some sort of initiation: now that Bruno was old enough to come on the arduous journeys with the other cowboys he was regarded as a man, and to celebrate they’d send him off to the girls to get rid of his virginity, thinking they were doing him a favor.

When the lady had slipped off her chemise and exposed every inch of her naked body to him, she had not looked one bit comforting and familiar like his mother and sisters and he’d promptly become sick. She had laughed him out of her room, and he’d stumbled out of the brothel to the playful jeers of the men, who assumed he’d gone through with bedding her if it left him that shaken after spending such short time with the woman. His manhood presumed intact. It was better than if they called him a marica, which was true.)

The next time he entered a brothel to keep up appearances, it was with his hood up, flicking a match, eyes glowing green, and he announced himself with the mystique of a street magician:

“My dear ladies, I’ve come from far and wide to show you miracles. You will think your eyes are deceiving you. You will think I am making it all up, deceiving you with tricks and devilry. But rest assured, the news I bring will change your lives: your future awaits.”

Bruno had a gift, one he didn’t like to waste, but one he couldn’t afford to share freely either, worried about who might take advantage of it in the lawless plains. Some of the Guzmán farmhands knew about it, but like the secret valley that hid them from warfare, it was sworn to secrecy. Whenever they stopped in towns instead of the isolated haciendas on the plains, Bruno offered his services to those who might need it.

The men in the courtyard cooed with women in their laps, a breast in hand. They paid Bruno no mind as he made his way through silks and laughter and up the stairs to the upper deck where there was a tad more privacy. The rooms next to him were occupied, but whatever stranger was in there likely wouldn’t care to listen in.

He took a seat at a table behind the banisters. He laid out his pouch with sand, lit the candle that was already there, and let interested ladies come to him.

The girls here liked the security of his visions. They thanked him with hard eyes when he saw bad things instead of fortunate ones, already used to ‘inevitabilities’. He warned them about harm they were certain they could expect, affirming their own suspicions with his magic. That way they could prepare for their sorrows, have something to hold onto. And whenever the visions were vague, which was often, it gave them hope to escape the cruelties the prophet had seen for them.

Not all of his predictions were bad, though; sometimes he spoke of their children or how well off their families would be generations down the line. Or, more pressingly, where abuelita had hidden her sacks of family jewels.

After he waited for a moment, a group of women joined him at his table and were eagerly listening in on what he had to say without any propriety for each other’s privacy. They had shawls and shrouds draped over their bare shoulders as if they could catch colds from their futures. Their thick perfumes clogged his nose and reminded him a little of Pepa, though she was much more conservative with her make-up. Bruno thought the ladies looked magnificent all dressed up in fabrics and face paints. Immediately inspired, he made a mental note to restock on his own colors if the pulperías in town sold them this nice.

He emptied his pouch with sand on a cloth he'd draped over the table. His ruana hid most of the fierce glow of his eyes as he got to work.

To the relief of the girl sitting opposite him, the baby she was carrying was prophesied to be a healthy boy. She smiled, rubbing the slight bump of her belly. “Makes his life easier.”

Bruno, also a boy, troubled by many things, wasn’t too sure about that. But as he took her downtrodden clothes and the fact that the baby had no father into consideration, he supposed she would know better. The two other women immediately reassured her and gave advice, and otherwise had much to bring in about the matter, chattering away.

Bruno interjected by politely pointing his finger up. “Now, as for my payment…”

The girl eyed him, assessing her peice. Bruno had not much use for money, being a horse wrangling Madrigal. He always asked for a funny trinket or valuable information if his client could not afford to spend any currency on him, which he’d learned not to deny for their dignity. He didn’t mind this unequal exchange.

The girl leaned over to caress the back of his hand, exposing the depth of her breast that Bruno modestly tried to avoid, and gave him a coy cock of her head. “My room is right there, señor.”

Bruno flinched and stammered, but before he could say something through his nervous grin, an older woman scolded her. “Rosa, puta, he’s obviously a maricón. Don’t you think he would’ve shown us a different little miracle first?”

“Oh, woah,” Bruno muttered at her harsh words. “Maybe I’m just nice?”

“Oh, sure, that too.” The woman brushed a curl away from his face, letting the glint of his earring catch in the candlelight, and performatively dropped a few tokens on the table for him.

“Ohh. But in that case,” the girl drawled, and soon dragged the two other women into a conversation about their little wisdoms and products. She put up two fingers to illustrate their point to Bruno. “Makes it so much easier.”

 

Pleasurably enlightened, Bruno parted with the women, leaving a shard of his emerald tablet in the girl Rosa's care. There were emerald mines nearby; having a castaway gem was a luxury, but not implausible. For fear that this put a target on the recipient’s head, he didn't do this often, but he felt for the girl and her bastard child.

What he should have remembered, as he strode through the courtyard and spoke openly about visions near occupied rooms, was that this business was visitor to all sorts of men. Travelers, llaneros, miners, locals. Not all of them were as absentminded when they made love to women.

Least of all when a prophet doled out jewels.

[ertharetreats6]

Wellness Travel in Europe: A Journey to Reconnect and Recharge

Are you feeling the weight of the daily grind and seeking a much-needed escape? Europe offers a myriad of options for those looking for a refreshing break. Whether you’re interested in wellness holiday packages or corporate retreat packages, the continent provides numerous opportunities to relax and rejuvenate. Imagine yourself indulging in spa treatments, engaging in mindful yoga sessions, or simply basking in serene landscapes. Sounds enticing, right?

Discovering Wellness Travel

What is Wellness Travel?

Wellness travel focuses on maintaining and enhancing one's personal well-being while traveling. It's more than just a vacation; it's a holistic approach to travel that integrates physical, mental, and spiritual health. Wellness travel can include a variety of activities like spa treatments, yoga, meditation, fitness regimes, and healthy eating.

Why Choose Europe for Wellness Travel?

Europe is a treasure trove of wellness destinations. From the thermal baths in Budapest to the tranquil yoga retreats in the Italian countryside, Europe offers diverse experiences tailored to rejuvenate the mind, body, and soul. The rich cultural heritage and stunning natural landscapes further enhance the wellness experience, making Europe an ideal destination for a wellness holiday.

Top Destinations for Wellness Holidays

Coastal Sanctuary in Cascais

Experience wellness at the luxurious Coastal Sanctuary in Cascais, Portugal, where the ocean meets tranquility. This corporate retreat starts with energising beach yoga sessions to awaken your senses, providing the ideal balance of relaxation and invigoration. After productive meetings, unwind with therapeutic spa sessions featuring thalassotherapy treatments using seawater and marine extracts. Enjoy scenic coastal cycling, easy day trips to Lisbon for cultural exploration, and artistic workshops that foster creativity and team bonding. Lounge by the pool or the sandy shore, feeling stress melt away in this serene and inspiring environment.

Spain's Andalusian Haven

Experience the vibrant heart of Andalusia with this exceptional corporate retreat package that blends Spanish wellness and culture. Begin your day with mindfulness walks through ancient olive groves, providing a serene backdrop for reflection. Enjoy bespoke spa treatments using local herbal remedies tailored to your team’s needs, ensuring personalized wellness. Culturally enriching excursions to historic sites like the Alhambra and Seville immerse your team in Andalusian heritage. Evenings feature lively flamenco dance sessions, while culinary team-building activities, such as paella cooking classes, foster camaraderie and create lasting memories. This retreat offers a perfect blend of rejuvenation, inspiration, and cultural immersion.

Coastal haven of Comporta, Portugal

Escape to the serene coastal haven of Comporta, Portugal, known for its untouched beauty and luxury. This corporate retreat offers your team a chance to disconnect from daily life and reconnect with nature and each other. Begin your day with peaceful yoga amidst stunning landscapes, basking in the sunrise's warm glow. Explore the region’s rich biodiversity through bird watching and hiking, creating joyful and camaraderie-filled moments. Enjoy a unique beach horseback riding excursion, fostering trust and communication as you navigate the shoreline together. In the evenings, bond around a beach bonfire, sharing stories and laughter under the star-filled sky, building lasting relationships in the tranquil surroundings.

Planning the Perfect Corporate Retreat

Why Opt for a Corporate Retreat?

Corporate retreats are an excellent way for companies to foster teamwork, boost morale, and increase productivity. They provide employees with a break from the daily routine, allowing them to relax and recharge. Corporate retreat packages often include activities that promote team building and personal development.

Best Locations for Corporate Retreats

Europe offers a range of fantastic locations for corporate retreats. From the serene beaches of Greece to the lush forests of Germany, there’s a destination to suit every company’s needs. These retreats often combine work and relaxation, providing a balanced approach to corporate well-being.

Activities to Include

When planning a corporate retreat, it’s essential to include activities that promote relaxation and team bonding. Consider incorporating yoga sessions, nature walks, and wellness workshops. These activities not only enhance physical health but also foster a positive work environment.

Benefits of Wellness Travel

Physical Benefits

Wellness travel offers numerous physical benefits, such as improved fitness, better sleep, and reduced stress levels. Engaging in activities like yoga, hiking, and swimming helps in maintaining a healthy body and mind.

Mental and Emotional Benefits

Mental well-being is just as important as physical health. Wellness travel helps in reducing anxiety, enhancing mood, and promoting overall happiness. Meditation and mindfulness practices are particularly effective in achieving mental clarity and emotional stability.

Corporate Benefits

For companies, wellness travel can lead to improved employee satisfaction and productivity. A relaxed and happy workforce is more motivated and efficient. Investing in corporate retreat packages can, therefore, yield significant returns for businesses.

Tips for a Memorable Wellness Journey

Plan Ahead

To make the most of your wellness trip, it’s crucial to plan ahead. Research the destination, book your treatments or activities in advance, and ensure that your accommodation meets your wellness needs.

Pack Wisely

Pack comfortable clothing, especially if you plan to engage in physical activities like yoga or hiking. Don’t forget essential items like sunscreen, a reusable water bottle, and any personal wellness products you use.

Stay Open-Minded

Wellness travel is about trying new things and stepping out of your comfort zone. Whether it’s trying a new spa treatment or participating in a meditation session, stay open-minded and embrace the experience.

Conclusion

Wellness travel in Europe offers a perfect blend of relaxation, adventure, and personal growth. Whether you’re looking for wellness holiday packages or corporate retreat packages, Europe’s diverse destinations and experiences promise to rejuvenate your body and mind. So, why wait? Start planning your wellness journey today and discover the transformative power of travel.

[harashacienda]

Exploring the Charm of Haras Hacienda in The Woodlands TX

Nestled amidst the serene woodlands of Texas, Haras Hacienda stands as a testament to the timeless charm of Spanish architecture fused with the rustic allure of the Lone Star State. Situated in the heart of The Woodlands, this enchanting estate offers a unique blend of luxury, tranquility, and equestrian elegance, making it a coveted destination for locals and visitors alike.

At the heart of Haras Hacienda lies a rich history dating back centuries, echoing the grandeur of Spanish haciendas. Originally envisioned as a premier equestrian facility, the estate has evolved into a multifaceted haven, seamlessly blending its equestrian heritage with modern amenities and breathtaking surroundings. From its meticulously manicured grounds to its stunning architecture, every aspect of Haras Hacienda exudes sophistication and charm.

One of the most captivating features of Haras Hacienda is its architectural brilliance. Inspired by traditional Spanish haciendas, the estate boasts a striking blend of stucco walls, terra cotta roofs, and elegant archways, creating an atmosphere of timeless elegance. As visitors wander through the estate, they are transported to a bygone era, where luxury and refinement reign supreme.

The allure of Haras Hacienda extends far beyond its architectural splendor. Spread across acres of lush greenery, the estate offers a myriad of recreational activities for guests to enjoy. Whether it's horseback riding along scenic trails, exploring the picturesque vineyards, or simply basking in the tranquility of the countryside, there's something for everyone to experience at Haras Hacienda.

For equestrian enthusiasts, Haras Hacienda is nothing short of a paradise. Home to some of the finest Spanish and Andalusian horses in the region, the estate offers world-class facilities for training, boarding, and breeding. Visitors can witness the beauty and grace of these majestic creatures up close, or even indulge in a riding lesson under the guidance of skilled instructors.

In addition to its equestrian offerings, Haras Hacienda also serves as an idyllic venue for weddings, corporate events, and private celebrations. With its picturesque surroundings and elegant event spaces, the estate provides the perfect backdrop for unforgettable gatherings. Whether it's exchanging vows beneath the shade of ancient oak trees or hosting a lavish soirée in the grand ballroom, every event at Haras Hacienda is destined to be extraordinary.

Beyond its physical beauty, what truly sets Haras Hacienda apart is its unwavering commitment to hospitality and excellence. From the moment guests arrive, they are greeted with warmth and hospitality, ensuring that every stay is nothing short of exceptional. Whether it's arranging personalized experiences or attending to every need with care and attention, the dedicated team at Haras Hacienda goes above and beyond to create unforgettable memories for each and every guest.

As the sun sets over the sprawling estate, casting a golden glow across the tranquil woodlands, it's easy to see why Haras Hacienda holds a special place in the hearts of all who visit. With its timeless beauty, unparalleled amenities, and unmatched hospitality, this hidden gem in The Woodlands, TX, offers a truly unforgettable experience for those seeking luxury, relaxation, and equestrian adventure.

Haras Hacienda stands as a testament to the enduring allure of Spanish haciendas and the natural beauty of Texas. Whether you're a horse lover, a history buff, or simply in search of a tranquil retreat, a visit to Haras Hacienda is sure to leave you enchanted and inspired.

For more info:-

haras hacienda

[salty-medley]

That's a SSO post, how rare these days!

I decided to write this as the surge of "Ugh these people saying SSO was better before are just so dumb and blinded by nostalgia they can go fuck themselves" start to be rather revealing of something: It's ok to not understand a feeling, you don't need to get on your high horses just because you can't grasp something.

This video ( and the others of the author! )shows it really well:

I know that the first degree team is already grinding their teeth when seeing the word "realism", how dare I to qualify the old SSO as something realist? The graphics aren't even good!

It's funny how people claiming to be the ones wanting to "educate" others about few subjects are the ones who'd need education: realism isn't only about pretty graphics, it's about small details. Let's take few examples:

Take a first gen andalusian and a third gen one. Which one is the most realistic? You'd say the second only basing your thinking on the look, but the first one, who's not cold tolerant and made on a period where horses weren't fantasy is the most realistic.

Take the bus before and the bus now. Once again it's the first one, you needed to be there on time to catch it, to have your ticket. It was something you had to THINK about.

Take the jump, with the SR quest and the already learnt now. Same. Because IRL you need to learn it after a time, you don't do that five minutes after a first time riding. And the fact it was available for people ready to pay... Idk for you, but usually taking horse riding lessons cost you money IRL. So, more realism again.

For lot of us, SSO was a way to experiment a life we couldn't have IRL, lot of us dreamt to take horse riding lessons in a pretty countryside stable but were only able to ride one time on a pony in a fair or something like that. Having now everything easy and given on a silver plate ruins the immersion.

I'll take the late area updated as an example for you to understand: the Hollow Woods. Sure it's pretty, full of water, glowing insects, full of druids and magic stones which levitate while making light, you can trade light with foxes and other stuff. But that's the main problem here. Druids and magic was supposed to be a SECRET, people of Valedale saw the druids but couldn't say if they were only weirdos or real mages. Now you have everything in plain sight. And that's incredibly dumb. By doing that, they ruined the magic system written for the game, and made the other characters a litteral joke: the island is so small that everyone would know what happens in Valedale and know that magic is real here. So, sure, the graphics are "pretty" ( if you like this style, some perfer more grunge or old looks and it's ok) but the rest is forever ruined because it's something added superficially without thinking about the consequences in the story and background.

I'm happy ( let's say neutral, I don't care about you tbh) for you if your superficial glittery graphics are the only thing you need in the game, but I'm also allowed to feel disappointment and anger when I see that everything I was promised, teased and started to experiment, was crushed like that.

We didn't like the crusty graphics for the crustiness, but for the whole game, its ambiance, its challenges, its soul. It's like receiving a kick in the ass without warning and feeling no longer welcome in a place you pay to be in.

[fauny1-enpointe]

Nightmare @ Hauntingly Good Time At Novus by KetsuidaFaun +En Pointe+ Via Flickr: I'm not so mean to hide what i'm finally dropping at the Hauntingly Good Time party.... that and i cant wait to show it After MUCH reworking, repainting, toggling and even some scripting blunders, back from the dead it's Nightmare! A haunting touch to your ghostly horse needs, he rattles and thunders through grave yards with 14 colors to choose from, the colorful textures GLOW in the dark while the natural colors are just natural with no glow (needs advance lighting turned on to get the full feel but still looks cool with out) This mod is for teegles ONLY and will add bout 33 LI to your beast of choice RIGGED TO Hanoverian Unicorn (coming soon or on time for the party time depending) Friesian Clydesdale Pegasus Fjord Belgian ASB TWH Andalusian Irish Cob Mule You can snag this at the party on the 27th starting at 4 pm SLT BUT you can also win this for free in the raffle at the party. so, come wiggle and come grab your spooky bab <3 LM TBA

[jakeromanoart]

dark andalusian ✨

⚡find my art on instagram, twitter, twitch, inprnt: @jakeromanoart)

[lairfite]

Starstable doodles. I really like starstable, it’s fun, I’ve played for years and love how you can see how everything evolves, new fancy horses, new areas with new textures and models everything is slowly changing.

I had another account that I left because I wanted to “restart” with something new. And when you could buy the druid stuff again and my favorite wild horse I got really happy. My goal is to buy at least one horse from every magical horse group. So far I got, the large green/brown that looks like a workhorse 2 of the 4 halloween horses. 1 of the 3 Winter/Christmas horses.  Dorcha Umbra I also bought a zony because they glow. And the only normal horses I have is my starterhorse Bluefeather, that was an andalusian and my favorite horse on my old account, and my pony Pumpkin pie that I couldn’t get myself to sell after the pony race quest. I really hope that some of the old magical ones comes back soon. Ramble over.   

I need to check more riding refs because I can’t draw the lower body...

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Safety In Numbers

So, uh, took some liberties with this one, because that’s the world we live in, and that’s just how things are.

WARNING:  Animal death.

You’re not one to be easily frightened, but you couldn’t help but rest your hand on the stock of your rifle as you glared into the darkness at the edge of your camp.  “I think that’s close enough, don’t you?”

Bear Ghost, your Andalusian white enough to glow in the dark, tossed its head, ears swiveled in the direction of the intruder.  Your unwelcome guest raised his hands, letting the gold accents on his shirt and hat flash in the spluttering firelight of your camp.  “Easy there, easy…didn’t mean to frighten you.  Heh, heh…”

Your grip tightened as the posh English accent registered.  You knew who this was, not that it meant you’re any safer out here in the Midwestern wilderness.  Diego-Fucking-Brando was unlikely to qualify for sainthood, to put it mildly, and tonight was the worst possible night for whatever underhanded tactics he might try.

The other riders you’ve banded with have noticed the newcomer by now, and moved to flank you.  Nobody’s pointing their guns yet, but the situation was certainly tense; you saw Wesson’s hand tense over his revolver, and Thompson’s rifle was slung over his shoulder in that too-casual way he adopted when he was preparing to shoot.  You watched Diego’s eyes rove over each of you, clearly calculating the situation and working out what his approach should be, as his horse pawed the ground.  Bear Ghost mimicked the action, though his was from definite nervousness.

Diego’s eyes were so blue, even in the near-blackness of the moonless night.  The color was intense, almost unnaturally so, and the way the shadows played over his face made it easy to imagine more monstrous features.  He took another step forward, properly illuminating himself in the campfire’s light, and you kicked yourself for being so paranoid; his features were handsome and arrogant, but all too human.  It was bad enough that you were being stalked by a monster; did you have to start imagining them on horseback, too?

“Are you sure I can’t give you the pleasure of my company?” he wheedled.  “It’s dark out here, and bitterly cold.  Safety’s in numbers, they always say…”

Safety in numbers.  The words sent a flash of memory through your head, of white teeth and unnatural shadow, and your next words—to tell him off, to leave before you opened fire—died in your throat.

Smith, ever the voice of mercy in your little group, noticed your hesitation.  “C’mon, Colt.  I’ve got no love for him same as you, but it’ll be murder to leave a man by his lonesome out there, what with the—“

“Oh, don’t scare the man.” his brother cut him off and stepped to the side, gesturing to the campfire.  “You can spend the night with us, but we’ll have to ask you to keep your distance from our horses, and we won’t be riding together come morning.”

Diego obligingly slid off his horse’s back in that arrogantly elegant little flip he does when trying to show off.  You were very pointedly not looking, suddenly busying yourself with the coffee you’d been making before you were interrupted by his arrival.

Honestly, that was for the best.  You were still shaken up by the events of the past few days, still easily spooked, and seeing the strangely cracked skin on the side of his face before he adjusted his bandage would have only made things worse.

—

“So…you’re going by Colt, now?” the words drifted a little on the evening breeze, making you groan.

Diego, to his credit (and your relief), had felt no need to get buddy-buddy just because he was sharing your fire; once he’d collected his coffee and some dinner, he’d retreated to the far side of the camp to tend to his horse, rebuffing Smith’s perfunctory attempts at conversation.  You wished he would, though; if his attention was on something else, it wouldn’t be on you.

He was watching, when Thompson’s hands brushed against yours as he took a seat next to you, and he was watching when Smith started with his stargazing and you shepherded him back to the safety of the group.  He was watching when you checked on Bear Ghost and the other horses.

Hell, you didn’t think he’d stopped watching you since he’d shown up tonight.  Thompson and the brothers had all headed to bed already, trusting you with the first watch, though the former whispered in passing that he’d stay up just in case Diego tried anything when you were apparently alone.

For the first hour or so, he hadn’t said anything, just sat by his horse and watched you pretend to not be watching him, as the night wind toyed with some dried leaves and something made scratching noises in the distance that made you shiver.

Now that he was apparently certain only the two of you were left awake, though, he’d approached.  Not close enough that you felt justified pointing the gun at him, but when he carefully lowered himself into the spot Thompson had occupied only a couple hours before, you found yourself holding your breath.

“I needed a fresh start, I guess.  Had to get away from my history in the racing circuit, under that…other name.”

“Your real name, you mean?  The name praised in every paper on the East Coast for your unerring skill and peerless talent?  That name?” he leered, the firelight doing something strange to the edges of his mouth.  You averted your gaze.

“If I wanted to talk about it, Diego, I would have.  It’s just Colt, now.  For as long as Thompson and the brothers’ll have me, anyway.”

I hope it’s forever, you wanted to say, but that felt embarrassingly personal to declare somehow, and Diego wasn’t really the kind of person you wanted to have this conversation with, anyway.  You didn’t have to look at his face to know he was frowning.

“Hrmm,” he replied, in a way that could have been interpreted as ‘I respect your boundaries, Colt, and I’ve decided not to press for more information despite my burning curiosity’, but what you suspected to be ‘wow! I just realized I didn’t care about this at all, actually, and I’m relieved you stopped before I had to get up and walk away from the conversation’.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but shut it again with an irritated snap as one of the tent flaps popped open and Wesson came into view, suppressing a yawn.

“Diego seduce you into racing with him instead yet, Colt?” he called as he wandered into the brush to take a piss.  

The blond curled his lip, but you grinned and called back.  “I’m giving it some pretty serious thought…he’s promised me a fortune back in England, and also to marry me.  I’m still holding out, though, I’m hoping for his horse.”

Wesson gave a bark of laughter (answered by a muffled “Chrissakes, shut up!” from Smith’s tent) as he finished up and came back.

“Is that all it would take to buy your talent?” Diego asked, eyebrow raised.  “This may be easier than I thought.”

The way he said it was easy to play off as a joke, but the idea—that Diego Brando, genius jockey, even considered you worthwhile competition—made you pause, even if you’d just promised you’d left that life behind.  Wesson caught the look and chuckled.

“Don’t let Thompson hear you talk like that.  He’s gotten pretty fond of you, y’know…keeps dithering about how to ask you to stay with us once this whole race thing’s over.”  Wesson gave you a knowing smile and threw another couple logs onto the campfire.

“Has he, now.”  Diego hissed, almost inaudible over the crackling of the flames.  His handsome features, already distorted by the uneven shadows of the firelight, now looked downright monstrous.  He glared at the tent the other man was resting in, then back at you.

You decided to go to bed.

—

The first thing you registered upon waking up was that it was still impossibly dark.

The second thing you registered was the hand over your mouth.

You shouted, a sound strangled by your assailant as they held you down, and it took several desperate seconds of struggling for your gun before you realized it was Wesson, trying to get you to stop with frantic, hushed whispers.

He had to repeat himself a fourth time before the words finally registered, finally taking his hand off your face.

“Smith’s dead and Thompson and Diego are gone.  We need to get out of here.”

“What?” you repeated, dumbly.  Smith—excellent with a knife and unbeatable as a navigator, who had seen so much and somehow maintained an attitude of ‘let’s be nice to other racers even though the Run has been nothing short of cutthroat’—dead?  How?

The stench of blood registered in your nostrils as you wrapped your head around the words.  How hadn’t you noticed it before?

“Smith is dead,” Wesson repeated, a definite wobble in his voice, “Thompson and Diego are gone.  I think…I think it took them.  We need to go.”

It had finally come.  Fear, numb and overwhelming, threatened to paralyze you, but Wesson was already moving, grounding you in the moment.  Cold metal forced itself into your hands.  Your rifle.  It was all you were carrying with you—Wesson barely gave you time to put on your boots before he grabbed your hand and lead you through the hole he’d cut in the side of your tent, slipping in the mud left behind by a recent rain.  You could barely keep up as he dragged you toward your horses, still tied to their tree but only barely; Bear Ghost had all but torn himself free in a frenzy of terror, and the other three were…

It hadn’t rained.

In the moment you realized this, Wesson lost his footing entirely, plummeting to the ground and sending a wave of gore splashing over your boots as he landed squarely in the eviscerated remains of his own horse.  One glassy eye stared up at you as you frantically pulled him back to his feet, deaf to his disgusted spluttering as he tried to get the blood out of his mouth.  You heard a crunch underfoot as your heel crushed the remains of Bonnie Tyler’s jaw, torn off and left half-buried in the mud a few feet away, but more importantly you heard the rattling hiss of something that was very definitely not a deer, coming from the direction of the campfire.

“Fuck.  Shit!  Get on, Wesson!” you whispered, forcing yourself onto Bear Ghost’s back, holding a hand out for him.  Instead of taking it, however, Wesson pulled a knife and cut the rope tethering your horse to its tree, letting it give into instinct and flee into the darkness in a mad dash.  You were too surprised by the move to react; all you could do was hang on.

“Wesson!”  You screamed, whipping your head around, and the last thing you saw as he disappeared from view was the flash from his rifle—your rifle, he must have taken it from you in the confusion—as he took aim and fired, still desperately trying to buy you the seconds you needed to escape, abandoning his own hope for survival in the same breath.

Tears blurred your vision, making it impossible to navigate even if you could somehow see in the dark, and you found yourself letting Bear Ghost dictate where to go.  Was this a nightmare?  It had to be.  It was too close to what you’d been dreading but didn’t dare voice—the loss of your precious friends to a nameless horror that stalked the night and finally made its move, something that could dodge a bullet and gouge stone with its claws, something that wouldn’t stop until it had finally eaten you alive.

Help.  You had to get help.  But where could you go that could protect you from a living, breathing monster?  As if recalling the words of another lifetime, you remembered that the nearest town was a day and a half’s ride away.

It might as well have been on the moon, for all the good it would do you now.  Hell, you could say that for a town an hour’s ride away, ten minutes away, because there was something else in the hills with you now, and your horse didn’t have a hope in hell of outrunning it.  

You’d almost missed it.  Its gait matched Bear Ghost’s almost perfectly, and it hadn’t been directly behind you, so you wouldn’t have seen it looking back.  Even now that you knew where to look, though, you didn’t have a clear idea of what exactly you were looking at.

That was Diego’s horse.  You knew it well enough, had stared at its ass for more than long enough on those perilous stretches where you were so close to passing him, but the thing riding it was unlike any living being you’d ever seen before.

It had a tail, one that lashed the air as it egged Silver Bullet closer and closer to you.  

It had claws, talons thicker than your fist that somehow managed to grip the reins without gouging the horse.

It had eyes, electric blue and full of a malevolent intelligence no animal could possess, eyes that had been fixed on you since…

No.  It couldn’t be.

Belatedly, you realized you’d let the other rider—this Not-Diego, whose muzzle gleamed in the starlight with a dark liquid you knew to be blood—get far, far too close.  Bear Ghost was foaming at the mouth in its mad dash to get away, but for every few strides it took, Silver Bullet somehow managed to take one more, until the two of you were neck and neck, separated only by a few meters.  You yanked the reins in one hand as you made one last, desperate gamble, reaching down your boot for the concealed pistol and pulling it up, aiming and firing in a wild shot that was more like a prayer than anything—

In that moment, faster than your eye could follow, the thing jumped, slamming into Bear Ghost’s side, tearing into its flesh with the massive talons on its feet. Its jaws opened, surely about to rip into your own flesh and tear your head clean off—

The world became a blur as Bear Ghost screamed again with a desperate finality, losing its balance under the weight of the Not-Diego and plummeting to the side.  You hit the ground with a graceless thud and rolled a meter or two, barely able to register the wind knocked out of you as you stared up at your horse, transfixed.  Time seemed to slow to a crawl as its full weight hovered overhead, its body contorted in a grotesque dance, and you found yourself hoping that the fall would kill you before the monster could, that you would be crushed before you had to endure the agony of being eaten alive.

Sorry, Wesson.  Looks like you did all that for nothing.

Teeth sank into your shoulder and pulled just as twelve hundred pounds of horse slammed into the earth, obliterating the spot you occupied a fraction of a second previously.  Your breath came in shaky, hysterical gasps as you watched Bear Ghost writhe in place, unable to get up or escape.  You found yourself struggling to your elbows to get up and help it, but a massive reptilian foot suddenly put its weight on your chest, keeping you in place, the points of the talons puncturing your jacket and grazing your skin.

The Not-Diego’s face came into view, teeth bared in a hideous grin as it breathed in the smell of your blood with quick, hungry snorts.  You shut your eyes.  If you wished hard enough, prayed hard enough to a god you stopped believing in years ago, maybe this would all turn out to be a dream.

“I’m really sorry about your horse,” the surprisingly human voice startled you into opening your eyes, to see the monster sitting on your chest had turned back into a man…mostly a man.  The feral, too-large grin you thought had been a trick of the firelight loomed at you now, as horrifically real as the rest of the night had been.

“What a shame…looks like you won’t be racing with your little pack anymore.  You’ll have to ride with me, instead…safety in numbers, and all that.”

[kaimerala]

A Very Red Dead Christmas

Merry Christmas @spursthatgojinglejangle from your @rdrsecretsanta! I hope your holidays are as fun as a night on the town with the Van Der Linde gang! Just don’t get arrested ;)

I got a bit carried away with your request, but who can resist Arthur being a big softie around cute animals? Hope you like it!

 Friends in cold places

Summary: After Arthur is sent on a mission to find a Christmas tree for the gang, he gets caught out in a blizzard in Tall Trees. He finds shelter in an abandoned cabin, where he befriends another lost soul.

Word count 7k+

-

“You want me to do what?”

Arthur had been enjoying a quiet afternoon on watch duty before Dutch appeared. The leader of the Van Der Linde gang glowed with excitement at his latest brilliant idea.

“I want you to get us a Christmas tree!” Dutch repeated.

“Two days ago you told me to beat up a man for money,” Arthur said after a drag on his cigarette, “and today you want me to get you a fancy tree?”

“It’s for your family, son,” Dutch said, stars in his eyes. “What better way to boost morale than to get a real Christmas tree and decorate it?”

Arthur chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Dutch asked.

“I know I don’t have no choice in the matter.”

“Oh come on, Arthur! Think of what it would mean to young Jack.”

Arthur rolled the cigarette between his fingers, not meeting Dutch’s gaze. Sure, Jack was a good kid, but was his happiness worth the wolves and frostbite?

“Dutch, we just spent a year in the goddamn Grizzlies. Plenty of Christmas trees there. You sure there’s nothin’ else you need me to do? Nothin’ more… important?”

Dutch removed a cigar from one of the pockets on his vest. Arthur struck a match for him. “You can take one of them O’Driscoll horses we acquired last week,” Dutch said through a cloud of smoke. “That chestnut one is bigger than Alfred MacAlister’s ego. He could be a decent pack horse.”

“Hmf. As long as he doesn’t annoy Boadicea.”

Arthur sighed in resignation. Dutch would not be dissuaded.

“Fine. I’ll go tomorrow. If I don’t come back, remember you was the one who sent me to the mountains in the middle of winter for a tree.”

Dutch smiled victoriously. “That’s the spirit, son! The Christmas spirit!”

His task accomplished, Dutch turned and walked back to camp, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts and a cigarette stub.

The Van Der Linde gang had just settled in West Elizabeth, next to the Upper Montana River. They were less than an hour’s ride from Blackwater, their camp well-hidden in a grove of trees. The climate was milder in the south, but Arthur missed the solitude of the mountains. With no lawmen willing to follow their trail, the gang had enjoyed a freedom they had not tasted for years. But Dutch had big plans for Blackwater.

Charles appeared at dusk to swap shifts. The newcomer had already proven himself as a deadly gunman and brawler, but he never raised his voice or drank to excess. He possessed a quiet strength that Arthur admired.

“Dutch said you’re heading out tomorrow,” said Charles. His eyes were fixed ahead, on the plains of West Elizabeth rolling before them. “He mentioned something about Tall Trees.”

“Yeah. Not my first choice this time of year,” Arthur replied. “I take it the whole gang knows I’m on a very important mission to get a Christmas tree?”

“Dutch couldn’t contain himself. Everyone knows except for Jack and Abigail; he wants it to be a surprise for them.”

Arthur smiled and shook his head.

“Sounds about right. See ya later.”

Arthur shouldered his rifle and followed Charles’s footprints back to camp. Even now he still looked for Copper, but no-one ran up to greet him. He missed having a dog around.

The camp was nearly empty: most of the Van Der Linde gang were out scouting for opportunities or having fun in Blackwater and Strawberry. The soft glow of a kerosene lantern inside Dutch’s tent indicated that he was sharing a private evening with Molly. Abigail and Jack were in their tent too, already asleep. Pearson and Susan were standing together a short distance from camp, smoking and gossiping in the rapidly fading light. Which left the usual suspects sitting around the fire: John, Bill, Uncle, and Micah.

“Mister Morgan!” Micah drawled, his voice slurred with whiskey. “Seen any fairies today? Or Sasquatches?”

“Just the ones I’m seein’ now.”

This earned a drunken guffaw from John, but the others weren’t impressed.

“Think you’re so clever, eh Morgan?” Bill said thickly. “Well you ain’t smart.”

“Never said I was,” Arthur replied, walking past the campfire to Pearson’s stew pot. “But I do more work than any of you cowpokes.”

This led to an outcry from Bill, Micah, and Uncle. It was almost too easy to rile them up. John laughed: he was too far gone to care about anything.

Arthur ignored them, scooping Pearson’s stew into a bowl. There was meat in it today, but he couldn’t tell what species had made it into the pot.

“Dutch said you was goin’ to get us a Christmas tree,” Micah jeered. “You’re goin’ to freeze your ass off up there, Morgan.”

“Least I got an ass to freeze, Micah.”

The others howled in drunken laughter, and Arthur could hear Pearson and Susan joining in nearby. Micah shot him a dirty look. Normally, Arthur would have enjoyed a night of drinking and singing by the campfire, but not with this lot. He walked around them, back to the ammunition wagon, and sat on his cot.

The other gang members quickly forgot about him, allowing Arthur to enjoy his dinner in peace. That was, until Miss Kitty found him.

“Hey, Kitty.”

The tabby cat meowed in reply, and jumped up onto his cot. She eyed his bowl expectantly, without shame. Arthur picked out a piece of lamb, or whatever it was, and gave it to her. Miss Kitty wolfed it down, and meowed for more.

The gang had found her in Montana, or more precisely she had found them. Miss Kitty enjoyed her employment as Camp Mouser and Foot Warmer. She was surprisingly confident around humans, including little Jack Marston, but nonetheless discerning with her affection. Copper had been a lovable dumbass who adored anyone who even so much as looked at him, but Miss Kitty chose her friends carefully. She avoided anyone who was drinking, or shouting, or acting out. Otherwise she enjoyed games and cuddles with most of the gang. And Miss Kitty knew Arthur was a soft touch when it came to food. There was usually plenty in the pot, so he didn’t mind sharing.

“Leave some for me, Miss Kitty,” he chided, offering her another piece of meat.

Once the bowl was empty, Arthur wrote in his journal. He even sketched the tabby cat, curled up in a contented ball on his cot. He washed his face and hair, and trimmed his beard. In the absence of better company, Miss Kitty stayed nearby, exploring in and around the ammunition wagon.

When he finally lay down for the night, a book in hand, Miss Kitty jumped back up onto Arthur’s cot. She stepped onto his chest.

“I don’t have any food.”

But Miss Kitty ignored him, settling down and purring up a storm.

“Well, ain’t you a nice kitty,” Arthur said, rubbing her cheeks and ears. Miss Kitty was so relaxed she began to knead his undershirt. In the end Arthur gave up on reading and fell asleep, soothed by Miss Kitty’s capable paws.

-

When Arthur woke in the morning a thick fog had settled over the campsite. Miss Kitty had vanished, probably to hunt for some breakfast. He roused the coals of Pearson’s cooking fire and set about brewing some coffee. The camp was silent except for snoring from a few of the gang members: it was a miracle that the law couldn’t hear them from Blackwater.

Arthur warmed up a can of baked beans, which he enjoyed with a much-needed coffee beside the fire. Around him the gang began to stir. He poured Susan a cup, which she gratefully accepted.

Once his morning chores were finished it was time to saddle up. He would be riding for the best part of a day to get to the edge of Tall Trees, but not just any old tree would do: he would have to travel deeper into the forest to find the best-looking ones.

Boadicea was hitched at the gang’s horse station, on the outskirts of the camp. The dapple grey Andalusian nickered a greeting to him, which brought a smile to his lips.

“Hi girl,” he murmured, stroking her neck. “We’re headin’ out for a few days. You can thank Dutch when we’re freezing our rumps off.” She blinked, watching him with her dark eyes. She kept both ears trained on Arthur as he brushed and saddled her. Boadicea was a special horse: beautiful and clever and courageous. A warrior queen, just like her namesake.

The big chestnut gelding was next. Someone had the foresight to hitch him next to Boadicea, so they would get used to each other’s company. The chestnut was seventeen hands of solid muscle, better suited to a cart than a saddle. He stood as tall as a mountain, so the first name that came to Arthur’s mind was Hagen.

The gelding pinned his ears at Arthur’s approach, but his apprehension switched to curiosity when the man spent some time introducing himself. A few oatcakes and a brush all over had Hagen calm and responsive. Arthur despised folks who treated their animals like unfeeling lumps of horseflesh.

“Alright, feller,” he soothed. “Let’s see if you’ll take a pack saddle.”

Hagen stood quietly while Arthur tightened the cinch and adjusted the straps. Boadicea secretly watched them the whole time, pretending to be fascinated by something in the fog. She was the jealous type, and failed miserably at hiding it.

Arthur finally mounted up, Boadicea’s reins in his left hand and Hagen’s lead rope in his right, and guided them through the trees. Charles was still on watch duty; Bill had not yet woken up after the night of heavy drinking.

“Good luck, Arthur.”

“Thanks Charles. Give Bill a kick for me, will ya?”

Charles smiled, his eyes dull with exhaustion. “I’ll give him two.”

Arthur tipped his hat and rode out onto the prairie. He nudged Boadicea into a smooth lope, and they enjoyed an easy ride across the plains. Hagen kept up at first, eager to make a good impression, but with his great size he tired faster than the mare. So they slowed to a steady jog, all the while heading west towards Tall Trees.

The fog burned up by mid-morning, revealing a crisp, clear winter’s day. Arthur followed the muddy roads that scarred the prairie, humming to himself to pass the time. The gang were still new here, and as such they weren’t wanted in West Elizabeth - yet. He greeted the farmers, hunters, and fellow travelers that he passed on the road. Most of them were friendly enough, while others just wanted to be left alone.

Arthur stopped hourly to rest, letting the horses graze for a few minutes before moving on. Around midday he found a sheltered spot on the banks of the Upper Montana River, and built a small fire. The sun was out but the wind blowing down from the mountains leeched the warmth from his bones. Arthur spent a good amount of time by the fire, defrosting his numb face and hands. The horses also enjoyed the break from the relentless wind, grazing together on patches of green grass.

After a lunch of pan-fried, freshly caught bluegill, Arthur knew it was time to push on. In less than an hour the sky had turned from clear to overcast with the threat of a storm. He wanted to reach the forest before it hit as the trees would provide some protection.

The clouds turned steely grey as they rode west. The wind didn’t let up, rising to a howl as they sighted the first stands of spruce and fir. Arthur checked the time; it was past three when thin, watery snowflakes began to fall. They dissolved on the grass and soaked into Arthur’s jacket. He almost lost his hat after a massive wind gust, and stowed it safely in a saddle bag.

Boadicea snorted uneasily. It wasn’t a predator scent that worried her, so it must have been the weather.

“Almost there, girl.”

Hagen didn’t look too happy either, and he stuck to Boadicea like glue. Arthur knew that only a big storm would upset the horses. Finding Dutch’s Christmas tree would have to wait.

They pushed against the wind, tracking deeper into Tall Trees. The snow began to settle on the ground now, and quickly buried the road. At first Arthur could figure out where the trail was, but soon everything began to look the same. There were no road signs out here. He only figured that they were lost when Boadicea stumbled over a hidden rock.

Arthur dismounted and led the horses forward, looking for any shelter from the weather. They were now lost outside in a blizzard, soaked and freezing, with night rapidly approaching. They wouldn’t last long if they didn’t find a windbreak.

He almost didn’t hear the snort from Boadicea, even though her nose was next to his ear. It was hopeful sound, and it gave Arthur hope too.

“What is it?”

He could hardly see a few feet in front of him, and it was only thanks to Boadicea’s keen senses that they found the cabin. She pulled on the reins, guiding Arthur to the left. A small building materialized in the storm, and the three hurried towards it.

Boadicea had brought them to a log cabin and a lean-to that looked like a stable. The cabin’s shutters were closed and no smoke rose from the chimney.

Arthur led the horses into the stable. It was a crude building, with three walls and a hitching post inside. No animals had been stabled there for a while as there was no fodder or tack. It had been cleaned out, either by its former owners or thieves, but at least it offered respite from the wind and snow.

He removed the saddles from both horses, using a sweat scraper and his own blanket to dry them off. Next, Arthur opened a bag of provisions on the pack saddle, tipping vegetables and oatcakes into the food trough. The food had been for him, but the horses would not be able to graze any time soon.

Once Boadicea and Hagen were secured to the hitching post and happily munching away on their dinner, Arthur drew his revolver and walked to the cabin door. It was slightly ajar, and dark inside, but he wouldn’t be taking any chances.

He pressed his shoulder against the door, aiming inside. Arthur couldn’t hear anything over the wind so he shoved it open. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom he discovered a bed with a stained mattress, an empty fireplace, and a writing desk.

Arthur exhaled in relief and stepped into the cabin, closing the door. It muffled the wind’s howl and he could finally think properly. He struck a match and lit his oil lantern.

Like the stable, the cabin had been cleared of anything remotely valuable. There was a tattered photograph of a married couple on the wall and a few orphan pieces of cutlery, but that was it. It smelled musty with disuse. There weren’t even any logs for the fireplace, so he hacked up the desk chair with his hatchet and used the pieces for kindling. The desk would be sacrificed next.

The cabin and the stables, though rudimentary, were both in reasonable condition. Arthur wondered if something evil had befallen its owner. Perhaps it had simply been abandoned, or it served as a seasonal retreat for an author or artist.

As he built up the fire, his guard lowered, Arthur heard a high-pitched whine from somewhere behind him. He jumped up, knife already in hand.

There was no-one there, but he knew he had heard something. Arthur picked up the lantern and checked under the bed.

He found a dog hunkered down in the corner. The frightened creature avoided his gaze, cowering and trying to make itself as small as possible. It had shaggy fur, but Arthur couldn’t see the dog well enough to tell if it was purebred or a mutt.

“Hey there,” he said softly. “Come on. Out you come.”

The dog shivered, sticking to its corner. Arthur realized it could have hydrophobia, so he didn’t try to touch it. At least there was an easy way to find out if it was sick or not.

Arthur ducked out into the storm retrieve the saddles, and once the fire had reached a good size he melted a pot of fresh snow. After taking a draught himself he placed the pan under the bed, holding up the oil lamp to see. The dog was either too terrified or sick to drink. So Arthur decided to start cooking, hoping that the smell of meat would entice the dog out.

As he prepared his dinner, he heard the dog slurping up water from the saucepan. Definitely not hydrophobia! Arthur didn’t turn around, concentrating instead on heating the contents of the skillet. His dinner was a mess of tinned food: corned beef, peas, and kidney beans. He also had half a bread roll left over after fishing for the bluegill, and a tin of peaches for later. But what he was most looking forward to was the coffee: the percolator was already working its magic and he poured himself a mug.

Arthur sighed after his first sip. By the time he reached the grit at the bottom he felt human again.

He removed his gloves, hanging them by the fire to dry. The dog’s eyes were on his back, but he didn’t turn around so as not to frighten it further.

Once his dinner was piping hot and bubbling, Arthur removed it from the fire and ate straight from the skillet. If Susan Grimshaw was nearby she would have boxed his ear! After a few mouthfuls he decided to try his luck with enticing the dog out. He picked out a juicy piece of beef and flicked it under the bed, turning back to the fire.

“Come on, feller,” he soothed. “Got some more for you here.” He could tell from its rough-looking coat that the poor creature was starving.

But the frightened dog didn’t come out, and Arthur figured he would just leave the skillet for the dog overnight. With nothing much else to do he set about cleaning up and getting ready for bed. He walked outside one more time to check on the horses. Boadicea and Hagen watched him approach, hopeful for more food, but all Arthur could offer them was a conciliatory pat. The storm might last for days, so the remainder of his supplies had to be rationed.

He walked around to the cabin and pushed the door open. The dog had snuck out from its hiding spot, wolfing Arthur’s leftovers. It froze and shot him a wary look before scuttling back under the bed, tail tucked firmly between its legs. It looked like some kind of sheepdog.

“It’s okay, boy!” Arthur said, closing the door behind him. He did not move. “Come on out.”

After a minute of waiting he was about to give up and walk over to the fire, until the timid dog emerged. Clearly its hunger was greater than its sense of self-preservation.

The sheepdog devoured the rest of the corned beef, licking the skillet clean. The dog looked up at Arthur for more.

“Well, I guess I can find something else.”

Arthur rummaged through his satchel and retrieved a wedge of cheese in wax paper. He broke off a bit and tossed it to the dog. The cheese was gone in a second.

“Between you and Miss Kitty I’m gonna starve, you know that?”

He broke off more tidbits of cheese for the dog, and discovered a few crackers crushed up inside their box. He knelt down, offering the food in his hand. The sheepdog approached slowly, still wary, but starvation was a powerful motivator. Despite the scruffy coat the dog looked like it was young, maybe two or three years old. Still a pup.

The hungry dog licked up the crumbs from his palm, but darted away when Arthur moved.

“What happened to you, feller?” he asked. “I’m sure someone used to care for you.”

He stood up and the dog flinched, but it didn’t retreat under the bed this time.

“I’d say that’s progress. We’re friends now.”

The dog stayed back as Arthur tidied the cabin and built up the fire with a few more planks. Although it was scared, the dog had definitely lived with humans before. So what was it doing out here all alone?

Arthur’s pocket watch read 7 p.m. - still too early to sleep. So he grabbed a bottle of bourbon from one of Boadicea’s saddle bags and sat on the edge of the filthy bed. It smelt like the dog had been using it for a while.

He wrote in his journal first, in case he forgot or drank too much to write legibly. He mentioned his success with Hagen, getting trapped out in a snowstorm, and finding the lost dog. He filled the opposite page with sketches: Boadicea and Hagen, a sizzling fillet of bluegill on the fire, the cabin, and of course the sheepdog. He did not show his drawings to anyone, but Karen had snuck up behind him once and commented on how good they were. 

The dog lay down next to the fire with a huff, keeping an ear on Arthur. It was a miracle the poor creature had not frozen or starved to death out here, but it had come close. 

A few swigs of bourbon had Arthur relaxed and inspired to sing. The bawdy songs from the Van Der Linde campfire were out of place here, so he sang Poor Lonesome Cowboy. It was one of the few he knew all the lyrics to. He never thought of himself as a good singer, and even the dog closed its eyes. He chuckled at the end of the song and drank deeply.

As he stared into the fire, another song plucked at the edge of his mind. Arthur didn’t like to sing it around the others - even though it was an old tune, it always felt too personal. Not that the newer gang members knew about his life. He preferred it that way.

He sighed, and lay back on the mattress.

 The years creep slowly by, Eliza, The snow is on the grass again, The sun's low down the sky, Eliza, The frost gleams where the flow’rs have been. But the heart throbs on as warmly now, As when the summer days were nigh, Oh, the sun can never dip so low, A-down affection’s cloudless sky.

 He sang the whole song to himself, his voice barely rising above the crackling fire or the wind pressing against the cabin.

 It matters little now, Eliza, The past is in the eternal past, Our heads will soon lie low, Eliza, Life's tide is ebbing out so fast. There is a future, O thank God, Of life this is so small a part, 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod; But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.

 Arthur let the silence drag on after the final verse. He blinked back tears. What a sentimental fool he was!

He sat up on the bed, about to retrieve his blanket, and his breath caught in fright. The dog was standing right beside the bed, watching him. When their eyes met the sheepdog wagged its tail once. Arthur reached out and the dog permitted him a scratch behind the ears.

“You know that song, boy?” he sniffed.

The dog licked his hand.

“Don’t tell no-one.”

The latch was flimsy, so Arthur pushed the saddles against the door. He picked up the still-damp blanket from the floor, and balled up a clean shirt to make a pillow.

The bed squeaked in protest as he stretched out again. The mattress was thin and lumpy and it stank, but he couldn’t complain - at least he wasn’t camped out in this storm, and he had coffee and a fire. Just as he closed his eyes, the sheepdog leapt up onto the foot of the bed. It paused again, waiting for Arthur’s reassurance.

“Here, boy.”

The dog moved gingerly, as though walking on coals, before curling up next to Arthur’s middle.

“We’re a sight, aren’t we?” Arthur mumbled. “Heh. Keep your fleas to yourself.”

He slipped into a restful sleep, and dreamed of riding across the plains.

-

The wind died down sometime during the night, and Arthur woke to a silent morning. The dog remained at his side, grateful for the warmth and company.

After last night’s bourbon binge, he had to answer the call of nature, and fast. Arthur got up with a sigh and cleared the doorway to get outside. He blinked and squinted as the door opened, his eyes adjusting from the dark cabin to the white forest. The storm had dumped two feet of snow in Tall Trees, and it was still falling. The flakes drifted lazily through the canopy, alighting soundlessly on the ground. The sheepdog appeared beside him in the doorway, yawning and stretching.

The two walked out, Arthur plowing through the snow and the dog trotting behind. They relieved themselves next to the cabin. The dog cocked a leg against a bush, confirming Arthur’s suspicion that underneath all that fur it was male. Now he had to give the dog a name.

The horses were quiet, and Arthur walked around to the stable. His heart dropped.

“Shit!”

Boadicea and Hagen had vanished. There were no tracks leading out, so they had been spirited away sometime in the night. He raised his fingers to his lips and a piercing whistle rang out through the forest. Arthur listened out for any answering call, but there was only silence.

The dog appeared next to him, alert and ready for action.

“Goddamn it, I’m not lookin’ for you.”

An idea came to Arthur then. The dog was scrawny and weak, but he was a sheepdog.

“Come on, feller.”

The dog followed him into the stable. There was no sign of a struggle. Arthur squatted down in the mud, and pointed at the frozen hoof prints. The dog sniffed, and looked up at Arthur quizzically. Arthur sighed. A bloodhound would have followed it straight away.

“Ugh. Stay here.”

The dog ignored him, following him back into the cabin. So Arthur placed the saddles before the dog, letting him sniff them.

“Can you find ‘em for me?”

The sheepdog cocked his head. He was familiar with the smell of horses, but unsure of what was being asked of him. He cowered, not understanding Arthur’s anger and frustration.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, trying to calm down.

Arthur built up the fire again until it was blazing hot. He broke off some twigs from a pine tree outside and placed them on the fire. Fragrant smoke filled the cabin, but most of it went up into the chimney. It would help him to find his way back.

He quickly packed up, making sure that his revolvers and rifle were clean and loaded. While Arthur didn’t want to cause trouble in West Elizabeth so soon after moving in, he would do whatever was necessary to get his horses back. Before he left, he cut himself a slice of salted beef, and gave the dog some too.

“Stay,” he said firmly.

Arthur closed the cabin door, leaving the dog inside with the saucepan of water. The dog was too weak to come with him. Or so he thought.

As he pushed through the snow, he could only guess where the horses had gone. Few people lived in Tall Trees, and they either lived alone or in small camps. The only settlement here was Manzanita Post, and like everyone else in the forest they were wary of outsiders. Probably with good reason.

Arthur heard a weak bark behind him, and stopped in his tracks. The dog! It had slipped through the door, and was following his trail. He crouched down as the dog approached, and smiled despite his mood. He scratched him behind the ears.

“I can’t look after you out here,” Arthur said gently. “Let’s go back.”

They turned and followed the trail; he had not made it far. Arthur noticed the dog sniffing around and had another idea. He walked back into the cabin and brought out the blanket he had used last night, the same one he had used to dry the horses off. He crouched down and held it out to the dog.

“Can you find ‘em for me? Find.”

This time the dog seemed to get it, and he jumped off Arthur’s trail and into the fresh snow. It was higher than his shoulders, but the sheepdog courageously bounded through it. He checked the area around the cabin and stable, circling out into the trees. Arthur also figured it was better to start here than blindly walk into the forest. The bears were hibernating, but there were still plenty of other big predators around. There might even be rival gangs in Tall Trees that he didn’t know about. He checked the trees for horse hair or broken branches - there must be some clue to Boadicea and Hagen’s whereabouts.

After a few minutes of searching, a yap echoed through the trees. Arthur hurried over to the sheepdog and found him standing proudly, tail wagging. The trees were thick here, catching most of the snow on their branches. Beneath them there was a narrow, shallow depression in the snow leading away from the cabin. A horse trail!

“Good boy!” Arthur praised. “You did it!”

He rewarded the dog with a piece of cheese. The dog smiled back at him for the first time, tail wagging in a blur.

“Find! Find ‘em, boy!” Arthur pointed down the trail, and the sheepdog set off, nose down and eager to please. Arthur noticed that some of the lower twigs had snapped, and the branches were holding less snow than the ones above after the horses had brushed past.

When the trail disappeared, covered by snow, the dog’s keen nose was quick to find it again. Arthur struggled to keep up as he watched out for his horses, the dog, wild animals, and any unfriendly people.

After maybe twenty minutes, he stopped and whistled again. The dog paused, and the forest returned to silence. Then, a faint, answering cry came from ahead.

“That’s Boadicea! We did it!”

He shrugged the rifle from his shoulder. If the horses had been stolen, there could be a fight. The dog raced eagerly ahead, but Arthur called him back.

“Come here, boy. Heel.”

The sheepdog whined, obviously keen to round up the horses, but he bounded back to Arthur’s side.

“Good dog.”

They stalked through the trees, Arthur wary of a trap, while the dog listened out for danger. When there was a rustle ahead, Arthur stopped and raised his rifle. Boadicea appeared through the trees, complete with bridle and reins, and whinnied when she saw him. He lowered his gun.

“Boadicea! I missed you, girl!”

Hagen appeared after her, and both horses trotted up to Arthur. To his relief, they didn’t have so much as a scratch or bump on them. Arthur hugged Boadicea, even giving her a kiss on the nose. He didn’t know Hagen well enough yet to give him a hug, but the gelding appreciated a pat and shoulder scratch.

When Arthur’s gaze returned to Boadicea, he noticed the mare studying the sheepdog.

“Easy, girl,” he said. “He’s coming back with us.”

Boadicea was clever enough to figure out that the scrawny pup wasn’t a threat. She flicked her dark mane, ignoring the dog and basking in Arthur’s attention.

It was obvious now that the horses had escaped from the stable by themselves. Boadicea was too clever for her own good and a serial escape artist. Arthur figured that in his haste yesterday evening he hadn’t tied a decent knot. The mare had freed herself and Hagen, both leaving the lean-to during the night in search of something to eat.

“Don’t ever make me worry like that again,” he scolded, but he wasn’t really angry. Just relieved.

He gathered up Boadicea’s reins and Hagen’s lead rope, and was about to walk back to the cabin when he noticed that the dog had wandered off.

“Hey! Dog!” he called. It definitely needed a name.

He sighed when the sheepdog didn’t reappear - maybe he was jealous of the horses getting all the attention? This time Arthur led the horses on the dog’s trail. The dog had not wandered far, and was sniffing around in a tiny clearing.

Arthur couldn’t believe it. Encircled by massive pine trees stood a single, perfect fir. It reached just a little bit taller than him, with blue-green needles and a classic conical shape. Dutch’s goddamn Christmas tree.

He shook his head. “Don’t know how you did it, boy.”

The dog realized that he was not alone and looked up with a goofy smile, forgetting about whatever interesting scent trail he had found. He reminded Arthur of someone from a long time ago.

With a firm word to both the dog and horses to stay put, Arthur cut the fir tree. It was almost too heavy for him to lift, but with a bit of clever maneuvering he balanced it across Boadicea and Hagen, securing their bridles together with Hagen’s lead rope. Boadicea grumbled, but Hagen shouldered the weight dutifully.

Arthur did not need to worry about finding the cabin again, as he and the dog followed their fresh trail back. It was still snowing, but the path remained clear.

The sheepdog was definitely flagging now, his limited energy spent on tracking the horses. His long pink tongue lolled, and even with the clear trail he kept stumbling. Arthur eventually picked him up, cradling him, and the dog was too exhausted to protest.

Arthur had already lost so much time, but on checking his pocket watch he realized that he might be able to make it to the camp at night. Even if he couldn’t make it back today, there was no need to stay in the cabin when he could move the horses to decent grazing by the river.

The snowfall ceased as they returned to the cabin. It was now late morning, and Arthur wasted no time in saddling the horses. The exhausted dog lay in a dry corner of the stables, trying not to fall asleep. He was still just a pup, after all.

Arthur cleared the cabin and left it as he had found it: it could be a useful hideout in future. Finally, he heaped snow over the fire until it completely fizzed out.

Boadicea pawed the ground, impatient to leave. She was pleased to have the tree off her back. Hagen now carried it by himself, but he did not complain. He even nibbled one of the branches, but shook his massive head in disgust.

Arthur found the sheepdog snoozing in the stable, and smiled to himself.

“Guess you’ll have to ride with me.”

The pup blinked awake, and yawned. Arthur gathered him up and lifted him onto his shoulder, supporting the dog’s weight with one hand.

“Jeez, kid, you need a bath,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

Arthur mounted up awkwardly, and moved the dog onto his lap. The sheepdog looked around in bewilderment - he had probably never been on a horse before. Using his compass as a guide Arthur steered his clever, mischievous mare to Blackwater.

-

As the trees thinned and the snow melted away, Boadicea transitioned into an easy lope, eager to move out of the forest. Arthur allowed her to set the pace, concentrating on the dog instead so he didn’t slide off the saddle. He also released some of the lead rope, allowing Hagen to fall back slightly: he was done being smacked by the prickly branches of the fir tree!

Many of the dog names that sprang into his head were… uninspiring. Rufus. Patches. Bob. Sport. Jack. He certainly couldn’t call the dog Jack! Abigail would have a fit. The dog sighed, as if silently agreeing with him. Arthur decided to try out some names later, to see if the sheepdog would respond to any of them.

They stopped on the plains for a late lunch. Hagen and Boadicea devoured the withered grass as though they had not eaten for weeks. The grazing was not as good on the plains as by the river, but they still had a ways to go before they reached water again. The earth was muddy and the grass a dull brown, but at least there was no more snow.

After eating some of Arthur’s meagre lunch - salt beef and baked beans - the dog set about rolling in the mud. Arthur didn’t bother to stop him, as the mud would cover some of the stench.

“Miss Grimshaw’s goin’ to dunk you in a barrel of cold water when we get to camp.”

The dog snorted in delight.

“Heh. You remind me of my boy, Isaac. He used to love gettin’ muddy too.”

The sheepdog left smears of cold mud on Arthur’s snow jacket and trousers once they were up in the saddle. Despite the short rest and a feed of shriveled grass, Boadicea happily kept up a smart jog. She was eager to get back home, where she could eat as much hay as she wanted. Arthur gave her a pat on the neck. Hagen sensed the mare’s excitement, and matched her pace.

Though the overcast sky never cleared, mercifully there was no rain or snow on their ride back to camp. Arthur found a road sign to Blackwater just as the sun melted into the western horizon. They were making good time.

Arthur made it back late, close to midnight. He had lit his oil lantern, and was riding through the dark when a shout came from nearby. Arthur, the dog, and both horses jumped.

“WHO GOES THERE?!”

“It’s Arthur, ya dumbass.”

The warm light from the oil lamp lit up John’s face as he approached. He wasn’t drunk this time. How unusual.

“So, King Arthur has returned with his legendary tree.”

“Shut it, Marston,” Arthur replied sourly. “I got this for your boy.”

John snorted with laughter. “You got it ‘cause Dutch told you to.” He turned and walked back to his post.

Arthur grit his teeth. John was right, of course, but he was too tired to come up with a snappy comeback. He nudged Boadicea forward, and she took them to the horse station.

The dog, still unnamed, stuck by Arthur as he removed the fir tree and saddles. Javier noticed him laboring in the shadows and got up from his bedroll to help.

“Nice work, Arthur,” he said, eyeing the tree. “Dutch will be happy with this.”

“I hope so,” he growled. “Been ridin’ for two days.”

Javier noticed the dog then, sticking close to Arthur for protection, but keeping clear of the horses’ legs.

“Hey, you found a dog!?”

“Yeah, abandoned most likely. He was half-dead when I found him. He’s a good dog: kinda timid, but smart. And he ain’t sick neither, just dirty.”

“It’ll be good to have a dog here again, listening out for trouble. If you’re alright with the horses I can set up the tree?”

Arthur nodded. “Thanks, Javier.”

The horses were already tucking into a hay bale between them, and all Arthur had to do was brush them down and pick out their hooves.

“Good job, Boadicea. You too, Hagen.”

He gave them each a grateful pat on the neck, and walked back to his cot, skirting around the campsite with the dog at his heels. The camp was silent, most of the gang asleep, and they managed to avoid being noticed by anyone else. Arthur would deal with Susan’s wrath tomorrow.

-

“You’ve outdone yourself, Arthur.”

He blinked awake. He knew instantly that it was early – too early to be awake. The sun had just risen, its weak light twinkling through the trees. The still, cold air caught in his lungs.

Dutch was leaning against the wagon at the foot of Arthur’s bed. He smiled, with a warmth that reached his eyes.

“Ugh, what time is it?” Arthur mumbled.

“Early enough for young Jack. See for yourself.”

Arthur sat up on his cot, the disturbance causing the dog to wake up too. Javier had dug the fir tree into the hard ground in the heart of the Van Der Linde campsite, and Jack and Abigail were already busying themselves with decorating it. Arthur squinted in disbelief – were they actually using gold necklaces and pearls?!

“They had to improvise,” Dutch said. “We don’t have no glass ornaments. The tree could do with some candles, though.”

Arthur lay back on his cot. “Don’t ask me to get those for you, too.”

Dutch laughed. “Rest up, son. But when you’re awake I would like to hear the story of how you got that dog.”

When Arthur finally got out of bed, close to midday, Jack ran up to him. The boy had obviously been waiting. The sheepdog jumped off the cot and shook himself vigorously. Arthur rolled the stiffness from his shoulders with a few satisfying cracks.

“Hey, Uncle Arthur!” Jack said. “Did you get the tree for us?”

Arthur covered up a yawn. “I sure did! You like it?”

“Yeah!”

“Now that’s what I like to hear. You and your momma sure did decorate it nice.”

“Thanks! Can I pat your dog?”

Arthur scratched his short beard. “Um. He’s a bit shy, but he likes food. Here, you can give him some cheese.”

Abigail watched nearby as Jack held out a morsel of cheese. The sheepdog was much less frightened now, and took it gingerly from the boy’s hand.

“What’s his name?” Jack asked.

“He doesn’t have one. Not yet, anyways. Want to help me pick one?”

“Yeah! What about… Spot?”

Arthur smiled. “Not bad. But I don’t think he looks like a Spot to me. How about Jake?”

“I don’t like it.”

As they were talking, the dog sniffed at Arthur’s satchel, eager to get into its contents.

Jack hummed in thought. “Maybe Gilbert?”

“Naw, that’s an old man’s name. He’s still just a pup. Kinda like you!”

Abigail laughed. “Come on, boys. You’ve gotta agree on somethin’.”

“Well, I guess he kinda reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago,” Arthur admitted. “How about, uh, Zach?”

The dog looked up from the satchel, his brown eyes focused on Arthur.

“I think he likes it!” said Jack.

“Yeah. That’s weird…”

Zach moved between Jack and Arthur, asking for a scratch.

Moments later Susan appeared at the ammunition wagon, towering over them with her hands on her hips. Abigail quickly smothered a giggle as the blood drained from Arthur’s face.

“Miss Grimshaw-”

“Don’t you ‘Miss Grimshaw’ me! I ain’t ever seen such filth in my camp before.”

“…is the water warm?”

Susan glared at him. “No. It’s colder than my heart. Now git!”

Arthur got up with a sigh and followed her to the wash basin, dreading the water’s icy touch. Zach followed at his heels, smiling all the way.

 -

The end!

[werewolfmimi]

"My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," The boy tells the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless sky. The alchemist replies "Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse that the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a seconds' encounter with God and Eternity."

We too easily give up on our dreams, yet the universe is always ready to help us fulfill them.

Paulo Coelho paints the reader's mind with surreal settings, a fascinating story-line, and a simple style of writing full of meaningful insights that will leave the reader feeling warm-hearted, inspired, and ready to shoot for the stars.

The settings in this book are so vividly described that the reader can feel the lush, cool grasses of the Andalusian fields; the soft glow and warmth emanating from the buildings of the towns; as well as the burning sands, the hot wind, and the overbearing sun of the Sahara. Coelho makes such seamless transitions between these diverse locations that if Coelho had not mentioned it himself, the reader would not have realized that these settings, which seem worlds apart, are only two hours away from each other. Also, Coelho never makes a direct mention to the time period. Instead, he allows the reader to become lost in the timeless and ancient allure of the desert, filling the reader's mind with mystery and awe, which sparks the imagination into filling in all the details with the aura of Arabia.

The Alchemist is remarkable for being a love story that renounces the idea that romantic love must be central to people’s lives. Each person has a destiny that exists independently of others. It is the thing that you would do or be even if you had all the love and money you want.

The author believes in destiny, that everything is written: Maktub he says. Maktub is an Arabic word which has a similar meaning to what in English is 'everything is written’. But nobody knows where. He emphasizes a lot on this issue, as if to convince the reader not to be scared of the unknown because the unknown is already known somewhere else.

"At a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what’s happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That’s the world’s greatest lie. Whoever you are, or whatever it is that you do, when you really want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it”

There are omens, signs which will guide you throughout your life. Your only work is to recognize and follow these omens. People you meet in your life play an important role in guiding you towards your destination. And those who support and wait for you to achieve your dream, are your people. Have faith yourself and in the goodness of people.

“No matter what he does, every person on earth plays a central role in the history of the world. And normally he doesn’t know it.”

Coelho's life is nothing short of a fairy tale story and somehow his life experiences are reflected in this book. One important point to note is the boy, the protagonist of the story, has himself been named just once in the entire book. Its the story of every person on this earth who dares to dream and shape his life on his own.

Who is willing to risk comfort, routine, security and existing relationships to follow something that to others looks like a mirage? It takes courage, and dog-eared, stained copies of Coelho’s classic have become the constant companion of people who need to make fearless decisions daily to keep true to a larger vision.

[ukdamo]

Granada

Nizar Qabbani - after a visit to the Alhambra, with an Andalusian guide...

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting, How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.

Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing, Generating after-effects from the past ages afore.

Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring, She said: Granada is the city where I was bore.

Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore.

And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying, Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour.

How strange is history, how is it to me returning? A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore.

With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing, The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more.

I saw a room in our old house with a clearing, Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor.

And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining, With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendour.

Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore.

In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore.

In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming, Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour.

She came with me and her hair behind her flowing, Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow.

The long earrings on her neck were glittering, Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow.

Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding, And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row.

The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing, And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow.

She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing, Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.

Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering, And in my heart anointed another that refused to go.

If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing, The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago.

When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going, I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

[kbstories]

And with this third chapter, the fic is complete!

Only Lost The Night

Tags: Recovery, First Kiss, Fishing (non-graphic)

No additional spoilers apply.

>>Read on AO3

<<First Chapter

<<Second Chapter

The coffee comes out of the pot piping hot, quickly warming his mug and filling the morning air with its scent.

Arthur downs it in big gulps, wincing as it burns down his throat. The bad taste in his mouth is gone, though, and his queasy stomach settles with something to digest. The cold sweat he wakes up in every morning, or the tremor in his hands, well – recovery, as it turns out, is one tough son of a bitch, much more so when your alcohol supply is out of reach.

A sigh worms its way out his mouth, clouding white in front of him. There's precious little for him to do in camp – he can barely raise his left arm higher than chest height without pulling some wound or other – and most of the gang's inner workings come along well without his input.

This must be the longest Arthur's been off duty in... a while. It's disorienting, to say the least.

It doesn't help that, additionally to Miss Grimshaw's care – a duty she caries out with a gruff undertone in her voice but an indulgent glint in her eyes –, Charles has been watching him like a hawk, grumbling about his hard work going to waste otherwise.

Arthur would be the first to admit that drinking himself into a stupor a week into his mandatory bedrest was not his brightest moment. It definitely beat sitting on his ass all day long, doing fuck-all to earn his keep.

At this rate, he'll end up going to the dogs like Uncle. Isn't that a fun thought to entertain?

Even now he can feel the man's gaze on him, all the way across camp. Arthur raises his mug in the general direction of Charles's usual post, and plants himself on one of the logs surrounding the camp fire. See, I can be good, too.

A lazy salute is his meagre reward. Arthur shakes his head, only noticing the smile on his own face when he goes to light a cigarette. Drawing deep, he exhales slowly, finding himself enjoying the bite of nicotine on his tongue instead of merely going through the motions.

Maybe he can ask Hosea for one of them crime novels he's been so involved with lately. How was the author called again? Arthur flicks the excess ash to the ground, chasing the name on the tip of his tongue. Nope, gone. Never been his strongest suit, books, but Jack's seems interested too as of late, and with how things have been, the boy deserves some hero's tale or other to dream of.

… not one of Hosea's, then. God knows the kid sees enough blood and death as is.

Gaze lost in the fire and with nowhere else to go, Arthur's thoughts drift like smoke in the wind. To Jack, and how somewhere in this mess, he became Uncle Arthur to him. About that boy Kieran, so desperate for somewhere to belong it's painful to watch at times, and John, who had it all and disappeared who-knows-where all the same. Dutch and Hosea and that ever-shifting dream they keep chasing.

And yet his fingers itch for... something more, something to touch, to hold on to, like a pen or a gun or–

A genuine connection, to tether his very being to something bigger than himself. What if, Arthur thinks.

What if, what if.

He blows another puff into the sky and watches it disappear into nothingness.

*

“Okay. Hunting. Nothin' fancy, just a doe or two. Need practice with that bow, right? Takes a lifetime to master, an' all that–”

“No.”

“Oh for... One ride. To– to the general store in Rhodes, or, uh, to the tree line and back. A glimpse at the fields.”

Charles hitches his elbow on his knee, hand under his chin. “No”, he repeats, the low, serious timbre of his voice crumbling with veiled amusement. A searching gaze is leveled on Arthur, the kind to reveal every weakness hiding under his skin.

“Is that what it takes, Morgan? Two weeks in camp?”

“Ain't beggin' yet”, Arthur mumbles under his breath and throws Charles an unhappy look – Charles, who is currently sitting cross-legged on his saddle stand, confident as a king and entitled like one, too. Behind him, Dyani sniffs Charles's hair and pushes it around with her nose, rubbing his shoulder in the process.

It took Arthur weeks of constant work (and treats) to get the hang of the Andalusian's fickle temper and here they are, chummy like old friends. Traitors, the lot of them. Arthur's shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine, have it your way.”

The statement isn't immediately followed by action, however. The mere thought of wasting more hours walking a line into the dirt, watching people come and go and feeling their sympathetic eyes on him is revolting to an almost physical degree. Arthur stares at his cot, just a few feet away, and can't bring himself to move.

“Arthur.”

Just his name, without pity. He closes his eyes and rubs his neck, staring at his boots as he struggles to find the right words.

“Just feelin' useless, is all. Can't do nothin' for weeks now an' with the O'Driscolls and whoever else breathin' down our necks... Ain't the man I am, Charles. To sit around an' wait for things to happen.”

A rustle of movement makes him glance up. Charles hops to his feet, easy as anything, and Arthur barely registers he's throwing something until he's grabbed it. A fishing rod? Arthur tilts his head with a frown.

“But you–”

“Teach me”, Charles says simply, and all Arthur can do is shut his mouth and nod, trying (and failing) to ignore how warm his chest feels.

*

Little by little, the smooth lines of graphite connect, fill in blank space, spill over the shadowed fold between the pages and beyond.

The gentle rocking of the boat, the rhythmic lapping of water against lacquered wood, the sting of a wound, still healing – it all fades into the background, there but muted as his attention is bracketed by the edges of his journal.

With the sun warming his back, Arthur draws.

In front of him sits Charles, leaning back just as he is, feet propped up against the boat's curved hull. Rod and line in place, his eyes are alert and search the surface of the lake for any movement, the very picture of endless patience. The breeze plays with a loose strand of his hair before he reaches up and tucks it away.

Charles fishes, and Arthur draws... him.

(Arthur's sketch of Charles by @ISpitznagel)

His shoulder doesn't allow him to sit as he usually does, legs folded close to his chest and journal balanced on his knees, angled away so nobody can see what he's working on. The members of the gang quickly learned that whoever tries is more likely to catch a fist to the jaw than a glimpse at his sketches. What is to others a collection of landscapes and animals and the odd person, to Arthur, well...

Things in his life don't have the best relationship with permanence, as it were. He'd rather commit what he can to paper before they inevitably disappear too.

Charles asks later, “What do you think of when you draw?”, when the light has grown too weak to keep going and Arthur reached for his pack of cigs to occupy his hands instead. Arthur, who drew in his lap instead of on his knees and knows that Charles saw.

He finds he doesn't mind one bit.

“Depends”, he mutters, stretching his legs out as far as the narrow boat allows, bumping against Charles's hip. “Sometimes nothin', sometimes somethin' I can't put words to just yet. Just keepin' track of things, in my own way. Makes 'em less unfathomable, if I may borrow one of them fancy terms.”

Charles snorts, “You may”, his grin there and gone in a flash. He's set aside the fishing rod – with the bucket they brought along filled to the brim with fish, there wouldn't be anywhere to put them anyways –, merely watching Arthur smoke now.

“Never was much the artistic type, myself. Looks all a bit like magic to me.”

Arthur grins back, offering him a cig of his own. Charles shrugs and takes one out of the box, leaning close to the match Arthur lights for him; his face is momentarily lit by its flaring tip, his eyes reflecting the embers' glow.

Their fingers brush and Arthur hums, exhales another smoke-filled breath into the night sky.

“Well I'd show you how, Charles, but if you take to it as quickly as fishin', what unique skills would that leave me with?”

Charles shrugs. “I can think of some”, he counters easily, another step in this dance of theirs that they slip into on nights like these. Teasing words wrapped around tender spots and soft-spoken secrets. Arthur takes the compliment for what it is, shaking his head fondly.

They smoke. Arthur tells Charles of the time he went fishing with Jack, months ago now; how hard it had been for the kid to focus on the fish, and less so on picking flowers.

“Seems the creative sort, you know? Better to let 'em make things. Kid's too young for all this crap we keep puttin' him through.”

“Does Marston know, though?” Charles sighs. “Some days it seems to me like you're more of a father to that boy than he is.”

Arthur frowns, rubs at his chest and that dull ache that, years later, is still there.

“Well, in some ways... Can't up and leave for a year an' expect things to remain the same, I guess. But John cares, or at least I think he does.” A pause. “'cause that's the thing, ain't it? Dutch taught us to give a shit 'bout family an' whatnot but, John an' I, we ain't got the same charisma he does. 's one of those things that's easier said than done.”

For a while, Charles says nothing. Just sits and smokes, looking into the distance. Turning some thought or other in his head, Arthur assumes. Eventually: “Guess you're right. Just doesn't feel good, seeing a kid on the run. Too much of that, as of late.”

“Ain't that the truth”, Arthur nods, righting himself to shake off some of the somber mood weighing on his shoulders. Smirking, he nudges Charles's knee with his own. “Just glad he stuck by that when them O'Driscolls got me. Didn't know I was even worthy of the best damn rescue squad we got.”

Charles's eyes snap to his then, narrowing a fraction. “Huh?”

“Dutch, I mean. An' you.”

“Oh.” That peculiar expression vanishes, Charles's face all-too-neutral. “Guess so”, he repeats, and Arthur draws back a little.

“Did I, uh–“ Glancing down, Arthur fiddles with the burned-out stub, staining his fingers with ash. “Didn't mean no offense, Charles. Been complainin' a lot but I wouldn't be here at all without you. Just wanted to let you know, 'm takin' none of that for granted.”

Suddenly Charles's hand is there, giving Arthur's a gentle squeeze. “Hey. That's not what I meant. Was just somewhere else, there.”

Automatically, Arthur squeezes back.

“Point still stands. Thank you.”

A quiet chuckle reels him back in, as it always does these days, “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, you know that”, and Arthur can't not look up at those words, searching his expression for– What, exactly?

What if, what if. The distance is gone, Charles's gaze warming further as Arthur's thumb brushes over the scarred back of his hand, feeling the calm rhythm of his pulse against his.

“What are we doing, Charles?”

The question is soft, said without any idea where it's headed: a road untraveled, missing from every map yet waiting to be explored.

Charles blinks, taken off guard. He opens his mouth, hesitates, admits, “Whatever you want us to”, sounding just as vulnerable as Arthur feels.

A split-second decision: Arthur tugs, Charles follows, catching himself against the boat. “Arthur”, he whispers, close enough Arthur can feel his breath on his face.

Arthur rasps, “Tell me to stop”, but Charles never does; he leans in, interlacing their fingers in the same moment their lips meet, tentatively – Arthur's eyes flutter shut, his fingers find the collar of Charles's shirt blindly, pull him ever-closer as he melts into it.

They barely part between one kiss and the next; Arthur murmurs Charles's name with the little breath he can catch, and “Fuck”, as Charles's tongue pushes into his mouth and he tastes smoke. His blood sings, throbbing in his veins in a dizzying rush, all the more prominent when Charles's thigh slides between his, caging him in–

The white-hot flash of pain comes so unexpected Arthur gasps, twisting his shoulder away from the pressure. Charles flinches, leans back, “Shit, sorry”, he pants out, mouth spit-slick and eyes wide.

Arthur can barely hear it over how loud his heart is, drumming away in his chest– “'m okay”, he says because Charles looks like he needs to hear it, but he doesn't let go, not yet.

“Come back. Please?”

Charles sways like he's drunk, nods – presses his forehead against Arthur's, noses brushing, but his tone is cautious, now. “We– This is not wise. You need time to heal.”

Arthur laughs, more than a little husky. “Do I look like I care about wise right now? Fuck, Charles.”

Charles's voice isn't faring much better; he hums a low “mmhm” before he kisses Arthur again, fleetingly. “Fuck me, indeed. I swear I had pure intentions with this.”

“You hate fishing. Dunno why you tried to convince me otherwise.”

“... I do, sorry.”

They share a smile, and Arthur shakes his head, tracing the curve of Charles's lips with his thumb.

“I don't mind. I prefer the alternative, too.”

>>Read on AO3

[fauny1-enpointe]

Osteal Facade @ Hauntingly Good Time At Novus by KetsuidaFaun +En Pointe+ Via Flickr: I'm not so mean to hide what i'm finally dropping at the Hauntingly Good Time party.... that and i cant wait to show it After MUCH reworking, repainting, toggling and even some scripting blunders, back from the dead it's Osteal Facade for Teegles! this 14 color, emissive set now comes with FOUR horn options along with the 2 mask options as before, the colorful textures GLOW in the dark while the natural colors are just natural with no glow (needs advance lighting turned on to get the full feel but still looks cool with out) Depending on how you might mix and match your horns, it adds about 9-13 LI to your Teegle. and. yes, teegles only, buying this for anything else will have interesting results and not the one you're looking for RIGGED TO Hanoverian Unicorn Friesian Clydesdale Pegasus Fjord Belgian ASB TWH Andalusian Irish Cob Mule You can snag this at the party on the 27th starting at 4 pm SLT BUT you can also win this for free in the raffle at the party. so, come wiggle and come grab your spooky bab <3 LM TBA