#saddlebow

[talesfromtheenchantedforest]

GRINGOLET THEFT

nothing in the entire history of arthurian literature is as correct and appropriate as Gawain having acquired Gringolet by theft mid-battle:

Then they crossed the ford and ran after them for quite a long time. King Clarion, who was sitting on Gringolet, went out ahead all the others more than an arrow-shot. And Sir Gawainet was behind his companions, holding his bloody sword, when the Saxon, who was striving hard to catch up with him, yelled out, "You worthless dog, surrender now, for all of you are dead!" And Sir Gawainet looked about and saw the horse hugging the ground and bursting to go, and he began very much to yearn for him in his heart, and he said that if he had such a horse, he would not give him away for the best city that King Arthur had. Then he began to slow his pace and run at an easy gallop. King Clarion was still giving him chase and would not let him get away. And when Sir Gawainet saw how close he was to him, he turned his shield against him. King Clarion struck him so hard that his lance flew to bits, and Sir Gawainet hit him so hard on his helmet that he split it down to his iron coif and cut to the bone; he dazed him so badly that he flew over his saddlebow onto the ground, and he hit so hard that he fainted away from the agony he felt. And Sir Gawainet took Gringolet by the bridge and led him toward a stand of trees almost half a league away.

— The Story of Merlin, Chapter 41, Rupert T. Pickens translation

[queer-ragnelle]

tristan/isolde/palomides your MIND

LISTEN I have so many thoughts about them!! It’s an actual tragedy that they’ve never inhabited a movie together. I first noticed them in Le Morte d'Arthur, as I'm sure most people did, as it's more accessible than the Prose Tristan. But I didn't really appreciate them until after I read Between Knights: Triangular Desire and Sir Palomides by Oldga Burakov Mongan. In this essay, Mongan claims:

Very often the bond between the desiring subject [Palomides] and his beloved [Isolde] is peripheral, subordinate in its intensity, to the subject's relationship with his male 'mediator of desire' [Tristan].

This essay breaks down many of the encounters between these three in Le Morte and demonstrates how interconnected they truly are. Speaking for myself, I prefer La Tavola Ritonda instead. I'm not quite done scanning that, but it will be on my blog ASAP.

In the mean time, it has one of my favorite Palomides introductions ever.

There entered on the side of the King of Scozia a knight who bore all black insignia, and who was called Palamidesso the Pagan, a son of King Scalabrino. This Palamidesso carried two swords by his side as a signal that no knight had ever made him bend over the saddlebow.

Duel wielding? Bend over the saddlebow, you say? Interesting. Palomides goes on to win this tournament! After that he follows his lord to another castle where he first sees Isolde, falls in love with her, and begins a hateful staring contest with Tristan (literally). It's here that they battle for the first time...

As Tristano looked over the field, he saw that Sir Palamidesso was leaving, and called out to him, "Hallo, knight, guard yourself against me! I am the knight you met at King Languis' court, and it seems now that I am the worthier of the love of Isotta the Blonde!" Bold Palamidesso, hearing those words, turned his horse's head around and, drawing his sword, gave Tristano such blows on his helmet that he bent him over the saddlebow. But Tristano hit back, and hit Palamidesso so hard on his helmet that he made blood gush out of his mouth and nose, and knocked him off his horse so badly wounded that for a long time he was unconscious. Thus Palamidesso lost the prize, and lost also the right to wear two swords.

Compelling word choice throughout this. Anyway as per usual they continue to squabble until eventually settling their differences and becoming friends (in part thanks to Lancelot who apparently rents out his castle for polyamorous hookups).

"When I was jousting with Sir Lancilotto the other day, he said to me, 'Now, Palamidesso, Gioiosa Guardia is worth more than any other place in the world, for it holds a noble treasure.' Therefore I imagine that this treasure is Sir Tristan and the beautiful Isotta, because those two are the ones who excel all others in the world in beauty, prowess, and courtesy." When he heard these words, Tristano allowed Palamidesso to remount and then let his lance fall, since Palamidesso had broken his. Then he spoke in this way: "Palamidesso, Palamidesso, here is this Tristano you have been searching for. Come and fight me, if you want to. If not, I am willing to stop because of those words you spoke. I am your enemy, but I am ready to make peace with you. Still, if it would please you to fight, I am ready to do battle with you. You may choose whichever pleases and delights you most." Palamidesso replied, "Surely, Tristano, the man who could have you for a friend would be foolish to want you for an enemy, Therefore I ask that there be peace and good friendship between us."

Nobody tell Palomides that Lancelot was almost certainly referring to Guinevere and not Tristan or Isolde. But their truce culminates in everyone joining back up at Cuck Castle Joyous Guard.

The knights then rode in that direction, and when they arrived at the main palace they found the lady, Queen Isotta, all happy and joyous, attended by ladies and maidens. When Tristano told her how he and Palamidesso had made peace, she was very glad of it, and welcomed the knights with much honor. Then the tables were set out, and they all sat down to eat.

Much later, King Arthur hosts a joust in which all participants are to bring a lady. So, now that everyone are friends, Isolde is brought along with a retinue of knights, including Tristan and Palomides. They wear her colors and fight on "her" side against Arthur, Lancelot, and their kinsmen on Guinevere's "side." Polyamory enjoyers, this text is for us. Anyway the only portion of that I'll include is this sweet passage which really illustrates that the friendship in this little group is genuine. They're all affectionate after the truce and everyone is having a great time.

When Isotta had returned to the pavilion, the tables were set out and food was prepared, and when water had been brought out for their hands, they sat down to eat. As they ate, Gariette looked out and saw Palamidesso going by looking for them, and pointed him out to Sir Tristano. Tristano got up and went to meet him, taking him by the hand and leading him into the pavilion, where he disarmed and sat at the table. They all passed that night in great joy.

After this, they all live happily ever after, and nothing bad happens. :'^) I'll have La Tavola Ritonda done soon, and then you all can enjoy it too. I promise it's worth getting used to the Italian names, it's so fun! Thanks for the ask!

[hanzajesthanza]

toruviel appreciation post

Edge of the World, Pt. VI, description:

The elf standing over Dandelion had black eyes and raven hair, which fell luxuriantly over her shoulders, except for two thin plaits braided at her temples. She was wearing a short leather camisole over a loose shirt of green satin, and tight woollen leggings tucked into riding boots. Her hips were wrapped around with a colored shawl which reached halfway down her thighs.

The elf leaned over Geralt. She had long lashes, an unnaturally pale complexion and parched, cracked lips. She wore a necklace of carved golden birch pieces on a strap, wrapped several times around her neck.

He saw Toruviel lurch to her knees, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. The elf wrenched the dagger from its sheath but gave a sob, hunched over, grasped her face and dropped her head between her knees.

Edge of the World, Pt. VI, Dandelion's lute:

Toruviel turned to him with an angry grimace on her cracked lips. “Musician!” she growled. “A human, yet a musician! A lutenist!” Without a word, she pulled the instrument from the tall elf's hand, forcefully smashed the lute against the pine and threw the remains, tangled in the strings, on Dandelion's chest. “Play on a cow's horn, you savage, not a lute.” The poet turned as white as death; his lips quivered. Geralt, feeling cold fury rising up somewhere within him, drew Toruviel's eyes with his own. “What are you staring at?” hissed the elf, leaning over. “Filthy ape-man! Do you want me to gouge out those insect eyes of yours?” (...) The elf nodded. From her saddlebow, she took a lute, a marvelous instrument of light, tastefully inlaid wood with a slender, engraved neck. Without a word, she handed the lute to Dandelion. The poet accepted the instrument and smiled. Also without a word, but his eyes said a great deal.

Time of Contempt, Ch. 1:

Toruviel leapt to her feet, seizing and belting on her sword, and poked Yaevinn in the thigh with the toe of her boot. He had been dozing, leaning against the wall of a hollow, and when he sprang up he scorched his hand as he pushed off from the hot sand. ‘Que suecc’s?’ ‘A rider on the road.’ ‘One?’ said Yaevinn, lifting his bow and quiver. ‘Cairbre? Only one?’ ‘Only one. He’s getting closer.’ ‘Let’s fix him then. It’ll be one less Dh’oine.’ ‘Forget it,’ said Toruviel, grabbing him by the sleeve. ‘Why bother? We were supposed to carry out reconnaissance and then join the commando. Are we to murder civilians on the road? Is that what fighting for freedom is about?’ ‘Precisely. Stand aside.’

Lady of the Lake, Ch. 10:

The elves came closer. They looked even worse than the horses. Nothing remained of their pride, of their hard-earned, supercilious, charismatic otherness. Their clothing–usually even on guerrillas from the commando units smart and beautiful–was dirty, torn and stained. Their hair–their pride and joy–was dishevelled, matted with sticky filth and clotted blood. Their large eyes, usually vain and lacking in any expression, were now abysses of panic and despair. Nothing remained of their otherness. Death, terror, hunger and homelessness had made them become ordinary. Very ordinary.

An elf woman with long, dark hair caked together with congealed blood stopped her horse right beside the wagon. She sat in the saddle leaning over awkwardly, protecting an arm in a blood-soaked sling around which flies buzzed and swarmed. ‘Toruviel,’ said one of the elves, turning around. ‘En’ca digne, luned.’ Lucienne instantly realised, understood, what it was about. She understood what the elf woman was looking at. The peasant girl had been familiar from childhood with the blue-grey, swollen spectre, the apparition of famine, lurking around the corner of her cottage. So she reacted instinctively and unerringly. She held out the bread towards the elf woman.

The invalids on the wagon, until then petrified and frozen in their tracks, suddenly twitched, as though animated by a magic spell. Quarter loaves ofbread, rounds of cheese, pieces of fatback and sausage appeared–as if by magic– in the hands that they held out towards the elves. And for the first time in a thousand years elves were holding their hands out towards humans.

and her depiction in hexer, which i love, as they included her raven-black hair:

[carnahan-legacy]

117 Saddlebow Road - Bell Canyon, CA 91307 - FOR SALE

[alemicheli76]

Il blog consiglia "La stanza di Molly" di Gianluca Pari Amati, Jack edizioni. Da non perdere!

Il blog consiglia “La stanza di Molly” di Gianluca Pari Amati, Jack edizioni. Da non perdere!

Quarta di copertina.Denise Stepinki è una detective della Capitale. Ha un carattere irascibile che spesso la mette nei guai, ma è anche una professionista affermata, diventata famosa per aver smantellato una spietata rete di pedofili.Quando il suo superiore decide di affidarle il caso di un killer che uccide i medici dell’ospedale di Saddlebow senza lasciare traccia, Denise è entusiasta perché…

[captmuldoon]

“The most detailed description of the brave deeds of war that made [Sir Pedro de Negro] worthy of knighthood is to be found in the Spanish chronicle. In a chapter dedicated to recounting ‘How by the Industry of Captian Pero Negro, Haddington was not lost that time’, we hear how, when the 6,000 English in the castle of Haddington were outnumbered by 10,000 besieging Scots, Negro suggested and executed a successful strategy to help. Negro took 200 Englishmen and 100 Spaniards on horseback, each with 10 or 12 pounds of gunpowder hung from his saddlebow. These men took the Scots by surprise, charging through them while firing muskets, and were able to break through to the castle gates. Here they had to sacrifice the horses [...] Within three days, the siege was broken, as the English fired their newly-fuelled artillery day and night, and the Scots ‘decided not to await the bad smell’ which would come from the horses’ carcasses. This ‘pretty feat of war’ gained the captain the General’s recommendation that he be given 200 crowns.

‘Sir Peryn Negroo’ is listed amongst all those who ‘died in July within a few days one of  another’. [...] His funeral was quite a ceremony, with 12 ‘stayffes’, ‘torches  burning...flute playing’, his flag bourne, and the street hung with black and with his arms. The preacher was one Dr Bartelet and it was attended by the company of Clerks, ‘a harold of armes and mony morners’.”  [x] [x] 

[comfort-questing]

night watch, p1

post-timeskip, war phase -> all adults here. directly after the Forgotten Hero paralogue.

-

We straggled home to Garreg Mach late in a burning gold afternoon, Marianne's bruised face quietly triumphant as she rode next to me, the pale sword slung at her saddlebow half-muffled in a spare cloak. The messenger from House Edmund had met us on our return and left us, satisfied as we were satisfied too, although for a different reason.

Honestly, anyone who lived near a forest with that many Beasts in it was well deserving of our pity. I wasn't going to say as much to Marianne, though. She had her own relationship with her homeland, as the rest of us did; I was just glad to be returning to a good clear battlefield.

Though it had gone less badly than it could have. Our damages were cuts and bruises for the most part, from the falling stones the Beasts cast up, and Hilda's cracked ribs and collarbone from a spill off her griffin. She kept forgetting that the healing magic was still taking hold and gesturing wildly at Claude as they flew circles around our column from above. I heard her yelps, but also her laughter, like birdsong on the wind.

I'd been worried about Bernadetta and Raphael and Leonie, but they seemed to have shrugged off any effects of the Beasts' strange purple auras. Though Bernadetta looked a bit peaked, her eyes wide and mouth pulled tight and drawn - but she always did after a fight, even after all these years. And Lysithea riding next to her, basking in the glory of her massive final spell that had slain the Wandering Beast itself, radiated enough deserved smugness to make anyway seem withdrawn.

"...Thank you for trusting me," Marianne said then, her voice almost too low to be heard. "For coming with me."

"You're the one who trusted us first," I said. "Trusted me to tell me of it, and them to show it, at least." Then, "Don't worry. I won't tell them anything you don't want me to share."

"I think - I think I'll tell them myself," she said. The wind stirred bits of her hair loose from her frazzled braids, and she tilted her face upward into the light to shake them back. "Someday."

Calm, but then she had such long experience covering up her pain. So I was less than surprised when a scratching at my door woke me, later that night when the lamps were wicking low and the dormitory hushed into stillness, and Marianne was on my lintel, wide-eyed and shaking with sobs.

A delayed reaction, I expected, and put out a hand to cover my yawn and another to invite her in. "Can't sleep?"

"Professor, we need you." Her trembling hand caught mine, grasping tight. "Come quick. It's Leonie."

From Marianne's desperation I should have known it would be bad. Still I reeled in my tracks a little as I came out of the staircase and heard the ragged, scraping coughs echoing in the hallway. Leonie's copper hair fell curtain-like covering her face as she knelt on the floor, Hilda holding her shoulders and steadying her against the fit. Hilda looked up to see us and sighed in relief. "Professor, she's - "

"I've been healing her," Marianne was saying, cutting over him. "But it isn't helping. She came to find me. She can't breathe, she - "

I dropped to my knees next to them and brushed Leonie's hair back from her face, and nearly bit my tongue in shock. Bright blood trailed from each nostril in slow drops, and as she coughed, her hand wasn't enough to stop the spray of crimson from spattering out between her fingers.

"I - thought - I - fine - but was - too much." Her voice was a thin wheeze between gasps, her chest heaving and shoulders hitching as I propped her up against me. "Feels - so - wrong."

Her skin was clammy to my touch, and I could hear the bubbling struggle of breath in her lungs as she inhaled. "Easy now," I said, "don't try to talk, it's all right - "

The inane things one says at these times.

"Woke me up with the coughing on the way to see Marianne," Hilda said. She pushed back the soft pink fall of her hair with one hand, rumpling it in a worried gesture. "The - the blood - that's new though."

"I tried to heal her." Marianne's face had gone blank, her eyes wide and staring down the dimness of the hall, her voice taking on the flat tone of retreat I remembered from the old days. "There's no effect. She must be having a reaction to the Beasts' poison that she breathed in. I don't know what else to do."

Leonie doubled over in my arms again, coughing, her ribs heaving under the cloth of her nightgown. There was blood all over my jacket now, and strands of fluid dripping viscous at the corners of her mouth. The bright defiance in her narrowed eyes was closer to anger than fear.

Somebody had to make a choice, and I was the only one that seemed likely to do so at this point. I stood up, pulling Leonie limply along with me.

"Hilda. Carry her. Marianne, go with her. Infirmary, now. Hot water - the steam will open her lungs and throat - and any herbs that help with that sort of thing." The girls were staring, wide-eyed. "Marianne, pretend it's for one of the horses and it's nothing to do with you - stop looking like that!"

And then, because a terrible thunderbolt of a thought had struck me: "I'll meet you there. Got to check on Bernie and Raphael too."

That jolted them loose, anyway. Hilda took Leonie's arm over her shoulders and then leaned down to scoop her up under her knees. Marianne let go of the handfuls of her nightgown she'd white-knuckled into her fists and stepped forward, jerkily.

I grabbed her shoulders and squeezed, the way I'd ground one of the boys after a long training session; the bones suddenly felt so close to the skin, but she didn't wince.

"This is not your fault," I said, and gave her a shake. "Go on."

I didn't wait to see her go; I left that to Hilda. I was already running for the staircase.

[itsclydebitches]

it's so funny to me bc the way you talk about show!witcher makes me not want to play the game bc. i love the way jaskier and geralt are in the show and i dont want THAT ruined for me by whatever the game does with them. which is probably weird but it just goes to show everyone has their own tastes i guess slkjfhgdskfjhgkjh

aksdjflaksj oh no! lol Honestly though, if you like the Netflix dynamic you may still like the game dynamic, if only because so many of the criticisms against Netflix — that Geralt is too cruel to Jaskier, Jaskier is too much of a caricature, they don't start out as the close friends they're meant to be, etc. — exists for TW3 as well. So for someone who does like their dynamic as opposed to being critical of it, the game and show might somewhat go hand-in-hand? Or at least that’s a theory of mine. Though TW3 takes place post-canon and thus the two have settled into a solid relationship (we've already gone through the development the Netflix boys will presumably get), there's still this undercurrent of Dandelion as this... grudgingly loved annoyance, I guess. Which, if you've read any of the books, feels totally off base, whereas if this is your first/only Witcher experience it can feel like a whole ocean of potential. We know Geralt does like Jaskier, so what does it mean if he doesn't always act like it? The whole "I pretend like I hate you, but deep down I'd totally die for you. Now what tragedy will make me finally  admit how much I care?" characterization can be GREAT. Great enough that I've got a 37,000 word fic derived from the Netflix dynamic going, despite my own complaints! (I am a contradiction) So yeah, I both like aspects of their relationship even as I'm frustrated by them, and more importantly, I can see many of those same characteristics in TW3. Which might make it more palatable for you, anon, than previously assumed.

It's the books where Dandelion truly differs and, as an adaptation — not just that, but an adaptation where the creators said time and again they were going to be faithful to the books — where Netflix fails to my mind. There's plenty of great Dandelion-Geralt moments to discuss, but you know Netflix's initial meeting? Jaskier begging for any acknowledgement of his work, Geralt dismissing his song as untrue, the whole man with bread in his pants? Compare that to the scene that exchange was likely taken from:

“Geralt,” said Dandilion, standing in the stirrups to pick a fine apple from a branch which stretched over the orchard fence, “all the way you've been complaining about it being harder and harder to find work. Yet from what I just heard, it looks as if you could work here without break until winter. You'd make a penny or two, and I’d have some beautiful subjects for my ballads. So explain why we're riding on.”

“I wouldn't make a penny, Dandilion.”

“Why?”

“Because there wasn't a word of truth in what they said.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“None of the creatures they mentioned exist.”

“You're joking!” Dandilion spat out a pip and threw the apple core at a patched mongrel. “No, it's impossible. I was watching them carefully, and I know people. They weren't lying.”

“No,” the witcher agreed. “They weren't lying. They firmly believed it all. Which doesn't change the facts.”

The poet was silent for a while.

“None of those monsters…None? It can't be. Something of what they listed must be here. At least one! Admit it.”

“All right. I admit it. One does exist for sure.”

“Ha! What?”

“A bat.”

They rode out beyond the last fences, on to a highway between beds yellow with oilseed and cornfields rolling in the wind. Loaded carts traveled past them in the opposite direction. The bard pulled his leg over the saddlebow, rested his lute on his knee and strummed nostalgic tunes, waving from time to time at the giggling, scantily clad girls wandering along the sides of the road carrying rakes on their robust shoulders.

“Geralt,” he said suddenly, “but monsters do exist. Maybe not as many as before, maybe they don't lurk behind every tree in the forest, but they are there. They exist. So how do you account for people inventing ones, then? What's more, believing in what they invent? Eh, famous witcher? Haven't you wondered why?”

“I have, famous poet. And I know why.”

“I’m curious.”

“People”—Geralt turned his head—“like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem less monstrous themselves."

The casual intimacy of traveling together, grabbing a snack, and chatting to pass the time. Dandelion waves at "scantily glad girls," but it's just a single line, not his defining trait. He plays a little music without Geralt insulting him (because Geralt likes his music and has always been willing to admit it). Here, when Dandelion is wrong about what kind of monsters exist, he's not made to feel lesser for that belief, or to have it presented as a means of coning people out of their coin (note that Geralt doesn't take exception to the suggestion of staying and getting "some beautiful subjects for my ballads”). Geralt kindly explains the villagers' ignorance — an ignorance Dandelion is a part of, even if the text simultaneously points out that he can read people well and he wasn’t wrong to pick up on the fact that the villagers think this is all true — before they share a moment of humor together: "Ha! What?" / "A bat." A few minutes later though Dandelion challenges things a bit, leading to a philosophical discussion about the nature of monstrosity. Dandelion is intelligent! Geralt welcomes his insights! They jokingly call one another “famous witcher” and “famous poet”! It’s a totally different feel from the grudging acceptance to outright hostility shown in the Netflix show, or even the general annoyance that can permeate their interactions in the game. The books are the one place where I believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that Dandelion is Geralt’s best and truest friend  — and not just because no one else will put up with the Butcher of Blaviken. 

So you might still like them in the games! Even if you don’t, I’d recommend not letting that stop you. Obviously I have some criticisms there, but TW3 remains one of my favorite games ever. At the end of the day, the Dandelion-Geralt interactions are an incredibly short part of the tale compared to the whole. For those who aren’t happy with that relationship, aren’t happy with Yen, don’t like playing Ciri, can’t stand Triss, even don’t like this major arc... everything is just one small piece of a truly massive game. So I’d definitely still recommend giving it a try sometime. If you don’t like their interactions, go watch some Netflix clips on youtube after the Dandelion scenes to wash away the bad :D

[lostcauses-noregrets]

Lostcauses Fic: Return

My one and only ACWNR fic, written in early 2016.

Levi remembers little of the ride back to base. He feels numb and disconnected, can’t quite process what’s going on around him. The only thing he seems able to focus on is the blond head of Erwin Smith riding ahead of him through the driving rain. He’s vaguely aware of Mike appearing beside him from time to time; dropping back to keep pace with him, before disappearing into the mist again. Levi just keeps his eyes fixed forwards, gripping the reins so tightly he can feel his nails cutting crescents into the palms of his hands, a thin thread of anger and despair pulling him onwards.

It’s only when the gait of his horse changes that he registers their surroundings and realises they’ve started the long slow climb up to the base on the hilltop. That’s when he notices that the rain has stopped; dark clouds rolling away to the east leaving the sky a clear, pale, washed out blue. Levi’s horse has slowed to a weary trot, dropping back to the rear of the file, but he has no inclination to spur her on. He’s long since lost sight of Erwin and the head of the line. Behind him he can hear the sound of wheels bumping over the rutted track so he draws his mount to a halt to let the carts pass. One is loaded with injured soldiers, the other with the remains of the dead. He sits there and stares after them as they pull slowly up the hillside. It’s only when the rear guard rides past and someone yells at him to “get a fucking move on soldier” that he kicks his horse forward again.

Levi is the last to reach the base, by the time he enters the crumbling courtyard the expedition squad have dismounted and the rest of the corps have assembled. Most are silent, a few talking quietly in groups. One of the trainees is kneeling on the ground sobbing, an older soldier crouches by his side, arm around his shoulders. Levi slides off his horse, his legs feel like lead and he has to cling onto the saddlebow to stay upright.

He has no idea how long he’s been standing there when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey there, are you okay soldier? Are you injured?”

He turns and vaguely registers one of the squad medics. He shakes his head and walks away, unsteady on his feet. Maybe he is injured? He’s not sure, he can’t really feel anything.

[Continue reading on AO3]

[tisfan]

Into the Sunset

Title: Into the Sunset Collaborator: @27dragons & @tisfan Link: AO3 Square Filled: G1 - Roleplay: Cowboy Ship: Bucky/Tony Rating: teen Major Tags: role play, talking about fantasies, ridiculous stereotypes, discussion of cross-dressing, some dated references Summary: Cowboys and Indians is declasse; if Bucky wants Tony to ride off into the sunset with him, they need to rethink their roles. Or: the one where Bucky and Tony are really bored watching a movie. Word Count: 1107 Created for @mcukinkbingo

“So,” Bucky intoned, using his movie narrator voice, which was surprisingly good, “in tonight’s Epic Western Adventure, we have our main character, the Jaded Former Hero, the Saloon Girl with the Heart of Gold, and the Inexplicably Wearing Black Villain.” Tony could swear he was actually hearing the capital letters being pronounced.

The movie watching had become a thing; when they’d had a busy day of superheroing and didn’t really want to be social, they’d hide up in Tony’s penthouse, throw a few movies in, and just chill out. Three months ago, Bucky’d gone through every badly dubbed wire-work ninja assassin movie that he could get his hands on; now, they were going systematically through western flicks.

“If he didn’t wear black, how would we know he was the bad guy?” Tony pointed out. “You think the Saloon Girl will get to hit someone over the head with a chair this time? That’s always awesome.”

“Depends,” Bucky said, taking a handful of popcorn and eating it one piece at a time. “If they just start a bar fight, then yes. If the bad guy shoots the piano player first, I think she’s a fainter. She’s got curly hair.”

Tony hummed in agreement and leaned against Bucky’s side, grabbing his own handful of popcorn. “I think she should run away with the villain and take up a life of crime. He’s clearly better-looking.”

“She’ll trade her white frilly little pants for black ones?” Bucky tilted his head to one side. “I like it. Red corset, though. That pink thing would look silly with black drawers. And you’re right; he’s got awesome facial hair. Also, like, what is it with the hero being blonde and blue-eyed. Not everyone can look like Captain America.”

“You want a turn at being the Sheriff?” Tony teased.

“No,” Bucky said. “When we played cowboys and Indians when I was a kid, I was always the injun. Knocked out the hero, slung the girl over my saddlebow and tied her to the train tracks.”

“It’s the First Nations now,” Tony said. “Or indigenous people. Cowboys and injuns is full of harmful stereotypes and cultural appropriation.” He grabbed another handful of popcorn. “Hafta make the bad guy white nowadays.”

“S’long as I can still steal the saloon girl,” Bucky said. “Throw her over my shoulder, smack her ass a few times, go off and have my wicked way with her.” He eyed Tony speculatively. “You’re the saloon girl, by the way, in this scenario.”

“I would make a stellar saloon girl,” Tony said. “I look amazing in a corset.”

Bucky inhaled sharply, accidentally choked on a piece of popcorn and spent a few seconds coughing. “Yeah,” he said, hoarsely, “I bet you do. Little frilly pants, too, with a convenient slit. I could see it. You dancing on top of the piano, drinking too much, you followed your heart out West, but he ran off on you, and now you’re just looking to fill the void.”

“Yeah? You reckon I’m going to fill it with a bad boy like you, hm? Rustlin’ cattle, robbing stagecoaches, slinging your pistols at any man dares to look at you wrong?”

“You,” Bucky said, putting the popcorn aside and dragging Tony into his lap, “like bad boys. And I’ll absolutely sling my pistol at any man who dares look at you. You’re my saloon girl.” He slid one hand down Tony’s back until he reached Tony’s back pocket, using it to yank him closer.

Tony squirmed around until he was facing Bucky directly, straddling Bucky’s thighs, and draped his arms over Bucky’s shoulders. “Is that so?” he wondered. “You going to keep me in cheap liquor and frilly drawers?”

“Well, sometimes I’d take ‘em off you,” Bucky said, bouncing Tony suggestively. “An’ I could absolutely tie you to the railroad track until you were overcome by my charm, an’ I just had to keep you for my own.” He nuzzled at Tony’s neck. “Bet you’d look pretty all stretched out an’ helpless.”

Tony tipped his head back to give Bucky more room to work. “I don’t know,” he mused. “What’m I getting out of this deal? A girl’s got to have standards, you know.”

“I’ll buy you all the purdy dresses you want, an’ I’ll find that no’count that broke your heart and shoot ‘im dead,” Bucky said, drawling. It was a very bad drawl, not the slightest bit western. More Jersey than Texas.

“Tempting,” Tony said, trailing his hand down Bucky’s chest. “You going to teach me how to shoot your gun?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Bucky said. “Can’t be too careful with a gal that don’t know how to handle a man’s gun.”

Tony smirked and rolled his hips against Bucky’s growing erection. “Good thing I already know how to ride.”

“Rode hard an’ put away wet’s a good look on you, too,” Bucky said. He had reason to know; Tony often felt a bit wrung out after his sexy boyfriend drilled him through the mattress. “Whatcha say, cowgirl, you wanna go for a ride?”

Tony leaned in to catch Bucky’s mouth in a kiss. “If you think you can keep up.”

“You get too far ahead, I c’n lasso you in,” Bucky threatened, smiling hard enough that it made continuing to kiss a little sloppy. He nudged Tony out of his lap -- they’d tried having sex on the sofa a few times and either the cushions slipped out, or Bucky knocked the whole thing over, neither of which was exactly conducive to preserving the mood.

Tony slid off Bucky’s lap and stood up, catching his hand and pulling him along toward the bedroom. “Maybe you’ll try it and find out I’m the villain after all,” he suggested. “Luring you off alone to take you for everything you’ve got.” He looked Bucky up and down with an obvious leer.

“Well, you definitely got the mustache for that, doll,” Bucky told him. “You gonna talk pretty to me an’ relieve me of my virtue?”

Tony feigned surprise. “You’ve got virtue?”

“A few,” Bucky said, and without even a grunt of effort -- supersoldier boyfriend, so unfair, and yet, so, so hot -- slung Tony over his shoulder like a bag of grain. “So, we’re establishin’ here that I am the bad guy.” For emphasis, he swatted Tony’s backside, just hard enough to sting.

Tony yelped and wriggled, secure in his faith that Bucky wouldn’t drop him. “Oh please, Mistah Bad Guy,” he said, in a drawl that wasn’t any better than Bucky’s, “don’t hurt me. I’d do anything.”

“Anything sounds good,” Bucky said. “We’ll start there an’ work our way through everything.” 

[alexsfictionaddiction]

Review: Call Of The Penguins by Hazel Prior

I’m sure I’ve said before that I have a soft spot for older female protagonists who take themselves on crazy adventures. That’s exactly who Veronica McCreedy is and after falling in love with the first book in this series, Away With The Penguins, I was looking forward to see what she’d get up to next.

At the age of 87, Veronica has discovered a love of penguins. On returning home to the west coast of Scotland from the icy wilderness of Antarctica, she receives an invitation of a lifetime. She has been asked to co-present a wildlife documentary on the other side of the world with a focus on her beloved penguins. But surrounding dramas threaten to close in on Veronica just as her moment to shine arrives.

I think my biggest takeaway from these books is the incredible healing power of penguins. I’ve always found them very loveable birds who are fun to watch but I spent so much time with them across the two books that the intense love for them that seeps through the pages couldn’t not rub off on me. Every character in the book appreciates penguins for the amazing animals that they are and Prior’s writing is wonderfully infectious.

It’s also fantastically educational on what penguins face every day due to human existence. Call Of The Penguins includes the reality of plastic pollution and the devastating effects it can have on penguins and other animals. I feel like this is an issue that we are all aware of but that we choose to ignore or believe that as individuals, we can’t possibly make a difference. However, I finished the book feeling empowered to do exactly that. Changing the narrative on the severity of environmental issues is vital to bringing about real, impactful difference.

On the surface, Veronica would like to be thought of as a no-nonsense, standoffish old lady but her caring heart shines through a lot in this book. She is meddlesome but she uses this trait for good and I was fully behind her interference. Veronica is a character that frustrates me sometimes because she is infuriatingly stubborn but most of the time, I find her very admirable and great fun to be around.

Patrick is Veronica’s grandson. Although he has had a tough start to life and lots of difficulties in finding his way, he now seems to be on a positive path. Prior is fantastic at writing characters who feel very real. They are warm, well-meaning and in most cases, inherently flawed but not in an irredeemable way. Veronica’s housekeeper and assistant Eileen fits this description perfectly as does Sir Richard Saddlebow, Veronica’s co-host and Terry, an Antarctic researcher and penguin blogger. These people are very real and I really felt that I got to know them all individually.

There are some really lovely descriptions of landscape and setting that put me firmly in an area of natural beauty. Seeing these little details in the scenery painted a very rich, three-dimensional view in my mind which made it very easy to imagine myself there alongside the characters, as they took it all in. I definitely had a strong craving to travel to these desolate but beautiful places, just as Attenborough documentaries do.

Call Of The Penguins is a heartwarming, heartbreaking rollercoaster of a book that shines a light on some incredibly important topics. Following on wonderfully from where Away With The Penguins leaves off, it’s a life-affirming read that reminds us that age shouldn’t be a barrier for adventure. Everyone has the power to make the world a better place for every species on the planet and in fact, we all should be doing all we can to achieve that.

[arianaofimladris]

Mistakes

Chapter 1 here: http://arianaofimladris.tumblr.com/post/177132346092/mistakes

Chapter 2

The horses sensed something and became anxious. Maedhros ordered to slow down and the archers kept their bows ready. They were half expecting a trap, even if there was little space for one among the trees.

Like many others, Vorindon jumped off his saddle. He remained at Maedhros’s right side, ready to protect his commander where he could still be vulnerable. The horses were snorting, even as the riders kept them close. Everyone was silent until someone made a terrified cry.

Blood. There were red stains and small pools of dried blood on the snow still laying in the bumps of the ground and between the roots. The bloody remains of the horses created a terrifying sight, but the elves focused mostly on the three bodies laying among the fallen orcs. One thing was clear – Amras was not among the dead, but Maedhros found his red braids laying by the horse bones.

A few of the Noldor took care of the dead elves without waiting for an order and Vorindon followed his commander. It was easy to determine that they had fallen in the battle and their bodies were left in peace. That could not be said about the horses; the remains stood witness to the terrifying feast the orcs had had. Someone commented on that as he was covering one of the bodies with a cloak; there was relief in his voice that their fallen kin were spared such undignified end.

“Practical. The orcs. They left the dead when they had one elf alive,” said Maedhros and Vorindon felt his heart freeze. “They ate the horses and took their prisoner.” His barely contained fury made it impossible to look him in the eye.

“What do we do?” Vorindon took upon himself the task of voicing the question many wished to ask. He feared what would happen once Maedhros lost control. He could see and sense his anger, but he could not tread his thoughts and guess his next orders.

“Pick five men, they’ll take the bodies back to our settlement,” commanded Maedhros shortly. “The rest goes with me.”

Vorindon left him for a moment to pass the orders. Among the five going back he placed one that he knew was close friends with one of the fallen. The Noldo tried to oppose, but he ceased once reminded that the most important thing now was to get to Amras in time. There was no time for pointless discussions. The young elf just hung his head and knelt by his friend, close to tears.

The body of the elf from Finrod’s host was a nuisance. The elf befriended Amras’s scouts the previous Summer when they all went South to explore the lands, and such mixed patrols had been patrolling the nearby grounds since then. But right now Vorindon didn’t want to bother Maedhros and just ordered that all the bodies be taken back together.

“We are ready,” he said a moment later as he approached his commander, but he realised he wasn’t heard.

Maedhros stood with his hand clenched on his saddlebow, just like he had done a few times earlier. He looked focused and seemed to be far away, indifferent to the surroundings. This time too he stood like that for a moment, then shook his head as if he was splashed with water. He looked vigilantly around and met Vorindon’s inquiring gaze.

“He’s still alive,” he said so quietly his second-in-command barely heard him. “Let’s go,” he ordered loudly and swiftly mounted his horse. The elves followed the visible trail the orcs had left.

xxx

The hours passed slowly. Amras curled and wished for the sun to come and force the orcs to wait till dusk with their journey. The day, however, remained grim and foggy and Maedhros had not got in touch again despite Amras’s attempts. Not that he had anything new to pass, but he would have been grateful for even a single word, some reassurance that they were coming.

If the orc that had tried to feed him brought him some water or any other drink, Amras would have accepted it. His throat was raw and he had an awful aftertaste in his mouth. He hoped in vain that laying motionless would allow him to rest a bit, but his leg hurt regardless to the position he took and his movements attracted his guards. No matter how much he tried to protect his broken leg, their kicks always hit the most vulnerable spots.

It was way past midday when the guards bored with checking how much it took to make their prisoner scream again. They left him alone and hid from the sun.

Amras tried calling Maedhros again, but to no avail. So as his brother did not respond, the youngest son of Fëanor decided to act. His bound hands were numb, but if he just managed to crawl away a bit... The orcs were motionless, including the guards. If only he could manage to crawl away from the camp and hide somewhere, perhaps he could manage to free his hands. If he could find something to lean on, perhaps he could even walk... And if not, the orcs would still waste time to search for him and allow his brother to come closer.

The elf turned carefully on his belly. Moving in the way that his wounded leg would not get trapped proved to be challenging, but he somehow managed to elevate it and put it on his good one. Slowly, inch by inch, trying to be as quiet as possible, he moved away from his sleeping kidnappers, grateful that there was no snow around; he would have left a track like a wounded animal. There were many caves around and Amras knew these lands well enough to know he could find a suitable hiding place, once he managed to get away.

Moving required more effort than he had anticipated. Before he passed the sleeping guards, a cramp forced him to make a break. He clenched his teeth not to moan, not now...

He screamed.

A heavy boot pressed his legs together and Amras saw black spots dancing before his eyes. He choked on his scream as he was grabbed by the legs and dragged back.

“Where are you going, little maggot?” The orc’s deformed face was suddenly very close and Amras realised he had made a mistake. They must have been watching his escape attempt from quite some time.

Desperate as he was, Amras jerked and reached for the orc’s belt. If only he could grab the knife...

The orc hit him with the cudgel he was holding and any further attempts vanished in the darkness.

  And there is more about the sons of Feanor in here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1101852

[cloverincinerator]

www.chinaclover.net has been published on http://www.chinaclover.net/la-lutte-contre-le-projet-de-loi-sur-l-incinerateur-de-norfolk-pourrait-se-poursuivre-jusqu-apres-noel/

La lutte contre le projet de loi sur l'' incinérateur de Norfolk pourrait se poursuivre jusqu'' après Noël

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En mai, le coût estimé de l’annulation du contrat a été estimé à un peu plus de 33,7 millions de livres sterling. Cela incluait 20,3 millions de livres commendable pour Cory Wheelabrator – – la société qui aurait construit et exploité le brûleur; des coûts d e ’enquête publique de 1,6 million de livres sterling et des coûts estimés liés aux taux d e ’intérêt de 11,8 millions de livres sterling.

Mais lors d e ’une réunion cette semaine, Tom McCabe, directeur intérimaire de l’environnement, des carries et du développement au Conseil du comté de Norfolk, a déclaré aux conseillers que le chiffre final n’avait pas encore été convenu.

“Il est prématuré de dire que ce products fait d e ’ici là, cependant. Le conseil du comté de Norfolk essaie toujours de trouver une remedy à long terme pour gérer les déchets du comté.

Mais, à court terme, un accord a été conclu avec leurs homologues du Suffolk put que des déchets soient brûlés dans un incinérateur nouvellement construit à Wonderful Blakenham.

Au cours de l’année prochaine, environ 40 000 tonnes de déchets ménagers résiduels de Norfolk seront transportées sur l’A140 pour être brûlées à l’usine. Écrivez, en donnant les coordonnées complètes, à l’éditeur de lettres, Prospect House, Rouen Roadway, Norwich NR1 1RE.

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Le conseil du comté de Norfolk a voté par 48 voix contre 30 put mettre fin au contrat pour mettre ’incinérateur proposé à Saddlebow lors d e ’une réunion extraordinaire en avril.

Les agents du Conseil avaient déclaré qu’en raison des retards dans l’obtention du permis de construire, le projet controversé n’offrait plus un bon link qualité-prix, et les conseillers ont accepté de l’abandonner.

En mai, le coût estimé de l’annulation du contrat a été estimé à un peu plus de 33,7 millions de livres sterling. Cela incluait 20,3 millions de livres admirable put Cory Wheelabrator – – la société qui aurait construit et exploité le brûleur; des coûts d e ’enquête publique de 1,6 million de livres admirable et des coûts estimés liés aux taux d e ’intérêt de 11,8 millions de livres sterling.

Les premiers 11,8 millions de livres sterling de cette facture ont été payés en juillet, mais les chefs du conseil ont été bloqués dans des mois d e ’disagreements sur les détails du contrat et sur le montant que cela signifie que le conseil doit payer Cory Wheelabrator. $.post(‘https://www.medicalmate.net/wp-admin/admin-ajax.php’, action: ‘mts_view_count’, id: ‘132’););

Le conseil du comté de Norfolk a voté par 48 voix contre 30 put mettre fin au contrat pour mettre ’incinérateur proposé à Saddlebow lors d e ’une réunion extraordinaire en avril.

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[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 12 - The Sword and the Hand that Wields It

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 4372 Chapter summary: Rosslyn makes a triumphant return after weeks of battle, but things don't go quite as planned.

Art in this chapter by the amazing @allenvooreef 

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Fifteenth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon

“They’ve been busy.”

Rosslyn glanced at Morrence, who grinned widely atop her gelding, and shook her head in exasperation. Now that they were within sight of Deerswall, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease a little, but she lacked the energy for anything more. The sun was barely above the horizon, and already her cavalry had been riding for over two hours.

Almost a month ago, she had sent small units of fighters into Highever’s heartlands with orders to disrupt Howe’s takeover of her home in any way they could. The rogues blocked roads, stole supplies, and showed the people there was still a fight to be had, if they wanted one. When had she followed barely a week later to raid the weakened Amaranthine patrols, stories of her tragedy had already spread and grown so that, wherever she went, the people rallied into open defiance and Howe’s soldiers swiftly learned to keep their hands to their sword hilts.

It was never enough. Stories whispered in taverns told how, wherever the enemy threatened, she swept in like a falcon out of the sun, never leaving anything but death in her wake, and the epithet stuck. She liked it. She had decided, in the grove at Deerswall, surrounded by the smell of damp moss and the whisper of her mother’s gods, that she would make Howe regret her escape, make him fear the very shadow of her name before she took her vengeance, and what better way to become the raptor most beloved of the Lady?

But the weeks of guerrilla fighting had taken their toll, and now the guards at the outer gate scrambled to salute as they called ahead to let everyone know of her return to Deerswall.

She had to admit, the work was impressive. Where before there were only lines of muddy tents, now there was a palisade, barracks, stables, training yards, and at the very centre a wooden keep still under scaffolding, crowned with the fluttering colours of all the vassals who had answered her muster. There were fewer than there should have been, but then again, word of her family’s murder had spread, and the Bannorn could not be blamed for deciding to wait before they committed themselves, especially when she had so few soldiers to protect them.

She shook the thought from her mind, smoothing the worry from her face to sit taller in her saddle. People – mostly refugees, by the look of them – were gathering along the main road to get a look at the troopers as they filed past. Rosslyn nodded to Morrence and within moments the cavalry settled into parade columns three abreast, trotting towards the keep with the Falcon of Highever proudly at their head. Lasan arched his marbled neck and flared his tail, and Rosslyn smiled at the way he flaunted himself for the crowd. The curved raptor’s beak moulded into her helmet hid the expression from the people watching, but it also hid the dark circles beneath her eyes and the stiffness caused by her bruises, so she kept it on. As all eyes turned to her, she felt glad that she had heeded her captain’s advice and already sent the injured ahead to the infirmary; in such uncertain times the people needed to see her victories, not what it cost to achieve them.

The main gate of the palisade groaned open ahead of her. The odours of sawn wood and animal dung, hot metal and baking bread, spilled out with the first glimpse of the keep, and the murmurs of the crowd grew louder. Someone was singing, though she didn’t catch the words. Teagan stood at the top of the steps that led into the hall, his expression too far away to see, while around him clustered the bevy of lords who had answered her call. She scanned the dais, out of mere idle curiosity, but twinge of disappointment fluttered in her gut nonetheless when nobody else appeared. Of course, it was silly to think –

“Lady Falcon! Lady Falcon!”

She caught a flash of yellow. Lasan caught it too and baulked, a catlike leap sideways that almost carried him into the crowd. Rosslyn might have reined him in, might have found her seat again and calmed the beating of her heart, but as her horse danced against the bit to face his unknown enemy, a man came barrelling into his path, yelling as he threw himself between the little girl and the threat of flailing hooves.

The world upended. Lasan reared, bellowing. Rosslyn grabbed for his mane, cursed as it slipped through her fingers, lost all sense in the one weightless instant when the sky lurched and blurred with the scared, shocked faces of the people behind her.

“My lady!”

She clung to her seat with only iron will, the specially designed prongs of the cavalry saddle digging into her thigh. The reins bunched in the hand gripped against the saddlebow. The other splayed as a brace against Lasan’s trembling neck. Through the thrill of her nerves, her nose filled with the sharp, dusty odour of equine sweat, the scuffed balsam of pine chippings from the path churned beneath his hooves. Distantly, under the ring of silence and snorted breath, she heard the sound of someone crying.

“Lady Rosslyn?” Morrence’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“Gabh air do shocair,” she muttered in Clayne as she slithered inelegantly the rest of the way to the ground. Her legs shook as her feet touched earth, but she kept her voice steady, soothing. “Bhith ciùin. Chaidh am blàr a tha thairis.”

Her charger’s ears flicked towards the sound of her voice as she came to his head. Every bunched muscle stood tense, his neck arched and eyes rolling, and her arms were barely long enough to reach up to his cheek, but by degrees her words reached through his training and his panic – calm, be calm, the battle is over – the proud head lowered, and Rosslyn allowed herself a breathy chuckle. “There, now that was silly of you, wasn’t it?”

Lasan snorted and gave her shoulder a good-natured shove.

“You can stand down, I’m fine,” she told the waiting Morrence, and glanced over at the man who had caused the uproar.

He flinched. His brawny arms wrapped more tightly around the child he had dived to protect, the fear in his expression betraying the soft reassurances he tried to whisper in her ear. The girl sniffled and buried herself deeper against her father’s leather smock, her sunshine yellow dress stained and the sprays of white Andraste’s grace braided into her hair thrown into disarray. A pair of guards stood on either side, grim-faced but resolute, waiting for orders.

She’s younger than Oren, Rosslyn realised, and had to push aside the clench in her chest. The people were watching. Lasan nudged her arm again.

“Is the child hurt?” Sawdust caked the back of her throat.

“N-no, just shaken.” The farrier darted a glance at the armoured men looming next to him, then back to his daughter, and finally to Rosslyn, earnest. “Please, Yer Ladyship, she meant no harm. It’s her name day, y’see, and she wanted’a see ye…” He faltered. “I shoulda kept a closer watch on her, I’m sorry.”

Around them, the crowd buzzed, waiting to see what Rosslyn would do. Her reputation as a warrior might make them cheer for her, her lucky escapes might be fodder for stories, but it was her response in this moment that would win or lose their loyalty forever. Easing out a slow breath, she reached up and undid the clasp that still held the falcon helmet in place, welcoming the cool air against her forehead when she removed it so the implacable mask of the Lady of Highever could fall away.

“What’s your name, girl?” she asked, as gently as she could.

The farrier’s eyes widened. He jiggled her on his hip to get her to look at him. “Are ye going te answer Lady Falcon?” He smiled encouragement, half-turning her in his arms so she could face Rosslyn directly.

The girl flushed, red as her hair. “M-Molly…” she answered, and hid herself away again.

“Your Ladyship,” her father prompted.

“… Y’ Ladyship,” Molly repeated dutifully.

Rosslyn’s frown softened. “Molly. You scared my horse.”

“Din’ mean to.” The girl sniffed. “Y’ Ladyship.”

“He’s a big, silly beast, and he meant nothing by being startled,” Rosslyn mused, taking a tentative step closer. “Would you like to make friends instead?”

Molly peeked out from her father’s shoulder, eyes wide, and nodded. Like something out of her bedtime stories, she watched as the towering roan charger plodded towards her, led at the lightest touch by the proud warrior maiden her father had said would save them all. The stallion’s ears pricked forward, a cautious regard that eased as every beat ticked by and nothing leaped out to attack him, until at last, with a greeting whuff of breath, he lowered his head to accept the feel of tiny, hopeful fingers.

“He’s so soft!” Molly’s giggle broke the bated silence of the onlookers. “Good horsie!”

The ghost of a smile touch Rosslyn’s lips. “His name is Lasan.”

“Lasan.” Molly smiled and repeated the name to herself, babbling compliments while the adults talked in serious voices and the horse basked in the attention, as if he hadn’t been preparing to kill everything within range of his hooves just moments before. She traced the velvet lines of his nostrils and the uneven white snip splashed between them, and beamed when he lipped at her palm, looking for a treat.

“I canna apologise enough, Yer Ladyship,” her father was saying. “I just panicked. She – she’s all I’ve got left.”

Rosslyn nodded, stroking a hand along her horse’s neck. “I understand.”

“Aye, I know.”

Stiffening, Rosslyn pressed her lips together and cleared her throat. “I’m glad she wasn’t hurt, at least. And that’s enough pampering for you, I think,” she added to Lasan, who swished his tail and grunted at the unexpected twitch in the reins.

“But he likes being petted!” Molly whined.

“He needs te go to the stables, pet, and have some breakfast,” her father explained. “He’s very tired.”

“Oh.” The girl sagged in his arms. “Alrigh’.”

“H’oway then, and say goodbye te Her Ladyship.”

Rosslyn smiled. “It was good to meet you, Molly.”

Suddenly shy again, Molly ducked her head and clung to her father’s shoulders, but smiled out as she mumbled, “Good’a meet ye too, Y’ Ladyship.”

“That’s it, now let’s –”

“Wait!”

Rosslyn turned, blinking in surprise. Molly wriggled on her father’s shoulder, fidgeting with her hair until a stalk of wilted white flowers came away in her fist. Not quite understanding, the farrier waited while Rosslyn bent her head to allow the gift to be knotted behind her ear.

“How does it look?” she asked when Molly leaned back to survey her handiwork.

“Good.”

“Thank you.” She straightened. “I will treasure it.”

“There’s a good lass. Let’s let Lady Falcon be on her way now.”

The little girl’s farewell followed Rosslyn all the way to the bottom of the keep steps, where the cluster of nobles had gathered to greet her. Though they all gave her respectful bows as she approached, only Teagan seemed genuinely pleased to see her alive and whole and untrampled. She passed Lasan’s reins to a groom with a final pat and nodded to Morrence, who took charge of dismissing the company.

It left her to deal with the nobles, all standing in a line: Bann Loren, watery-eyed and bald as an acorn; Telmen of Aidanthwaite, with wisps of grey in his dark hair; Crestwood’s Bann Auldubard, who could still be called a youth, if only just. And there in the centre was Bann Franderel, who had always given her father such headaches, his thin arms crossed over his thin chest, looking her over the way a polecat might regard a fledgling bird. It was he who had summoned her, like she was a dog to come to the whistle. Like she had nothing more important to do.

“Well met, my lords,” she said brightly, with a smile she didn’t feel. “It’s a lovely morning, don’t you think?”

“Made all the lovelier by your return, my lady,” Loren replied. He had always been a sycophant.

“It was perhaps more eventful than we were expecting,” added Teagan.

Auldubard nodded his agreement. “A very fine entrance, indeed.”

“It was lucky the situation resolved itself as it did,” Franderel sniffed over the mutterings of agreement, his arms still crossed. “Destriers are always unpredictable, and when added to a teeming crowd… well, we are all just relieved my lady came out of it unhurt.”

Rosslyn nodded acknowledgement of the sentiment, if not its lack of sincerity. “Your letter was urgent, wasn’t it?” she asked sweetly. “I rode all the way from Tarleton to be here – I thought it best to come directly.”

Franderel’s eyes narrowed. “Such matters are best discussed inside, my lady. Away from prying ears.”

“Then by all means, lead on.”

“If you would like to freshen up first,” Auldubard offered, “we would be more than happy to wait.”

“Of course,” said Franderel. “All the way from Tarleton – the journey must have exhausted you.”

It was a test. Rosslyn could tell by the way his lip was curling, but he gave nothing else away. On the one hand, a rest would grant her a precious hour or two in which to compose herself to properly face the inevitable back-and-forth, but in so doing she would admit her fatigue – or it might suggest she valued her vanity over whatever important matter they needed to discuss. The other option, to go with them immediately, would show her willingness to put business before her own comfort, though that in itself might paint her as too obliging, lacking her own will.

In the end, she was decided by her desire to be away from their politicking as soon as possible. Tugging off her gauntlets, she mounted the steps, knowing they would move out of her way.

“I’m a little tired, maybe, but still perfectly capable.” She smiled blithely at Franderel. “After you, my lords.”

They could not refuse such an invitation, and one by one they filed through the double doors and into the keep. Auldubard hesitated for a moment, but when she kept her attention on the arrangement of her gloves over her arm, he followed after the others. Franderel might have scuppered her chance for a bath and a meal, but she was determined to at least set the pace of the meeting.

She was about to follow when she noticed a familiar figure standing in the shadow of the doors. Alistair was making himself busy by riffling through the pile of papers clutched in his arm, as if to give her the opportunity to walk past him without acknowledgement, if she wanted.

“I see you’re keeping well,” she said instead.

He looked up, caught, and cleared his throat. “Lady Rosslyn.”

“Ser Alistair.”

There was a pause.

“I am well, thank you. Um.” He frowned. “No furry shadow today?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, with a faint quirk of her lips. “As you know, Cuno rates his breakfast more highly than his loyalty, but he’s fine.”

“And you?” Alistair asked. He ran a hand through his hair so it stuck up at the back, sneaking a shy look at her from the corner of his eyes. “Are you… alright?”

Rosslyn snorted. “How do I look?”

He looked at her properly, then, with a care that squeezed on her chest, taking in every detail of her appearance from the tangles in her hair to the bloodstains that mired in the crevices of her armour.

“Honestly?” he asked. “You look exhausted. But,” he added, perhaps noticing he had taken a step closer to her, “uh, you seem a little bit more graceful than usual.” His eyes flicked to the white flowers in her hair.

Her hand followed the movement before she could check the impulse. “You have a terrible sense of humour.”

Alistair shrugged. “It can’t be that bad, if it’s made you smile.”

“And in just a few short moments Franderel will do his utmost to ruin all your good work,” she teased, biting her lips together to control the spread of her grin. She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to know what this is all about, would you?”

“Nobles only, I’m afraid, and I don’t count. But I could take those, if you like,” he added, nodding to her gauntlets and helmet.

She shook her head. “You look overworked as it is. It’s alright, I’ll –” She was interrupted by a loud, unladylike rumble from her stomach. Heat flooded her cheeks, but Alistair only chuckled.

“Looks like someone should have followed the example of their dog,” he said. “Let me at least have a servant bring something to your rooms. Long, boring meetings always go by faster if there’s a hot meal to look forward to at the end of it.”

“So speaks the voice of experience?”

He winked at her, making her smile again. “Don’t let on.”

“Food would be welcome. Thank you.” She fiddled with the buckle on her helmet, realising she had lingered outside long after she meant to – and people were looking. “I should go.”

“Of course.” He gave her a crisp bow. “It’ good to have you back.”

He retreated, and she watched after him as he descended the steps towards the armoury. Her thoughts had wandered to him every now and then on the road, when things were quiet, but she had forgotten how much lighter she felt just being in his presence. A lingering reaction to the circumstances of the night they met, no doubt.

If only dealing with the banns could be so pleasant. They were gathered in the war room, arranged on the opposite side of the table to the door – to her – their contention disguised as deference. As she looked at them, Rosslyn understood the trap Franderel had set for her, and she fought the urge to spin on her heel and run from the embarrassment. Outside, it had mattered little that she was wearing armour and they more genteel clothing, but indoors, surrounded by soft fabrics and clean floors, she looked out of place. Sweaty, muddy, clanking.

She glared at the maps on the table, wrestling down the sudden lump in her throat that tasted bitterly of homesickness. At Highever, if her father had showed up fresh from the battlefield, he would have commanded attention and respect, rather than contempt and backbiting; she herself would have stood in his shadow, quietly learning how to manage armies and nobles and everything else that was a teyrn’s duty, and if she had mis-stepped, he would have been there to intercede.

None of this should be happening.

She lifted her chin. Be fearless, her mother always said, and it will make them unsure what to do with you.

“Is my lady ready to begin?” Franderel asked.

“I’m eager to see what was so important it took me from the field,” she replied. “From the tone of your letter, I’d guess there’s been a change in our circumstances.”

“Indeed. I have the letter here.”

Franderel withdrew a folded piece of paper from his belt and passed it over. It was addressed to ‘The Commander of the Loyal of His Majesty in the North’ but when Rosslyn turned it over, she found the green wax seal had already been cracked open, the Portcullis stamped across it split down the middle.

“The contents are quite straightforward,” Franderel told her as she unfolded the page. “Arl Leonas sends word of a blizzard moving over southern Ferelden – the courier only just made it out of South Reach in time. As you can see, the letter was dated five days ago, and the storm itself is not expected to pass until tomorrow.”

“The Southron Gap is blocked,” Rosslyn mused. “The way the wind blows down there will make travel difficult through the Brecilian Passage for weeks.”

Auldubard nodded, smiling. “Loghain is trapped in Gwaren.”

“Indeed,” added Franderel. “We must seize this chance and make for Denerim while we can.”

Rosslyn frowned, but before she could open her mouth to reply, Loren interjected. “This is the Maker’s will, my lady. Surely you see that. Once we are in Denerim, nobody will doubt the king’s legitimacy.”

“And with your recent actions, as you yourself have said, Howe will struggle to foot a sufficient enough force to challenge us.”

“It will serve as a firm base from which to finally put down Teyrn Loghain and his rebels.”

The lot of them seemed too enthusiastic in their arguments, and too certain of their effects. Rosslyn felt her temper flare. They had already decided their course of action, and were trying to sway her to their side, to control her actions with a few pretty words. She looked to Teagan, who had yet to speak and was staring down at the table as if he thought by scowling at it hard enough, it could make him invisible.

“What about the refugees?” she asked. “Are you saying we should abandon them?”

“They can go south, or west,” Loren replied with a shrug. “The shores of Lake Calenhad are sparsely populated.”

“There are elderly and children out there,” she pointed out. “People who can’t move as quickly as an army. The instant we leave, Howe will swoop down on them and do as he pleases.” Broken families like Molly’s would be torn apart further, and from what she had seen in recent weeks, death would be the kindest outcome for them.

Telmen raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure he would waste his energy on civilians, my lady?”

“Tired, hungry people are easier to kill than trained soldiers.” Rosslyn spoke slowly, to be sure he understood. “Howe has already proven he has no conscience, and Rillside’s declaration of support has shown him what he might gain from wholesale slaughter.” She could imagine it, how many other banns wold side with Loghain out of fear for their lives or their people’s wellbeing; his cause would gain momentum like a rockslide and bury their own. “He would kill them out of spite, if nothing else.”

“And who provoked him in the first place?” Franderel asked with a pointed look in her direction. “We’ve seen the reports from our scouts. Who is it has been crowning his fallen captains with laurel wreaths for him to find like this is some sort of children’s game?”

“Who has been drawing Howe’s gaze so he does not turn his attention further south?” she retorted. “You’re welcome to try and stand your militia against Amaranthine without my soldiers acting as your shield.” Her gaze flashed to the other banns. “Crestwood and Oswin, too, while we’re at it.”

“Then what do you propose?” Telmen asked. He spoke to the floor, though the buffer provided by West Hill meant his lands faced a less immediate threat from an attack from the north.

“Retake Highever.  Use the blizzard, draw Howe out and beat him before reinforcements can arrive from the south.”

“A waste. We have no siege engines. The breathing space this weather provides will be better spent reaching Denerim to better protect the king,” Franderel insisted.

“And then what? While we remain outside the capital we have the advantage of mobility, something we will lose if we trap ourselves within Denerim’s walls. All Loghain would need to do is wait until we run out of food.”

“All Howe will need to do is wait until we run out of men to throw against the gates of Castle Cousland.”

Rosslyn fixed the banns with a steely glare. “It can be done.”

“There are several options that could be discussed, if only we could all calm down,” Teagan suggested. He was ignored.

“I wonder at the true reason for my lady’s hesitation,” said Franderel silkily. “Inexperience is understandable, and hot-headedness is often paired with youth.” His smile widened, and Rosslyn felt her temper heating further. “Perhaps you cling to the rumours that have emerged regarding surviving members of your family. We’ve all heard them. Is that why you were so adamant to lead the cavalry yourself, my lady, why you are so eager to put your pride above loyalty to the king? Do you think to make yourself a hero with a daring rescue? Do you think if you swing your sword hard enough, it will allay the guilt of your parents’ deaths?”

The slam of Rosslyn’s fist on the table reverberated on the walls, and in the echoes, the weight of her breathing was the only sound that remained. The impact tingled all the way up to her elbow, but she didn’t care. Her heart punched against her ribs, every muscle held tense just on the edge of control. She could do it. She could cross the room; she could take Franderel by the back of his greying, thinning hair and crack his condescending smirk against the table like an egg.

“That’s enough,” Teagan snapped, but the damage was already done. “Lady Rosslyn, you –”

She shrugged off the placating hand he laid on her shoulder. “You forget your place, my Lord of West Hill.”

Franderel’s smile turned beneficent. “My lady forgets that without my generosity, she would have no place at all.”

“And I will remember that generosity in the future,” she ground out in reply. “For now, know this: I will not sacrifice my people for some ill-conceived attempt to woo the king’s favour. Go to Denerim if you must, but you will go alone.” She straightened, pulling her shoulders back far enough that her joints popped. The movement brought back the ache in her muscles, the groans she had heard from those of her soldiers who had been wounded in the field and had to be put out of their agony along the road. “This meeting is over.”

Without another word she turned away from them all, poised as a cat, and swept from the war room into the narrow corridor beyond.

[cmhoughton]

Helwater.

Gabaldon, Diana. The Scottish Prisoner: A Novel (Lord John Grey) (pp. 505-508). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

Straw rustling under him, the ends poking through the rough ticking, prickling through his shirt. Dark air, alive around him. Bonnie lad … 

They’d brought down the Yule log to the house that afternoon, all the household taking part, the women bundled to the eyebrows, the men ruddy, flushed with the labor, staggering, singing, dragging the monstrous log with ropes, its rough skin packed with snow, a great furrow left where it passed, the snow plowed high on either side. Willie rode atop the log, screeching with excitement, clinging to the rope. 

Once back at the house, Isobel had tried to teach him to sing “Good King Wenceslas,” but it was beyond him, and he dashed to and fro, into everything, until his grandmother declared that he would drive her to distraction and told Peggy to take him to the stable to help Jamie and Crusoe bring in the fresh-cut branches of pine and fir. 

Thrilled, Willie rode on Jamie’s saddlebow to the grove and stood obediently on a stump where Jamie had put him, safe out of the way of the axes while the boughs were cut down. Then he helped to load the greenery, clutching two or three fragrant, mangled twigs to his chest, dutifully chucking these in the general direction of the huge basket, then running back again for more, heedless of where his burden actually landed. 

Jamie turned over, wriggling deeper into the nest of blankets, drowsy, remembering. He’d kept it up, the wean had, back and forth, back and forth, though red in the face and panting, until he dropped the very last branch on the pile. Jamie had looked down to find Willie beaming up at him with pride, laughed, and said on impulse, “Aye, that’s a bonnie lad. Come on. Let’s go home.” 

William had fallen asleep on the ride home, his head heavy as a cannonball in its woolen cap against Jamie’s chest. Jamie had dismounted carefully, holding the child in one arm, but Willie had wakened, blinked groggily at Jamie, and said, “WEN-sess-loss,” clear as a bell, then fallen promptly back asleep. He’d waked properly by the time he was handed over to Nanny Elspeth, though, and as Jamie walked away, he had heard Willie, as he walked away, telling Nanny, “I a bonnie lad!” 

But those words came out of his dreams from somewhere else, and long ago. Had his own father said that to him once? 

He thought so, and for an instant— just an instant— was with his father and his brother, Willie, excited beyond bearing, holding the first fish he’d ever caught by himself, slimy and flapping, both of them laughing at him, with him in joy. “Bonnie lad!” 

Willie. God, Willie. I’m so glad they gave him your name. He seldom thought of his brother, but every now and then, he could feel Willie with him; sometimes his mother or his father. More often, Claire. 

I wish ye could see him, Sassenach, he thought. He’s a bonnie lad. Loud and obnoxious, he added with honesty, but bonnie. What would his own parents think of William? They had neither of them lived to see any of their children’s children. 

He lay for some time, his throat aching, listening to the dark, hearing the voices of his dead pass by in the wind. His thoughts grew vague and his grief eased, comforted by the knowledge of love, still alive in the world. Sleep came near again. 

He touched the rough crucifix that lay against his chest and whispered to the moving air, “Lord, that she might be safe, she and my children.” 

Then turned his cheek to her reaching hand and touched her through the veils of time.

This is the end of The Scottish Prisoner, and one of the reasons this is one of my favorite books. 

This scene, with Jamie trying to keep warm in the hayloft of the barn at Helwater, would have likely been in mid-December of 1760. (Lord John had attended George II’s funeral just previous to this scene and the king was buried at Westminster Abby in November 1760). 

Born in January 1758, William would have been just shy of his third birthday in December 1760, and I can imagine a chubby toddler in Jamie’s memories.

[peacebus6-blog]

Wildfires Bedevil Ventura County Even As It Recovers From A Mass Shooting

A wildfire comes down from a hilltop Thursday, Nov. 8, 2018, near Newbury Park, Calif. (Photo by Marcio Jose Sanchez/AP)

Editor's note: This post is no longer being updated. Go here for the latest on the fires.

By Mike Roe and Brian Frank

Two separate wildfires prompted the evacuations of hundreds of homes and injured at least one firefighter in Ventura County Thursday, even as the community was reeling from a mass shooting in nearby Thousand Oaks the night before.

The Hill Fire, which ignited in Newbury Park just after 2 p.m. and quickly scorched thousands of acres, has led to the evacuations of 1,200 homes in the Camarillo Springs and Dos Vientos areas, county emergency officials said via Twitter.

The Woolsey Fire, which broke out just a short while after in the area of Rocketdyne, has burned more than 1,000 acres and prompted mandatory evacuations in the community of Bell Canyon.

The fires also prompted the closure of the 101 Freeway in both directions, according to the California Highway Patrol. Southbound lanes were closed from SR-34 (Lewis Road) to Wendy Drive, northbound from SR-23 to Pleasant Valley Road.

KQED's John Sepulvado and Hope McKenney shared images of the flames rising in the distance as the wind whipped smoke and dust into the air. Sepulvado has been contributing to KPCC/LAist's coverage of a shooting at the Borderline Bar and Grill that left 13 people dead late Thursday night.

"In the most 2018 moment of 2018, we can't get to the memorial for the shooting victims because a wildfire has cut off the 101 north of Thousand Oaks," Sepulvado tweeted.

HILL FIRE

The Hill Fire has so far burned between 5,000 and 7,000 acres, a number that was revised down from earlier estimates that put it closer to 10,000 acres.

At some point, an apparatus operator sustained a minor injury, according to Ventura County Fire Assistant Chief Chad Cook, who spoke at an evening press conference.

As many as 500 firefighters were on scene as of 7:30 p.m., with more expected to arrive for overnight operations. They face difficult conditions, with low humidity and fierce Santa Ana winds, according to VCFD Chief Mark Lorenzen, who also spoke at the press conference.

The fire has been driven by 20-30 mph winds, and with gusts expected to reach up to 50 mph on ridge tops by morning, the fire has the potential to sweep all the way to the ocean, Lorenzen said.

Emergency officials had been prepared for the worst. Ventura County firefighters coordinated with neighboring counties and cities and the National Weather Service, prepositioning their resources, but they were still outpaced by the fire.

A police officer directs traffic at a checkpoint in front of an advancing wildfire Thursday, Nov. 8, 2018, near Newbury Park, Calif. (Photo by Richard Vogel/AP)

Within 12 minutes of ignition, flames had jumped the 101 Freeway at the top of the Conejo Grade near the truck scales, Lorenzen said.

At one point, motorists were stranded on the freeway, Cook said.

Fixed-wing aircraft were used to drop retardant nearby to protect the vehicles stuck on the road, and some motorists had to shelter in place before firefighters were able to help them evacuate, he said.

No civilians have been reported injured. Cook credited their community notification technologies, including reverse 911 and VC Alert, with getting the message out and people evacuated quickly.

No structures have been confirmed lost, though a number of recreational vehicles and outbuildings were damaged or destroyed in Camarillo Springs and at the west end of Newbury Park, Lorenzen said.

Cook added that the fire has the potential to impact critical infrastructure.

The Hill Fire's two flanks are pushing on the one hand toward the Cal State Channel Islands campus and homes along Potrero Road and into the Broom Ranch subdivision, and on the other toward naval installations, including a communication tower for Point Mugu Naval Air Station set up on Laguna Peak.

"I would say we are not out of the woods when it comes to assessed evaluation and threat that's out in front of this fire," Cook said.

The fire was still active on both sides of the 101 freeway, which Cook said would likely be closed long into the night.

Firefighters will be assisted from above by at least four water-dropping helicopters that can operate at night.

EVACUATIONS

Mandatory evacuations are in place in the following areas, according to Ventura County:

Bell Canyon - Saddlebow Rd. between Maverick Ln. and Morgan Rd.

Camarillo Springs - All areas

Vallecito Trailer Park - All areas

California State University Channel Islands - All areas

Entire Dos Vientos - All areas outlined on map below

California State University Channel Islands issued a campus evacuation order because of poor air quality and said classes and student activities would be canceled until further notice.

There are also voluntary evacuations at Point Magu Naval Base.

Evacuation centers have been set up at these locations:

Borchard Community Center - 190 Reino Road. Newbury Park, CA 91320

Camarillo Community Center - 1605 East Burnley St. Camarillo, CA 93010

Rancho Santa Susana Recreation Center - 5005 Unit C Los Angeles Ave. Simi Valley, CA 93063

WHERE TO FIND UPDATES ON BOTH FIRES:

This story is no longer being updated.

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Source: http://www.laist.com/2018/11/08/hill_fire_closes_101_freeway_in_ventura_county_burns_more_than_8000_acres.php