#Easy Horse Care Rescue Centre

[truffesnaseaux-blog]

[cowperviolet]

A GUIDE TO MEDIEVAL TOURNAMENTS

Do you have a dynastic wedding to celebrate? A diplomatic visit to spice up? An axe to grind with a neighbour whose pageantry is eclipsing yours? Organize a tournament. It’s always the answer. A tournament of the greatest knights of the realm cannot go wrong.

Of course, it’s also a great and complex undertaking; but, thankfully, this step-by-step handbook should guide you through the process with only minimal pain and no injury

Obtain permission.

In England in France at least, organizing tourneys had become mostly a royal and ducal prerogative after 1340 – if you are not lucky enough to belong to one of those miniscule categories of the population, you would have to seek a special license. Obtaining it shouldn’t be a problem… unless, of course, there is a war on. In that case, you’d better check the latest royal proclamations – it’s more than possible that one of them contains a temporary ban on all tournaments while men of fighting age might have to risk their lives and limbs against an actual enemy. If this is true, it would be prudent of you to postpone your plans for a few months (or years, depending on how the war is going) – you wouldn’t want to content yourself with the kind of furtive affair that was the Le Hem tournament of 1278. It was hastily staged in direct violation of Louis IX ’s prohibition of tournaments because of the ongoing war, and as a result had to even dispense with the mêlée on the third day.

(If you think the prohibition overbearing and unfair, plenty of people would agree with you – and not just the kind of people who can afford swords and horses. The poet Sarrasin criticized the king in his Le Roman du Hem for bankrupting the heralds, armourers, saddlers and provisioners of France with his tournament ban).

2. Consider the time and place.

Most tourneys run from Monday to Sunday, with Friday being the rest day. You would need a spacious marketplace to divide into lists, too.

A lot depends on what kind of tournament you want to host. A general mêlée whose absence so disappointed the spectators in Le Hem would need more space than a contained joust; on the other hand, mêlée combat has been steadily losing its popularity as of late in favour of one-on-one jousts.

Of course, some people grumble that the old days when horsemen smashing into enemy in massed formations were the fixture of any tournament where the days when men were still men. But we are modern, fifteenth-century people, and we understand the importance of ensuring safety both for the participants and the spectators – hence the barriers down the centre of each list to prevent the knights from actually colliding with each other, and fenced enclosures to keep the audience strictly away from the danger. Which brings us to…

3. Decide on the rules.

The traditional rules of joust are the following: the knights are divided into two teams, those ‘within’ and those ‘without’ – or, in other words, the ‘defenders’ and the ‘attackers’. The space is, in turn, divided into three lists, each separated from the other by high barriers. The courses – the charges by two opposing knights – are going to be run down each, towards the spectacular splintering of lances. Each day, a prize, usually in the form of a small jewel or a golden chain, should be given to the best-performing knight and squire from each team.

You can, however, add or tweak a few details in order to make the sport safer for the participants – or more exhilarating for the audience. For example, you could take a page out of Maximillian I’s book and provide the knights with special spring-loaded shields that would flow apart if struck in the right place. You could also follow King Edward of England’s example and model your tournament after the béhourd he sponsored in Windsor in 1278: he specified, among other things, that the participants would have to wear cuir bouilli – a type of leather boiled until it was almost as hard as metal – and use wooden shields and whalebone swords.

If you scoff at the lightweight kind of tourneys popular these days, and especially if you care little for pageantry, then a different kind of joust might be more up your alley. The so-called passage of arms, or pas d’armes, is an undertaking to defend a certain place (usually a bridge or a gate) from all comers. It was inspired by various episodes from Arthurian romances, such as the Romance of Yvain by Chrétien de Troyes. In fiction, the knights undertook the defend a bridge, a gate, or a ford in single combat, and, if they were defeated, the winner took their place. Naturally, a real passage of arms plays out somewhat differently – for one thing, the defense only lasts a specified period of time (rarely longer than two weeks), and one defeat in a particular joust does not mean surrender. The most famous example of any knights attempting this kind of endeavor is probably the pas d’armes that Suero de Quinones organized at the Orbigo Bridge in northern Spain for two weeks until the St. James’ Day of 1434. They claimed a plan of breaking 300 lances in total – if they failed, the organizers promised, they would remain there for a further fortnight. They fulfilled that promise, and ended up withdrawing only on the 9th of August – but even with that extra time, they’ve only managed to break 178 lances in total. It’s no mean result, of course – plenty of minor conventional tourneys end in mighty disappointment for the spectators with not a single lance ending up broken at all.

It must be said that, although a passage of arms is a grandiose undertaking, jousting proper usually only takes a couple of hours a day there – in other words, the spectators are likely to be disappointed anyway. Your fellow knights, however, are going to be delighted by the concept – if, of course, they are true connoisseurs of tourneys just like you.

4. Think of the logistics.

The matter might begin with the rules of fighting itself, but it doesn’t end there. If you are in a position to organize a tournament out of your own purse in the first place, you must be the master of the lands where it’s going to be held, so make sure your subjects don’t suffer as a result of the soaring prices that usually accompany such events, not to mention the influx of professional warriors. Fix the prices firmly for the duration of the tournament, especially the prices on bread, fish, and meat; stipulate that no spectators or unarmed persons are to mix with the participants; make sure each gate of the city is manned by about twelve armed men, and station at least five hundred guards around the setting of the tournament itself.

5. Send out invitations.

Sending letters of invite seems to be the most logical course – however, it is also the most excruciating one, given the number of noblemen of fighting age who would be eligible for participation. In your situation, it would be better to contact the organizer of the tourney closest to yours and ask him to have your upcoming event announced there.

You would also do well to contact the tournament societies in your region – if you live in Germany, it’s going to be particularly easy: the whole concept, after all, originated in Bavaria. Tournament societies are essentially permanent tournament teams from different regions. Instead of laboriously summoning individual knights, one could simply issue a challenge from one society to another. Moreover, some societies’ rules even specify that the members have to meet annually at a tournament -it might as well be yours!

6. Think of the theme.

Of course, you don’t have to have a theme – you might want your tournament to simply be a bit of rough, honest fun it used to be in William Marshall’s days. We don’t live in William Marshall’s days anymore, though, and I suspect you wouldn’t want to be outdone by your neighbours.

The most go-to theme are Arthurian legends. It’s the kind of oldie-but-goldie you cannot go wrong with. The fashion was arguably started by Edward I of England, who set out a round table and acted out a number of Arthurian romances with the other noblemen at the feast after the tournament in honour of his daughter’s wedding. That was a far cry from the spectacular Arthurian festival arranged across the Channel by the lords Longueval and Bazentin in Picardy: they had the tournament presided over by ‘Queen Guinevere’, and stipulated that all the attendant knights had to bring a damsel with them. Another member of the theatricals was named as Chevalier au Lyon, who supposedly ‘rescued’ the ladies in ‘Guinevere’s retinue, and even had a real lion with him.

If this is all a bit too out there for you (or, the other way around, too pedestrian – everyone does the Round Table these days!), you could organize the pageantry of the tournament around your heroic ancestor or your sigil – possibly both. For example, the joust that Adolf of Cleves staged in Lille had been inspired by the story of the Cleves’ progenitor, a knight who was miraculously led along the Rhine by a swan and ended up marrying the local princess. During the joust, the ‘Knight of the Swan’ was to take on all challengers.

The procession, to quote the words of a contemporary, included

‘…drummers; and after them a pursuivant of arms dressed in a coat of arms full of swans; after him came a large swan, marvellously and skilfully made, with a crown of gold around its neck, from which hung a shield of the full arms of Cleves; and from this crown hung a golden chain on which, from one end, there hung the shield of the knight; and this swan was flanked by two very well made centaurs who had bows and arrows in their hands, and made as though to shoot at anyone who tried to approach the swan’.

7. Plan the banquet.

Nothing can sour the impression of a great tourney as a meagre banquet afterwards. The need for a generous display of food is self-explanatory – roebucks, suckling pigs, silvered eels, gilded bread, almond soup, kid goats, and the like – however, this is sadly not enough. You also have to think about the entremets.

What are the entremets? To put it simply, everything that is a part of the banquet, but is not edible. I’m not simply talking about straightforward entertainments like music, theatre pieces, or juggling. Entremets can also be elaborate installations for your guests to admire, such as a mini-carrack, exquisitely executed up to the last rope and laden with goods, or a mechanical forest full of strange, if thankfully unmoving, beasts. Even vessels sometimes count – you could have the sweets be contained in little chariots decorated with gold and azure. If you prefer to walk on the wild side, take a page out of Taillevent’s book (quite literally – it’s called Viandier) and construct a fake lion equipped to spout flame: ‘make it with a brass-lined mouth and a thin brass tongue, and with paper teeth glued in the mouth; and put camphor and a little cotton in the mouth and, when it is about to be served before the lords, set fire to this’.

Just don’t do what they did for the Feast of the Pheasant when they’ve made a statue of a naked woman in a large hat who spouted sweetened wine from her breasts for the duration of the dinner. Please.

Sources:

Normore, Christina. A Feast for the Eyes.

Andrew Brown and Graeme Small, Court and Civic Society in the Burgundian Low Countries c. 1420–1530.

Kelcey Wilson-Lee, Daughters of Chivalry: The Forgotten Children of Edward I.

[arcadian-asgardian]

Rescue from Jerusalem

A very late gift from the Christmas Winter Whumperland exchange 2017 (😅) for the gracious and ever-patient @collapse-and-comfort​!

Also available on Ao3

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed I

Tags: Gen, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Altaïr/Maria, Malik, OC Villain, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Fever, + 1 x bonus fanart

Summary: After Altaïr mysteriously vanishes whilst on a mission in Jerusalem, Maria Thorpe sets out for the city, determined to find him and bring him home. But it seems the hand of an old enemy is still at play, and Maria is horrified by what has become of Altaïr when she finally discovers him.

Words: 5,997

___

It had been more than a week since Altaïr was last heard from.

Maria Thorpe crouched on the sandy rooftop, her blades ready at her wrists and fingers itching with worry and anticipation. Below her, a group of Crusader guardsmen were dragging several figures through the shaded alleyway towards the building she had come to infiltrate. It was too dark to see the victims’ properly, but Maria could hear frightened whimpers and sniffling from underneath the bags that covered their faces. As they reached the building, the doorway was unlocked from the inside by two more guards, and the prisoners were ushered roughly inside. Straining closer, Maria thought she heard a voice with an unusual accent - something European, but unfamiliar - but then the door was slammed shut. Even from the rooftop, the clank of the key in the lock and thump as the door was barred from the inside were clear to hear. She would not get in this way.

Cursing, Maria retreated from the edge of the rooftop. What now? Perhaps she should return to the Bureau and seek Malik’s advice. Two days had passed since they had arrived in Jerusalem from Masyaf, having ridden as quickly as their horses could manage, fear for Altaïr’s safety spurring them on. That made it a total of nine days since Altaïr had vanished. The first morning in the city, they hastened straight to the Bureau to question the new rafiq. He knew little of Altaïr’s mission - only that it was in some way connected with the Knights Hospitalier, and with one of Altaïr’s previous Templar targets - Garnier de Naplouse. Altaïr had rested at the Bureau when not out investigating, and then one day had not returned. That gave the rafiq little cause for alarm, but when several days had passed and Altaïr neither appeared nor was there any talk in the city of the hooded man or any suspicious deaths, he had become worried and sent word to Maria and Malik at Masyaf. The following two days were spent scouring the city for clues to Altaïr’s whereabouts.

Maria crept over to her bags and reached inside for the map Malik had found in the Bureau’s archives. Mingling with the people, she had soon learned that something - though it was not clear precisely what - was going on in this fairly innocuous-seeming compound. Disappearances, they had said. Those who went in never seen again. And occasionally, some swore, screams. She shuddered.

The map detailed the layout of the building and the surrounding streets. With frustration, she marked a cross against the entrance in the alleyway below her. Access from the ground would not be possible. She could enter via the roof, but archers patrolled it at all hours of the day - to take them out without alerting the guards inside would be difficult.

She frowned. There was no simple option. This would need cunning, resourcefulness, and all of her skills as an assassin. She placed the map back into her bag and shouldered it, and then began to quietly clamber back down the side of the building to the deserted city streets. As she climbed, a plan began to form in the back of her mind.

*             *             *

“Assassin! Heretic!”

Maria almost laughed as she sprinted ahead of the Saracen guards, dodging and weaving expertly through the crowds in the direction of the compound. These men were faster than many she’d encountered - not quite the typical middle-aged ex-soliders, invalided back from war and just looking for an easy living, that she was used to - but they weren’t as fast as her. Her feet pounded the dirt as she began to approach her target. The guards, a small group, were about twenty paces behind her, though she was widening the distance with every second. She had to be careful not to lose them until the exact correct moment.

She rounded the corner with the agility of a wild gazelle, and the main entrance to the compound suddenly loomed in front of her. There were four guards on the gate, wearing unmarked armour yet still unmistakably Crusaders. She hoped the men pursuing her would be an even match for them.

She dashed past the door guards before they properly had a chance to register her, though a faint cry of “Another assassin!” reached her ears as she darted off down a side alley. She heard the metallic slice of swords being drawn, but then- just as she’d hoped: cries of alarm and Saracen shouts, followed by the clashing of blades and the sound of a struggle. She didn’t stop, fearing that one or two of the group wouldn’t have taken the distraction and could still be chasing her. Instead, she sprung sideways, leaping nimbly up a pile of crates that had been left against the outer wall, grabbing the closest window ledge and beginning to haul herself rapidly upwards. She heard more yells coming from above as she ascended - the archers on the roof running to join the fight. This was her chance.

As she reached the rooftop, she paused, trying to figure out exactly where each man was from the sound alone. There were curses and the panicked sound of arrows being knocked to bows, all coming from her right side. Dangling from the roof edge, she carefully shimmied her way around a corner in the building, the ground far below her, and then peeked her head over the parapet. They were all distracted, facing away from her. Good.

Close to silently, she lifted herself up and then quickly slunk her way over to the centre of the roof where the access hatch was, watching the archers warily the whole way. They were too preoccupied with the fight - which seemed to be going badly for the poor Saracen soldiers - to notice as she lifted the hatch and dropped noiselessly inside.

Inside the building was considerably darker than the sunny streets had been, and far quieter too. Maria paused as her eyes adjusted, relying on her other senses to assess the situation. The air was heavy and smelt… well, frankly, foul, not unlike the scent from the slaughterhouses behind the butcher’s market, but mixed with all manner of strange herbal and spiced aromas. There was little detectable movement in the air, so the building had to be well and truly sealed off from the outside. As the darkness ebbed away, she realised she was standing in a storeroom, surrounded by shelves of bottles, jars and odd-looking equipment. Altaïr wasn’t here. In the distance, the sound of the fight she’d started seemed to be petering out. She couldn’t hear anyone in the rest of the building, but it was still best to be cautious.

As she crept through the maze of rooms, her heart began to pound and her stomach grew more and more anxious as the buildings’ secrets were revealed. The place wasn’t as unoccupied as she’d assumed. Everywhere there were beds and raised tables, and on these lay the sorriest forms of humanity she’d ever encountered. Most were drenched in filthy bandages, many stained with blood, and their skin as grey and loose as the tatters of cloth. A few looked up as she passed, their sunken eyes pleading, but Maria regretfully had to push on past them. Occasional cries of anguish echoed out from hidden corners.

She needed to find Altaïr. Her worry for him had tripled now that she saw what horrors had been occurring here.

She went to round another corner but stopped sharply as a tall figure passed immediately in front of her. Pressing herself flat against the wall, she held her breath as the man walked unknowingly past, and then stopped at the end of the corridor. He turned to inspect the contents of a cabinet, and Maria got a first decent look at his face.

She knew this man from her Templar days. His name was Baldwin de Carreo. He was an associate of Garnier de Naplouse, and also a member of the Knights Hospitalier, though not, she believed, a Templar himself. She had never personally interacted with the man, but from what she had overheard, he was devoted student of de Naplouse’s, and tended to the doctor’s work with a zeal and eagerness that was known to put even the other Templars on edge. The doctor’s death at the hands of the Assassin Order - at the hands of her beloved, in fact - probably only pushed him further in that evil, twisted fanaticism. She could well understand why Altaïr would have considered even rumours of the man’s presence in the Holy Land to be an urgent concern worth dealing with personally. Now, it seemed, it was up to her to deal with him.

De Carreo turned and continued along the corridor, still unaware of Maria’s presence. Slowly, Maria peeled away from the wall and began to stalk him through the space, crouching low, like a leopard fixed on its prey. Suddenly he stopped. She froze. He didn’t turn around, but his head cocked slightly to the side. Had he heard her? Should she attack now, while there was still perhaps a chance to catch him unawares? He outweighed her, and was taller, broader, and likely at least a decently skilled fighter. A scuffle between them might alert the other guards, or he could call for help. Maria had only seconds to make a decision.

She sensed de Carreo begin to turn towards her, and seized her chance. She leapt forward, swiftly grabbing his nearest arm and twisting it high against his back, then used the leverage to drag him closer, forcing him to bend his knees. He tried to struggle but her hidden blade flashed quickly to his throat. That stilled him. He seemed surprised at first but the shock on his face was quickly replaced with a sinister confidence.

“Where is the assassin?” Maria growled at his ear.

“Assassin?” he began to chuckle, but the noise became strangled as Maria squeezed her blade tighter against his throat. “I don’t know what you mean. None of my patients is a killer.”

“A man in a hood,” she pressed. “With a blade, just like this. Altaïr.”

“And if I tell you, you will let me live?” de Carreo asked.

“I don’t see that you deserve to.”

“How so?” he said.

Maria scoffed. “What you’re doing here is unholy. You are torturing innocents!”

“I am trying to help mankind!” responded de Carreo, his voice suddenly full of anger. “To advance the understanding of healing, to save countless lives in the future! That a few lives should be sacrificed for the good of the world is surely something you Assassins understand.”

Maria paused, her blade still held against his throat.

“Your ‘brother’ was equally ignorant,” de Carreo added, with a twisted smile.

Fury filled Maria. She tightened her grip on his arm. “Where. Is. He?” she repeated.

“If I may not bargain for my life, I do not see why I should help you,” he said casually.

“Very well,” replied Maria darkly, and then she dug her blade into the flesh of his throat and drew it sharply to the side, ripping through the tissue and sending a cascade of red hot blood spilling to the ground. De Carreo made a strangled cry and clutched at the wound, sinking to his knees as she let him go, but his hands could do nothing to stem the flow and he soon folded to the ground into the puddle of his own blood, the light quickly fading from his wide eyes. He twitched a few times, and then was still.

Maria regarded his body coldly, with nothing but stern conviction in her heart. Then she shook herself and returned to the search. She peered into every room as she passed, hoping, pleading, to find her beloved in one of them. Panic was beginning to set in. She had to find Altaïr soon, before the guards discovered either her or de Carreo’s body, or this would all have been for nothing. Where was he? She entered an alcove, and was suddenly greeted with a sight that both filled her with relief and horror.

Altaïr lay limply on top of the table. His wrists and ankles were bound with coarse strips of leather, so tight that she could see sharp cuts in the red, raw skin around each restraint. His eyes were closed but as she stepped closer she could make out the shaky rise and fall of his chest, and breathed a sigh of relief. Alive. She gently swept the hair from his sweaty forehead and cupped his face. “Altaïr? Can you hear me?” His eyelids fluttered in response but remained closed. At his side, however, his fist clenched and he began to pull against the restraints. Quickly, Maria cut each of the bonds with her hidden blade and laced her fingers in his, squeezing his hand tenderly. “I’m here. It’s me, it’s Maria. Oh, my love,” her voice cracked. “What have they done to you?”

From outside there came a muffled voice. Maria froze. One of the guards from the gate was walking towards the room, calling back to someone else in the building. She could hear each heavy footstep thudding closer and closer. Altaïr mumbled something faintly. She squeezed his hand again, silently begging him not to rouse now, not when they were at their most vulnerable. The guard was getting closer. If she killed him, the others would soon wonder where he had gone and she could not move Altaïr in time to avoid a confrontation. But suddenly there was a cry of pain from another part of the building, and then the sound of the guard’s footsteps fading away as he went to investigate that instead. Maria exhaled shakily. They needed to leave, now.

Turning back to Altaïr, she saw that his eyes were open, but clouded with pain and unfocused, gazing blankly at the ceiling. “Altaïr?” she whispered again, leaning close over him. His eyes moved hazily towards the sound of her voice, but his gaze was blank and soon drifted away. What was wrong with him? Looking round in confusion, Maria now noticed several bottles and jars of dried leaves next to his bedside. She didn’t recognise the concoctions but there was a strong smell, like hemp or maybe poppy. Combined with the general odour of death and blood, it was nearly enough to make her gag.

She shook her head to clear it and then leant over Altaïr’s body and slid her hands underneath his shoulders and heaved. He cried out in pain as she hauled him off the table and his legs buckled, dragging them both to their knees. Maria’s hands shot to his sides to steady him, but she was shocked to feel something hot and wet beneath her fingers. She pulled them away with a sickening feeling and glanced slowly down. Her fingers were stained with crimson blood. It was starting to seep from beneath Altaïr’s robes, from some wound in his side. She swore violently. Altaïr slumped forwards against her, his breath laboured at her ear. For a moment she just knelt there, holding him closely in her arms and trying to think what to do. There was no time to try to stop the bleeding; another guard was bound to come through at any minute. If they could make it back to the Bureau they could treat Altaïr’s wounds and everything would be alright.

Decided, she pushed Altaïr away and wrapped his arm around her neck, trying to ignore his wince as she gripped the band of damaged skin around his wrist. Taking his weight on her, she staggered to her feet. His blood had begun to trail down his leg and drip onto the floor. With her free hand she tried to clasp at the wound, causing him to groan in pain and flinch away from her. No time for comfort - she began to stumble towards the exit, half-dragging Altaïr whose head still hung limply. His breathing was ragged as he limped along beside her, but he seemed to be conscious enough now to understand the need for silence, each groan he made muffled through gritted teeth.

The other patients seemed to understand as well, many of them staring pleadingly at Maria as they passed their beds, but remaining silent. Maria only wished there was time to rescue them as well. But Altaïr could not wait - when he was healed they could return and liberate all of de Carreo’s prisoners, but not now as blood continued to drip from his side.

They reached the door, unlocked it, and awkwardly negotiated their way through. Outside, Altaïr recoiled at the blinding sunlight, almost trying to push Maria away in his attempt to shield his eyes. She gripped his arms tightly. “Come on,” she whispered, and firmly but gently guided him out into the street.

Navigating their way back to the Bureau was challenging. Where possible, Maria kept them to the back alleys, away from prying eyes. Altaïr soon struggled to stay on his feet, trailing his free hand along each wall as they passed to support himself. Between his moans of pain, he had begun to murmur something, but Maria couldn’t make out what. On several occasions, Maria had to carefully set him down in the shadows, hating herself for it as he grimaced with pain, and eliminate a number of guardsmen who were blocking their path. By the time they arrived at the Bureau they had garnered far too much attention and she was exhausted.

“Altaïr!” Malik shouted. He ran forward to help as Altaïr finally slipped from Maria’s grasp and sunk to his knees. “What has happened?” Malik said breathlessly, alarmed to see the red staining Altaïr’s robes. Altaïr looked up at him as he firmly clasped his shoulder. His eyes were brighter now but still hazy and uncomprehending.

“Inside,” was all Maria replied. Malik nodded. Together they lifted Altaïr back to his feet and carried him inside the Bureau’s sanctuary.

“Lay him on the counter,” Malik instructed as he swept the books and quills hastily to the floor. Altaïr grunted and clawed at his side as Maria did so. His forehead shone with sweat.

“Water,” Malik gestured to the rafiq, who darted off.

“Who did this to you, brother?” Malik asked softly, his hand back on Altaïr’s shoulder. Altaïr was too weak to reply.

“Later,” snapped Maria. She drew her hidden blade and used it to slice open the sodden, bloody fabric around Altaïr’s wound. Malik nodded and helped her as they peeled away the robes to reveal Altaïr’s chest.

“By God…” Malik whispered. Criss-crossing Altaïr’s torso were at least five deep cuts, all quite fresh and unbandaged. A few had crude stitches holding them shut, including that at his side, where the threads had been broken by the movement of the last few hours. Several looked badly inflamed. Each was at a different stage of healing, and there was an awful precision to the sharpness of their edges. This had been deliberate.

The rafiq returned with a large jug of water. As Maria stepped back, stroking her hand across Altaïr’s forehead, Malik carefully poured the water onto the wounds. Altaïr started at the sensation, and Maria had to press his shoulders firmly back to the table. Again he mumbled something, his head rolling from side to side, but she couldn’t make out what it was. As the blood caked around his side washed, away the worst injury became clear. Malik examined it closely.

“This will require stitches. But first we must stop the bleeding.”

He motioned Maria to pass him a clean section of fabric. Folding it, he placed it carefully over Altaïr’s side and then positioned his hand on top and leant down with all of his weight.

Altaïr’s reaction was immediate. He cried out - in fear as well as pain - and his bleary eyes shot open and darted around wildly. “No no no. Not again. Stop this. Not again!” he gasped. His hands were gripping the edges of the table, knuckles shining and muscles shaking. Startled, Malik and Maria leapt back. As the pressure relented, Altaïr relaxed and fell back, his chest heaving.

“Altaïr?” Maria said uncertainly, taking his hand. “It’s us. We’re trying to help you. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

Altaïr made no reply, once again turning towards the sound of her voice but not seeming to be able to focus on anything around him. She squeezed his hand but got no reply.

Dismayed, Malik picked up the material and hesitantly pressed it back against Altaïr’s side. Altaïr cried out again and his legs kicked out, knocking the jug of water off the edge of the table top.

“Hold him down!” instructed Malik. The rafiq scurried to Altaïr’s legs and gripped both of his ankles where the restraints had cut into them, pressing them down hard. Altaïr writhed and fought even harder. Maria gripped his shoulders and leant over him, forcing him flat. She could feel his whole body trembling under her palms. He continued to moan “No no no no…” over and over.

“It’s alright, my love,” she whispered soothingly down at him. He didn’t seem to hear her.

Malik pressed down on the cloth again and Altaïr let out a strangled cry. His breath was coming in short, panicky gasps, and his body jerked as he tried to fight off whatever foes he was seeing through his clouded eyes. His cries and murmurs grew gradually louder as the others stood around anxiously and waited for the pressure to stop the bleeding. It seemed that whatever potions de Carreo had inflicted on him were beginning to wear off.

The fabric slowly stained red as it soaked up Altaïr’s blood. Eventually, the bleeding appeared to slow enough for Malik to cease the pressure and remove the cloth. He began to prepare a needle and thread for the stitches. Altaïr quietened and relaxed a little, giving Maria a chance to stretch her arms. They were already aching with the exertion of holding him down. And the worst was yet to come.

Malik managed to thread the needle and turned apprehensively to Altaïr. He steadied himself, and then reached down towards the edge of the wound.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. Then he pierced the needle point into the flesh.

Altaïr screamed. A raw, guttural howl of agony and horror, tearing out of him as his body bucked and thrashed against their grip. Tears pricked in Maria’s eyes. This was awful. What had de Carreo done to him to make him so frantic to escape?  If it wasn’t taking all of her strength to hold him down against the table, she longed to cup his face, to do whatever it would take to make him realise that he was safe and with friends, and that - whatever horrible things had been done to him - it was all over now. They weren’t trying to hurt him. A teardrop dripped from her eye and fell down onto Altaïr’s chest.

Malik continued with the stitches, staring intently and grim-faced at his work and obviously trying to block out all the other distractions. Maria wondered how he could manage it. At least the quicker the wound was stitched, the sooner Altaïr’s pain would be over. A broken whimper escaped from Altaïr’s mouth amidst the roars and gasps of pain. His struggles were growing weaker, though it still needed both Maria and the rafiq to hold him still enough for Malik to work. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and every inch of his face was contorted with agony, his eyes screwed tight.

“Stop. Please stop,” he managed to plead, his voice beginning to break. Maria’s heart twisted at the desperation in his voice. She’d never seen him like this before. He was always so strong. Seeing him like this… it hurt more than she could bear.

“Nearly done,” Malik muttered. He pulled the last of the stitches through Altaïr’s blood-stained side - eliciting another gurgled cry - and snapped the thread off at the end. Altaïr’s body slowly slackened as the pain ceased, and he collapsed exhausted against the table, eyes still closed and panting heavily. Maria removed her shaking hands from his arms and went to stroke his face again. He flinched weakly away from her touch at first, but seemed too weary to keep fighting. His skin was as hot as ash underneath her hand.

“It’s finished, my love. Rest now,” she whispered.

“I will prepare somewhere for him to rest,” said the rafiq, and vanished into the courtyard.

Malik fetched clean bandages and began to carefully wrap them around Altaïr’s chest, concealing the horrible wounds. Maria breathed a small sigh of relief as she lifted Altaïr’s now-limp form up so that the cloth could be passed underneath. His head lolled weakly against her, eyelid fluttering, but he remained silent as they worked, and only let out a faint moan as she set him down again.

Once the bandages were done, Malik warily reached for Altaïr’s wrist and inspected the damage. The skin there had been rubbed raw to the point of bleeding, and cut into by the edges of the restraints. Altaïr flinched ever so slightly away. Saying nothing, but with a grave expression, Malik poured out two bowls of water, and clean pieces of cloth to go with them. He handed one to Maria, and then, taking a wrist each, they began to slowly wash away the blood from Altaïr’s skin. The depth of the cuts and bruised skin around them was gradually revealed, but it still looked better, cleaner, without days’ worth of crusted redness. Altaïr lay still, exhausted.

“How could we have allowed this to happen?” Malik murmured quietly, not looking up.

Maria shook her head. They could never have foreseen something like this.

“I take it the one responsible is-”

“-Dealt with,” Maria finished, her voice cold. Dead by her blade. As he goddamn deserved. “He will never lay hands on an innocent again,” she said.

Malik nodded, seeming satisfied.

They cleaned, dried and bandaged both of Altaïr’s wrists and then his ankles. Altaïr barely stirred as they worked, though Maria could tell by the heavy rhythm of his breaths that he was still conscious. Then the rafiq returned and together he and Maria lifted Altaïr’s listless form off of the table and carried him out to the courtyard, where the rafiq had arranged rugs and cushions for him to rest on. Bowing respectfully, the rafiq returned indoors, and after offering a consoling hand on her shoulder, Malik followed him, leaving Maria and Altaïr alone.

Maria sighed deeply and gazed at Altaïr with sorrow as she stroked his forehead. His brow furrowed slightly into a frown and she watched intently as his eyes slid blearily open. They were glazed with pain and confusion, but not as worryingly blank as they had been before.

“…Maria?” he whispered weakly.

“It’s me, my love. I’m here,” she squeezed his hand.

His gaze flickered around the empty courtyard. “…W-Where…?” he croaked.

“You’re safe, you’re back at the Bureau.” She ran a hand through his tangled hair and smiled softly. “It’s all over.”

Seeming relieved to hear it, Altaïr slumped back into the cushions and his eyes fluttered slowly closed again. She gazed down tenderly at him as his breathing settled and the last of the tension drained out of his body. His forehead was still very hot and clammy to the touch, which aroused a wave of concern in her, but seeing him almost peaceful and back with them, safe, was enough to dampen the worry for now. She leant over and placed a quiet kiss on his forehead, and then left him to his rest.

*             *             *

Altaïr’s fever broke on the third day.

It had been a horrific ordeal for Maria to watch as he suffered and burnt up from the inside out, and there were dark moments in the dead of night when she honestly didn’t know if he was going to pull through. She had barely slept since they had brought him back. Though she and Malik took it in shifts to stay by Altaïr’s side, she found that not even the bone-deep exhaustion was enough to steal her away from fear for him when she tried to get some rest.

Malik, likewise, seemed grey with tiredness, bitten with worry, and constantly uneasy. When it had become apparent that the fever ravaging Altaïr’s body wasn’t abating, he’d sent the rafiq out to seemingly every apothecary in the city for any poultices and tinctures that might help calm the infection. Maria got the sense that he didn’t really know what to do for Altaïr much better than she did.

They applied fresh poultices to Altaïr’s wounds often. At first, it needed both of them, as Altaïr continued to try to fight them off, but as he grew weaker and more delirious in the grip of the fever, Maria found she could manage alone. She still couldn’t stand to look directly at the cruel incisions as she carefully peeled away the old bandages and replaced them with fresh cloth. Altaïr would still stir whenever anyone touched him. He was too feverish to be fully conscious - when his eyes were open, they were dull and distant, and never managed to stay open for long. During the worst of the waves, he began to writhe underneath his blankets. His head would toss from side to side, his face twisted with anguish, and his hands clutched emptily at the air or sometimes at his bandages. Maria had to gently pry his clawing hands away, and often sat for many hours holding them at the wrists and trying to soothe him back into sleep.

He also shied away when she tried to help him drink the potions they’d acquired. Whether that was because of the foul taste, or because of associations with whatever had happened to him during his captivity, she didn’t know. It broke her heart, but she still patiently cradled his head and poured each dose down his unwilling throat.

What distressed her the most, however, were the quiet cries that constantly slipped from his lips. He would call out through the delirium with muffled curses or pleas as he tried to fight against whatever invisible demons he was imagining around him, or sometimes mumble strange things she didn’t understand, about mankind or science or morality, apparently arguing with people who weren’t there.

On one occasion he seemed to ask after her, and for a moment her heart was lifted, thinking he had finally returned to them, but when she leant close over him and whispered “I’m here”, he just continued to repeat the same breathless murmurs - “Maria… w-where are… where are you…” - eyes unseeing. Eventually she tried to harden her heart to his cries, and just stayed for hours by his side, tending to his injuries and wiping gently at his clammy forehead with a damp cloth.

On the third day, she was almost dozing off with Altaïr’s head cradled in her lap, when suddenly she heard him speak. “Maria?” His voice was croaky, but sounded more his own than it had since he first descended into the haze of the fever. Hope leapt in her heart and she looked down at him. His eyes were fully open, bright and alive and gazing up at her. He moved to sit up, and though he grimaced and pressed a hand to his chest, with Maria’s help he managed to get upright. He looked around the courtyard and then turned back to her.

“How long have I been out?”

Her face broke into a smile as relief flooded her. “Three days, my love. I thought- …I worried you would not return to us.”

She rubbed at the back of his hand. He squeezed back hers back.

“I dreamt… ” - he frowned - “…strange things.” A dark look crossed his face like a cloud eclipsing the sun. Maria held his hand tighter.

“De Carreo is dead,” she announced. “And the rest of his patients have been liberated.”

Altaïr nodded, but Maria could see in his eyes that his mind was still elsewhere, doubtless dwelling on the last clear memories he had. He shuddered ever so slightly, but then he blinked and turned to smile at her, this time consciously.

“Did you come alone?” he asked, surprised.

Maria shook her head quickly, suddenly remembering. “Malik!” she called out loudly.

There was the sound of movement from inside the Bureau, followed by a loud thump and muffled cursing, and then Malik appeared in the doorway. His hair was dishevelled and he looked dazed, but his eyes shone as he noticed Altaïr.

“Brother, you’re awake!” he cried, smiling widely.

He rushed to kneel beside them, and grasped Altaïr’s shoulder firmly.

“It is good to have back with us,” he said. His voice was warm with sincerity and relief.

Altaïr bowed his head and lifted a hand weakly to his chest in acknowledgement. The shift in position made him wince and Maria felt his weight suddenly pressing back on her again as he faltered. “Easy, my love,” Maria calmed him. Malik quickly caught Altaïr by his other shoulder and they lowered him back against the cushions. A few beads of sweat had reappeared on his forehead and his eyes were outlined with frown-lines as his face twisted with pain.

Maria picked up the wet cloth and dabbed gently at his face. He leant subtly into the cool of the cloth as Malik unfastened his robes and began to unbandage his chest. “Just breathe,” Maria whispered. Removing the bandages, Malik examined the injuries underneath.

“Argh! Son of a jackal…” Altaïr flinched and cursed beneath his breath as Malik pressed carefully at the edges of the cuts.

“Apologies, brother,” Malik responded, but with a wry smile. He finished his examination and straightened up. “Your wounds are healing well,” he declared happily. “In a few days, we should be able to return to Masyaf. It will be better for you to finish healing there.”

*             *             *

Two days later, the three assassins sat aside their heavily-burdened horses, the road ahead winding into the parched mountains and Jerusalem slowly disappearing into the sand-haze behind them. Maria rode behind Altaïr, keeping a watchful eye on him. His injuries were not yet fully healed and she knew the jostling of riding had to be paining him, but he seemed to handle his steed confidently on the rocky path. The strength of this man she called her beloved never ceased to amaze her.

She paused and turned to look back at the city. She hoped it would be a long time before they ever had to return to Jerusalem. She felt no doubt that they would both be plagued by the memories of what had happened there for some time to come. But for now at least, they could put it behind them and focus on returning Altaïr to his full strength.

“What is it, my love?” Altaïr’s voice cut across her senses. She turned back around. He and Malik had halted their steeds, and were waiting for her. Altaïr’s face was lined with concern as he gazed at her. Another pang of love for him blossomed in her heart. She drew her horse alongside his, and leant over to him.

“Nothing, my love,” she smiled, and kissed him deeply, feeling his lips soften beneath hers as he ardently returned the kiss.

Malik sighed with feigned impatience ahead of them. Altaïr’s mouth rose into a smirk as he and Maria slowly parted and settled back into their saddles. Then, spurring their horses on, they continued together along the path towards home.

[katsujiiccfinds]

"Independent Teens" Saturday Job Pack

by missyhissy

I love my independent teens. They always want to get a job and pay for things themselves but I hate the thought of them struggling to catch up with their homework late at night.

So I did something about it. I created 12 Saturday Jobs for your teenage sims! These do not override any teen careers. There is also a bonus Community Service 'job' for your juvenile delinquents.

For these jobs to show up in game, you will need the Nraas Careers Mod. These jobs were made with Patch 1.69 and are all in English and support translations in German and Russian. If you're interested in translating this career, there are instructions at the bottom of the page.

Most of the jobs are base game compatible, however a few do rely on expansions. I give details on each career below.

There are uniforms for each of the jobs. You can edit career outfits with Patch 1.31 and above, so I highly suggest using this feature to give your Sims a uniform of your own choosing.

There are no opportunities. These are considered Part-Time jobs and cannot have opportunities.

The Jobs

The jobs include:

Babysitting

Bartender

Hotel Attendant

Lifeguard

Modelling

Pharmacy Assistant

Retail Assistant

Stablehand

Theatre Attendant

Tutor

Veterinary Assistant

Waiter/Waitress

*Plus Bonus Community Service*

Expansion Packs: Late Night, Pets, University Life & Island Paradise

Download at ModTheSims

Career & Credit Info Below

Babysitter ~ Becoming a babysitter requires a great deal of maturity and responsibility towards the babies, toddlers and children you'll be caring for. Their parents will place a great deal of trust in you. The career is based at the City Hall and is for Teens only. There is only one level since there is little/no chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Play Games, which builds the Logic skill and Read to Sleep, which builds the Charisma skill. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Toddler Tender ~ Sometimes, parents like to take an evening off and leave their little angels in the hands of a competent babysitter. Well, that babysitter is now you! So keep your chin up, make them smile and you'll be making easy money. But try not to let the tantrums get the better of you! 5/hour 10.00am ~ 4.00pm Saturday Bartender ~ Becoming a bartender could lead to great things in the culinary fields. If you work hard and keep a smile on your face for the customers, you should be set for a great career ahead of you. The career is based at the Bistro and is for Teens only. There are only three levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There is one custom tone; Practice Mixing Drinks, which builds the Mixology skill. This job does promote into my Bartender Career when the sim ages up. Requires Late Night. 1. Table Cleaner ~ Wiping the tables clean seems mundane and if that's what you're thinking, then you're right. It is. But cleaning up after spilt drinks and sticky marks is important and proves your competence when it comes to the hygiene side of restaurants. 4/hour 4.00pm ~ 10.00pm Saturday 2. Waiter ~ It seems boring but lots of your friends are doing it, so it must be good! Serving the drinks to the customers is vital and working on your tableside manners is good practice for when eventually, you'll be allowed to work behind the bar. 5/hour 12.00pm ~ 6.00pm Saturday 3. Bartender ~ Your people skills are good. You're the cheery young bartender most people love to see and talk to and you're gaining skills in mixing drinks all the time. Keep up the good work, you've got some talent there! 7/hour 2.00pm ~ 8.00pm Saturday Hotel Attendant ~ Working in a hotel can be a very rewarding job. You meet a variety of interesting people from far off locations and the work is very varied. Just make sure you smile! The career is based at the Resort and is for Teens only. There are only three levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Answer Phones, which builds the Charisma skill and Converse With Guests, which also builds the Charisma skill. Requires Island Paradise. 1. Receptionist ~ Answering the phones and booking rooms for customers is about all you're able to do right now. But at least you're earning your own money now! 4/hour 9.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday 2. Cleaner ~ Whether it's sweeping the dining room floor after a meal or cleaning the rooms after customers have left, the hotel needs plenty of cleaners to keep everything going. 6/hour 8.00am ~ 4.00pm Saturday 3. Waiter ~ Waiting on table during meal times. The pinnacle of hotel part time work. Just try and avoid any small children who may not like their food. 8/hour 11.00am ~ 7.00pm Saturday Lifeguard ~ If saving lives is something you see yourself doing, come along and register for training to become a Lifeguard! The career is based at the Spa and is for Teens only. There are only two levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Swim Lengths, which builds the Athletic skill and Perform Rescue, which builds the Charisma skill. This job does promote into my Lifeguard career when the sim ages up. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Lifeguard-In-Training ~ Every good leisure centre has a lifeguard to train up and you've volunteered for the role! You want to prove you're a competent swimmer and can easily rescue a sim in even the most dire situations. So listen up, train hard and you'll be a Junior Lifeguard yet! 5/hour 8.00am ~ 1.00pm Saturday 2. Junior Lifeguard ~ You've trained hard and qualified as a Junior Lifeguard. You've done well to get this far and it's not over yet. As a Junior Lifeguard, your responsibilities have trebled and the safety of the members of the public is entirely in your hands on Saturdays. So pay attention! 8/hour 9.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday Modelling ~ Many young teenage sims dream of becoming popular models. For those who wish to make this dream a reality, this is their opportunity to shine. The career is based at the Theatre and is for Teens only. There are only three levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Do Yoga, which builds the Athletic skill and Work Out, which also builds the Athletic skill. This job does promote into my Modelling career when the sim ages up. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Jewellery Model ~ The first step for any Supermodel is usually a small one. For you, the first step is modelling the latest jewellery line. People probably won't recognise you but that's okay for now. It's a great start. 6/hour 2.00pm ~ 8.00pm Saturday 2. Advertisement Model ~ The television companies run advertisements to pay their fees. And most advertisements require a model to show off the products and you've been selected to be in the next series of advertisements. Congratulations! 10/hour 9.00am ~ 2.00pm Saturday 3. Fashion Model ~ There's a Teen Fashion Line coming out and you've been approached to model the new line for the catalogues. How exciting! 12/hour 1.00pm ~ 7.00pm Saturday Pharmacy Assistant ~ It's not stimulating work but a job at the pharmacy could lead to bigger things if you stick with it and learn all you can about the medicines available. Come and sign up today as a Pharmacy Assistant! The career is based at the Hospital and is for Teens only. There is only one level since there is little/no chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Study Medicines, which builds the Logic skill and Talk to Customers, which builds the Charisma skill. This job does promote into my Pharmacist career when the sim ages up. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Cashier ~ The first step to being able to handle medicines for patients is to take the payments and issue the receipts for them. It sounds boring and it probably is but you'll start to learn the ropes of a Pharmacy job and it's getting you work experience all the same! 4/hour 9.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday Retail Assistant ~ Becoming a retail assistant is something most teenage sims will do at some point. It's varied and works on some very important skills for later life. The career is based at Arsil's Rabbithole 1 and is for Teens only. There are only three levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There is one custom tone; Talk to Customers, which builds the Charisma skill. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Stock Room Organiser ~ Organising the stock room is a job nobody really wants and that's why you?ve been hired to do it. You can't complain really, you're being paid after all. So start rummaging in those boxes ? you never know what treasures you might unearth! 5/hour 9.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday 2. Fitting Room Attendant ~ Some of the customers have been struggling with fitting the clothes they're interested in, so the manager has hired you as a Fitting Room Attendant. So help the customers out, keep smiling and remember to say ?You look wonderful? when asked for your opinion. 8/hour 9.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday 3. Cashier ~ Having mastered the stock room and wowed the customers in the fitting rooms, you're manning the cash register with ease. Keep that smile on your face and tell your customers to ?Have a nice day!?. 12/hour 9.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday Stablehand ~ The stables are always looking for horse enthusiasts to help out cleaning the stables, grooming the horses and exercising them. If you love horses, this could be the job for you! The career is based at the Equestrian Centre and is for Teens only. There are only two levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Clean Stable, which builds the Handiness skill and Ride Horses, which builds the Riding skill. Requires Pets. 1. Yard Groom ~ You've always loved horses and now you've been offered the opportunity of cleaning their stables after them, learning to brush them and getting to know how to love and care for them. It's rewarding, if backbreaking, work and you're looking forward to it! 4/hour 9.00am ~ 4.00pm Saturday 2. Rider ~ Having learnt all there is to know about horses and their care, you're now learning to ride them! Gaining the trust between you and your equine is a wonderful experience and you're being paid now to teach others how to safely care for, and ride, the horses. 6/hour 12.00pm ~ 6.00pm Saturday Theatre Attendant ~ Assisting at the local theatre is fun, varied work which allows you to be the most knowledgeable on the latest movies and snacks. So come along and sign up. The career is based at the Theatre and is for Teens only. There are only three levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are three custom tones; Talk to Customers, which builds the Charisma skill; Prepare Extra Snacks, which builds the Cooking skill and Advertise Productions, which builds the Social Networking skill. Requires University. 1. Usher ~ It's an important job but ushering at the theatre is not always plain sailing. You'll need extreme patience and impeccable manners to cope with any strops or upsets when the customers don't get quite what they want. But you can do it! 5/hour 10.00am ~ 3.00pm Saturday 2. Snack Attendant ~ Handing out snacks at the theatre would be great if you were allowed to eat them. But alas, you have to stand there and sell them to the theatre goers and hope that you can sneak a snack when nobody's looking! 6/hour 10.00am ~ 4.00pm Saturday 3. Ticket Seller ~ Time to sell the tickets to the theatre. A bit of social networking might be good here because the more people you tell about a production, the more people will come. So get the word out! 7/hour 10.00am ~ 6.00pm Saturday Tutor ~ Fancy yourself as a teacher? Then apply to become a tutor at the local school to help others. The career is based at the School and is for Teens only. There is only one level since there is little/no chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Devise New Method of Explaining, which builds the Logic skill and Help With Homework, which builds the Charisma skill. This job promotes into my Teaching career when the sim ages up. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Tutor ~ Sometimes, sims don't cope with school as well as they could and that's when their parents call for a tutor to come and help the children to catch up. You are now that tutor and due to your academic excellence, you're qualified enough to help the younger children with their studies. 10/hour 8.00am ~ 3.00pm Saturday Veterinary Assistant ~ Those with a love of animals and healing should think about a Saturday job as a Veterinary Assistant to give them some experience in the work place. The career is based at the Hospital and is for Teens only. There are only three levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are three custom tones; Answer Phones, which builds the Charisma skill; Book Appointments, which builds the Logic skill and Observe, which also builds the Logic skill. This job promotes into my Veterinary career when the sim ages up. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Cleaner ~ Saturdays are busy at the vets and you've been hired as the cleaner. Keep the waiting room clean and tidy, talk to the parrot and soothe the nervous visitors with your calm and caring manner. 5/hour 10.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday 2. Receptionist ~ Booking the appointments and answering the phone sound simple enough but Saturdays are busy! Keep a close eye on the appointments book and be careful to ensure there is no double booking! 6/hour 8.00am ~ 2.00pm Saturday 3. Assistant ~ Having excelled in the administration side of the veterinary practice, your boss is allowing you to sit in and observe the operations. This will be excellent experience for you should you decide to go ahead and become a vet yourself one day! 8/hour 8.00am ~ 4.00pm Saturday Waiter/Waitress ~ A common Saturday job for teenage sims is waiting on table at the local restaurants. It lets you meet people and work on your charisma skills. The career is based at the Bistro and is for Teens only. There are only three levels since there is little chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are two custom tones; Make Sandwiches, which builds the Cooking skill and Polite Chatter with Customer, which builds the Charisma skill. This job promotes into the Culinary career when the sim ages up. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Kitchen Assistant ~ Not even close to being a chef. But being a Kitchen Assistant is still an important role in the smooth running of any restaurant. So listen to instructions, do as you're told and eventually, that chef's hat could be yours! 4/hour 11.00am ~ 7.00pm Saturday 2. Dishwasher ~ These days, there are appliances that will wash the dishes. But lots of restaurants still employ dishwashers to clean the pots and pans to keep the kitchen flowing. So scrub up! 5/hour 12.00pm ~ 8.00pm Saturday 3. Waiter/Waitress ~ You're now waiting on tables, taking orders and bringing food, then clearing the tables after the customers have gone. Let's just hope they tip you well! 7/hour 11.00am ~ 7.00pm Saturday Community Service ~ Join our community service program, for juvenile delinquents, or just for the charitable among you. The career is based at the City Hall and is for Teens only. There is only one level since there is little/no chance of a promotion in this kind of job. There are no custom tones. Requires only the Base Game. 1. Community Service ~ You're forming part of the Community Service team in your town. Whether you're here serving punishment, or just volunteering to help your local community, you're helping to clean up the town, one piece of graffiti at a time. 0/hour 9.00am ~ 5.00pm Saturday, Sunday Translating I'm not fluent enough in any other languages to translate, so if you're interested in translating this career into your own language, please download the Language Strings file and open in up in Notepad. <KEY>Gameplay/Excel/Careers/CareerList:Example</KEY> <STR>Translate This Text</STR> Do this for the entire file, then attach the translation to a comment and I'll update as soon as possible. These jobs have been tested but if you do run into any problems, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll see what I can do. Additional Credits: Twallan for the Careers mod The NRaas team for keeping the mods updated Reena, roocheysims and Laurabcn for their valuable input during the planning stages.

[firebirdsdaughter]

I'm honestly not too shocked that Aruto is going to work together Gai now. He always rubbed me the wrong way when it came to his views about Humagears, esp his reaction to Raiden & Subaru. That was a huge red flag for me. Also, if he's really so concerned about the well-being of Humagears, then he should offer counseling for the destroyed & revived Humagears to deal with the trauma. But I guess that would be too much to ask. As long as they serve humans who cares about Humagears' feelings.

I def agree w/ you, he’s rubbed me the wrong way in many of the same ways.

It’s hard to believe he sees HumaGear as people when he’s all pleased w/ Raiden talking about how he’ll be decommissioned soon and even calling the two of them ‘just like real brothers.’

You know, like he keeps saying Horobi is ‘trying to be like Jin’s father.’

And don’t even get me started on ‘a caring brother can’t be a spy,’ ‘if only you had been different,’ ‘why did you hurt Izu?’ ‘I’ve never treated them differently’…

AUGH.

To me, Aruto’s ‘dream’ can be summed up in a line from a song that was cut from Frozen (ya’ll thought I’d forgotten about this, didn’t you, but no) that goes ‘It’ll be just like it was, except for we’ll be best friends.’

This got long, so I’m cutting it here. Or. I’m trying to. 

He doesn’t see HumaGear as equal to people, he just wants them to stay right where they are, and ‘be happy’ there. ‘Good’ HumaGear are the ones whose development is convenient for humans. Raiden was ‘good’ when he saw no problem dying bc his ‘purpose was served,’ Naki was ‘good’ when they just wanted to support other HumaGear’s dreams as long as they were steered towards HumaGear w/ dreams of benefiting humanity, Jin is ‘good’ now bc he’s not trying to get HumaGear away from serving humans anymore and is also willing to kill his own father or due himself to do something that will benefit humans. The morality of the show has always been very much centred around humans, how HumaGear benefit humans, and HumaGear are expected to be these perfect little angels who exist to help humans and never think of themselves. Horobi is ‘bad’ bc he has resentment towards humans and has been so deeply under the Ark’s control for so long that he can’t think outside of her (esp not after being possessed) so obviously he doesn’t ‘want’ to be ‘change.’

I said it in the tags of my other post, but there’s something wrong w/ the picture when you’re holding a literally mind controlled AI who hasn’t had any concept of free will or self thought in his entire life aside from small snatches that were quickly stomped out, more accountable than a human w/ full autonomy and knowledge and power who deliberately did things that caused death and harm (and shot someone in the head). It’s not a good message. I’m supposed to feel bad for Gai bc he’s ‘sad,’ but Horobi deserves to die? I’m sorry, what?

The message has very much been ‘humans are special special and HumaGear are expendable/need to be carefully moulded into a ‘singularity’ that’s at the least convenient for humans.’ ‘Good’ HumaGear aspire only to properly serve their humans, to be like them, they are pure and angelic creatures who never feel anything ‘negative,’ and if they do, they need to be purged.

I could rant myself in circles about this for ages. I think for me, the really glaring example is Aruto’s treatment of Jin, a relationship that could have been an interesting learning experience for both of them (though, honestly, I was also hoping to see Fuwa also help Aruto realise the issues w/ his attitude, bc as he started coming down from his prejudice and aggression, Fuwa actually treated HumaGear more like equals than Aruto did, one of the many things I loved about him and Horobi as a pair), but instead ends up being a glaring example of Aruto’s… Whatever.

So Horobi has his first moment of clarity and genuinely fears for Jin, so the Ark steps in and ‘tells’ him to protect his son, so he does and it hurt, and Jin is hysterical. Izu proceeds to walk right up to the still-transformed, clearly emotionally volatile and very uninjured Jin, and announce w/ a smile that Horobi has been defeated. Jin, hysterical and lost, reacts in the only way he knows how, violently, which she should have bloody seen coming, wth. But then, Aruto is demanding to know ‘why did you hurt Izu’ like she did nothing wrong and Jin just attacked her randomly (which was a thing that could have happened and would have made his emotions make mire sense, Jin lashing out at Izu as ‘revenge’ for Horobi), and then Jin gets treated like the total bad guy. Then, on top of that, Aruto finds out during the fight that Jin doesn’t actually know what’s going on, he’s just been raised into this. Instead of immediately trying to change tactics and reason w/ him, Aruto just spews his ‘I want HumaGear and humans to smile together’ line (what does that even mean?), and when Jin rejects that, Aruto just… Gives up and says ‘if only you had been different.’ doesn’t try to prompt Jin to think about what Jin wants, what Jin is feeling, doesn’t bother to try to find out why Jin is so hysterical. It gets even worse when he quickly gains the firepower advantage and learns that Izu will be totally fine, but he still doesn’t bother trying anything else. He just kills Jin, bc… What? Jin didn’t immediately bow to his ‘love’ for HumaGear? Of course once sentence wasn’t gonna do it, he just watched humans kill his father! Aruto didn’t need to kill Jin at all, it would have been easy to disable him—alternatively, if they really wanted Jin to go down there, there were ways to do it that didn’t make it come off as Aruto quickly erasing a HumaGear for having any negative feelings or resentment towards humans, esp when you follow it w/ a scene of him and Izu being all pleased about other HumaGear ‘behaving’ themselves, and then never mention Jin again.

Fast forward, and when Jin comes back talking about wanting to free HumaGear from humans… Aruto actually asks him what he wants, finally? Then Aruto gets the boot from Hiden and decides to go to Jin for help. This should be a turning point where Jin get to properly confront Aruto about what happened and Aruto reflects on what he did, but no. Jin gets to shout a little, but then Aruto claims he never treated humans and HumaGear differently and says ‘I watched my HumaGear dad die’ and Jin just… Says nothing? doesn’t shoot back w/, ‘so did I, humans killed him.’ Then they get interrupted and Jin runs off… Only to… Rescue Izu later? But then after he does he… Grabs her hand and runs away and tries to convince her to be free? After… Literally buying his father time to reconnect to the Ark? And this is Izu? Who he stabbed? Okay… Anyway, then we have more stuff w/ poor connotations of Jin saying he ‘learned something’ from Aruto killing him and Izu ‘choosing’ to keep being Aruto’s secretary like a ‘good’ little HumaGear (her liking him and wanting to stay on his side would be one thing, but this… Esp w/ him claiming that he thought she should choose, going by his later insistence that Jin can’t take G-Pen bc he’s a human’s ‘partner’), and only then does he take a bullet for her. This apparently means something to Jin, although I feel like the implications of ‘she’s worth protecting bc she decided to keep serving humans and I killed you bc you didn’t want to do that’ should not have been lost on him (also wtf did Jin start caring about Izu?). The we have the next ep w/ aforementioned G-Pen incident which for some reason Aruto defending another HumaGear choosing to serve humans makes Jin decide to ‘believe in his dream’ or whatever. But then later the Raiden scene makes it seem like Jin was playing along bc that conversation w/ Horobi about HumaGear needing guidance to break free gave him an idea or something, I dunno, but naturally Aruto reacts like this is some huge betrayal, despite the fact that they hardly have any relationship—okay, so this friendship is something Aruto made up in his head, given his character, and apparent assumptions that all HumaGear actually adore humans, that makes sense. That could work. But then episode thirty fucking six happens. Jin apparently cares more for Yaiba, a human he’s barely interacted w/ who had yet to show any sign of no longer considering HumaGear to be tools, who had previously represented all the things Jin hated about them, then his own father. Acts all protective of her, throws himself in as a shield for her, moons about while she’s in the hospital. Then we learn he decided he trusted her (?????) enough to conspire w/ her to… Use his own father as a sacrifice to kill the Ark. Aruto seems to be more worried about Horobi, but merely yells a bit about how Horobi should ‘remember who he is by now.’ Come ep 37, Jin fucking takes a hit for miss perfect HumaGear Izu (note: aside from her grabbing the idiot ball in ep 15, my annoyance w/ Izu isn’t really something she as a character has done, it’s the way they’ve written her as the ‘pinnacle of ‘good’ HumaGear for her devotion to her human’), and tells Aruto to leave. Now that Jin is behaving in a way that benefits/is convenient for humans, though, Aruto is a like ‘oh, we totally were best buds, I was right!’ and is so worried and distressed about him, forgetting Horobi (who is so ‘bad’ for not being able to break through more than a decade of mind control! forget him, Jin must be saved!). Then we have that incredibly forced scene in 38 where Aruto tries to ‘get through to Jin’ and Jin ‘breaks through the Ark’s control bc of Aruto’ (see my draft horse pack on a shetland pony analogy) and ‘tells Aruto to kill him!’ which continues in to this ep. In which we also have… Gai. Who Aruto quickly puts effort into ‘reasoning w/’ and ‘showing the light’ bc ‘oh no he had a bad childhood’… Okay, but… You killed Jin for that, and he literally didn’t understand what he was doing. Gai had full autonomy and knowledge of his actions. People were hurt bc of both of their actions, but it’s Gai who gets a big speech and Jin who gets blown up. I said it back when it happened. If Jin had been human? I bet they would have made Aruto approach that much differently.

The fact that Aruto is willing to do all that for Gai but killed Jin, and only now considers Jin worth any effort bc Jin is behaving in a way that benefits/is convenient for humans even at the expense of HumaGear (being willing to sacrifice Horobi, even himself, to stop the Ark, while that goal is technically ultimately noble, the context gives a bad connotation), and not trying to talk HumaGear out of being subservient to humans and telling them to think for themselves, or wanting to revive a HumaGear that Aruto was content to leave deactivated bc he didn’t have a ‘use’… But Horobi only gets a few shouts and then ditched bc he ‘won’t listen’… Leaves a really bad impression.

[adaar-i]

I used to write down my feelings a lot and figured I’d do it again. You don’t gotta read, it’s very long haha but just needed to put it somewhere so. Under a read more because it really is super long and stupid 

Well I’m here again, mid crisis at the ripe ol’ age of twenty seven. My head is all over the place, I’m feeling all sorts of things, all sorts of just…lost. And I thought to myself, what do I usually do when I’m feeling like this? And the answer to that is I used to write. I used to write a lot. I love writing, always have and always will. The sound of my fingers typing rapidly on my keyboard is music to my ears. I would hand write things, but more often than not my hand can’t keep up with my brain, whereas my average 80wpm typing speed is well efficient when it comes to trying to follow my train of thought. I was tempted to go back and edit what I’d written just now, but no. Not allowed. I just have to keep typing and typing until I feel some sort of…I don’t know, closure?

I feel lost. I feel trapped. I still feel like I’m sixteen and I think that’s what terrifies me the most. I haven’t really had the chance to grow up, to ‘become an adult’. What does that even mean? Who knows. I just know that I am not there. I have no clue how taxes work, haven’t had a stable job in…a long time. Still live at home with my parents, my two dogs, my three guinea pigs and three goldfish. Still in the same room, that’s been purple for a while now. Shelves still filled with plushies, fanart, kid things. So many kid things. Are adults allowed to have kid things? I don’t know, that idea plagues me. Am I allowed to be an adult and still have my corner bed, 500 pillows and soft toys to cuddle?

When I think of adults I think of minimalism, white, boring, the dreaded bed in the CENTRE of the wall (HOW IS THAT EVEN COMFORTABLE? DO PEOPLE NOT FALL OUT OF BED?). I think of business people, married people, people with kids, careers, nice clothes. The only thing I have is nice clothes. Can I still be an adult if the walls of my bedroom are bright purple? Or if most of the books I read are YA fiction and not like…self help books? (though I do have a couple of those lying around).

I’ve been trying to do the career thing for years and to no avail it seems. I’ve done two university degrees and do you think they got me anywhere? Not really. Why did no one tell me that employers care more about experience than they do about degrees? Or maybe people did and my stupid anxiety just made things difficult. Yeah alright lets be real it’s probably the anxiety holding me back in everything.

Anxiety about being good enough. That’s the big one. Do I ever feel good enough? Not really. That kinda sucks haha. I have plenty of useful skills, I am a hard worker, I wear my heart on my sleeve and I want to please to no end. But that hasn’t really gotten me anywhere. I’m always stuck. Stuck in the same spot with no clue of what direction to go in. I know where I want to be in the end. I want to have my own home, I want to be married, I want to have kids (biologically and adopted/fostered). I want to rescue animals and live on a farm of some kind. I want to be a successful business owner. I want to be a successful photographer and artist, maybe even a writer. I want to have enough money so I don’t have to worry about not being able to afford things. And I want more money on top of that to help as many people as I can. That’s all I want to do. I want to help. I want to help, I want to be successful, comfortable, and above all else I want to be happy and loved and to love.

So how do I get there? Well I need money. Money is the big issue with me right now. I’ve relied on government payments since I was old enough to start getting them. And there were a few times where I thought I could finally be independent, and they’ve all backfired on me. All of them. I don’t want to be on government payments for the rest of my life. I don’t want to have to depend on anyone other than myself for money. And it’s not like I’m flat broke right now either, I’ve been smart and saved. But when you don’t have a stable income you and everyone around you start to worry. So what do I do? Get a job? Wish it was that easy. I’ve been looking for work for years, and I’ve gotten maybe…two interviews? Oh and it’s not like I haven’t had a job before I’ve had a couple but that was back when I was in high school and just after. Nothing fancy, pizza shop, maccas, and a shopping centre activity stall.

My brain is starting to get tired now. It’s going quiet.

Hmm. Jobs. Right. The one thing everyone keeps bothering me about. I’ve bloody tried guys. “Just get a job to pay the bills” IT’S NOT THAT EASY. I’VE TRIED. You think I want to be like this? That’s why I studied so much. Because no one would give me a chance and hire me. And then I thought, you know what? Fuck it. I’m going to chase my dream. I’m going to get a degree in photography and have my own business and live my dream. And you know, I got the degree, I started the business. I got a couple of clients, got a bit of interest. My love for drawing came back, and I added that to my repertoire. I got commissions. I got bloody patrons, who support me every month. And I thought, you know maybe this could actually work.

But it’s never enough.

I was so excited to do my first artist alley. I had dreamed about doing it for years and years. And I finally did it. And to be honest, it sucked. I mean it also didn’t because I learnt a lot, but when you spend hundreds of dollars, hundreds of hours, so much bloody hard work to get there and to be ready, and you make $66 dollars overall, you kinda think well that didn’t work. Haha. That didn’t work at all. I thought I was good enough, you know? I really did. And you can see the light leave my eyes in the vlog that I made about the whole thing. I am completely and utterly defeated. I had sacrificed so much, I had put SO MUCH WORK, so much. I worked so hard. And right now it feels like it was all for nothing. I was lucky enough to get into a startup business program, which was my savior. I thought that’d help give me the boost I so desperately needed. And again, learnt a lot, got some financial support, but all in all I feel like I wasted so many peoples time and money.

And now I’m back at square one it feels like. Back to the beginning. Where I have no job, no booming business, and a stubbornness to not want to give up, but also feeling so defeated and so god damn depressed. I CRIED AT HARRY POTTER. I’ve seen those movies a hundred times over and I still bawled my eyes out when Cedric died. I’ve never done that before. I even forced myself to watch ‘A Dog’s Purpose’ so that I would cry, thinking that would help. I bawled. Felt a little better, but now I’m back to feeling like a heap of crap. I always come back to this place at some point or another. But this time feels like I just might not be able to get myself out of it. What a scary thought.

When will my time come? When will all my hard work finally pay off? I want to know, and so does everyone else around me. The constant ‘how is your business going?’ ‘oh something will happen’, WHEN? WHEN WILL IT HAPPEN? That’s another thing. What I make is never good enough for anyone. I myself have learnt that money at the end of the day isn’t the end all and be all. Of course people need money to live, but I don’t need that much right now to be comfortable and people just can’t get that into their heads?

I don’t need money. I don’t. But I do. God capitalism sucks. Capitalism can bite my big fat ass. And anyone who ever doubted me can too. Now I’m just mad. I’m mad that all I’ve done is be kind and work hard and it’s gotten me to feeling like shit. So now what? I booked Brisbane Supanova. Might as well kick the dead horse or whatever the saying is. Might as well try once more, and if that doesn’t work than that’s it. I think I’m done. But that’s not until November, and “I need money” between now and then. Blah blah. I hate money. Money can bite me too.

Come on, try and get your thoughts straight.

I’m tired. Yes I know, I’m sad too.  

It’s not time to give up just yet. There’s still a little bit of fire left inside you somewhere. It’s small right now, but it can grow. I’m too stubborn to let it go out completely.

So what do I do now. What do I need to do to make things less shitty?

Find a way to get some sort of stable income. Look for work again (not that I think it’ll work but better try anyway). Work on new art pieces, add new stock to Redbubble, advertise the shit out of your awesome work. Do more free shoots to make a pretty portfolio just in time for Supanova. Sell some personal stuff if needed, we don’t need a lot of the stuff we have. Save those to sell when we really need it.

Go back to the gym. Just move more. I get real sad when I sit at my desk all day. Need to get away from the computer. Go for a walk, go to the beach, whatever it is. Just move. Get those endorphins. Feel good about yourself.

Still fat though.

Probably going to always be fat. That’s fine. Exercise, make healthier food choices. And god dammit stop eating so much sugar. Drink more water. Eat more fruit and not chocolate. Stop bingeing. It ain’t healthy. Alright. I’ll make a list, and I’ll try be healthier again. I do miss going to the gym. It makes me feel strong. I need to feel strong again. I will go back.

Still tying my self worth to what others think of me. Which isn’t ideal. Isn’t great at all. I’m constantly going between ‘ugh I hate everything that I am’, ‘who would ever love me like this’, and FUCK EVERYONE WHO DOESN’T APPRECIATE ME. It’s so constant. It’s so exhausting, knowing that my thoughts are being little bitches and yet I still can’t just…not listen? What is with that.

Oh my god. Can I still be an adult if I have blue hair?!  

[spelldaggered]

can you write a drabble where a character (fandom, oc, unnamed idc) gets trampled in a panicked crowd?

i wrote merlin for u, bc your header is a knife to my heart.

update: putting this under a read more, because it ran away from me.

For a moment, a single moment, there was dead silence.

Merlin stood alone in the centre of the village, having raced down the front steps of the castle but realising very quickly that even he was no match for the force of nature making its way towards Camelot.

The quiet of the early morning hours was broken by the first bloodcurdling scream, as the flames destroying the forest began licking at the houses on the outskirts of Camelot.

Sick to his stomach, Merlin stared at the fire in the distance that showed no signs of abating, desperately combing through his mind for anything that could help.

Screams in the dead of night were not a common occurrence though, and time stood still for the young warlock as the village came to life around him, woken by the sound. The villagers gathered up their most precious belongings, parents holding their children to them tightly, sellers clutching their wares, and suddenly the streets were full of anguished townsfolk seeking shelter in the confines of the castle.

As the crowd bustled past him, paying no notice to a plainly dressed servant watching the scene aghast, Merlin’s thoughts turned into a frenzy, and suddenly he was pushing back, fighting the crowd, desperately trying to get to the edge of the fire all the while knowing there was nothing he could really do.

The horns had begun to sound behind him, the castle and its staff having been alerted to the danger, preparing for action. Merlin prayed that Arthur stayed in his throne room, safely manning all rescue operations, though he knew deep down that Arthur’s horse would be amongst the hooves he could hear thundering through the castle gates already.

Merlin stumbled further down the main path that led through town, trying to stay out of the way, failing miserably. As he headed deeper into the village, the crowd only grew, swarming around him and carrying him in the opposite direction. The more he tried to fight, the worse it became, like a current of water that refused to take him where he was trying to swim.

Water.

They needed water.

Rain.

He stopped dead, not an easy feat in his current situation, and looked to the sky.

It was a big ask. A huge ask. To command nature itself, to direct its forces, to save Camelot. 

But Camelot needed saving, and Merlin had to at least try.

Running now with more purpose, Merlin began to fight back against the crowd, not caring who he elbowed out of the way as he continued to look up, forming the spell he needed in whispers beneath his breath.

He needed open space, somewhere he could roar at the sky and pray it roared right back at him, but with frustration and despair, Merlin realised he wouldn’t be reaching open space any time soon.

So his whispers would have to suffice.

He gazed up at the heavens, pleading with them to listen, and then he began to mutter, his words frantic, his eyes crazed. If the village had not been so fixated on escape, on safety, on reaching the exact place Merlin was running from, they’d have been afraid of him. As it was, no one paid him any attention, and for once in his life, Merlin was eternally grateful.

Magic flared at his fingertips, surged in his heart, and Merlin’s eyes widened.

The first crack of thunder nearly brought him to tears, even as his chest began to heave with the exertion of trying to produce a storm while fighting his way against the masses.

“Please,” he murmured to himself, pausing his spell to openly beg, his voice cracking.

The pause was his undoing.

Merlin’s first error was in not seeing that the ground beneath him had changed from flat, damp earth to uneven grass, his eyes on the clouds instead. His second was in not trying to stop himself from falling, too fixated on the raw magic flowing through him in the moment.

He went down slowly, invisible amongst the hundreds fleeing towards the castle, crashing to the ground and feeling his breath leave him all at once, the words of the spell dying on his lips.

He tried to look up, tried to focus on the clouds again, but he was tired now, his energy drained. The ground beneath him rumbled, the next wave of villagers only yards away, but Merlin found himself unable to move. He was spent, well and truly, but as he curled in on himself and covered his head with his hands, he felt the first few drops of rain hit his skin, and laughed brokenly.

Then the thunder from above was closer to his ears, and he was gone.

—

“Get to the castle!” Arthur shouted, as his panicked subjects flocked to the group of knights who had arrived. “There is food and shelter there for you all, but hurry. Hurry!”

He waved the people onwards from atop his horse, nodding at them as they passed before looking out over the orange flames now threatening yet another village.

“Go, to the castle!” he repeated, pointing in its direction as people hesitated.

“Your Majesty!” Sir Percival called, pointing to the sky just as Arthur looked toward the ground.

Somewhere, distantly, Arthur registered that it had begun to rain, that his knights were celebrating this fact, but his gaze had landed on a figure curled up on the ground, visible only due to a brief thinning of the crowd. It looked like- but gods no-

His stomach lurched, and Arthur ignored everyone as he urged his horse forward, parting the crowd as he went, until he cleared a space around the figure, leaping from his horse before she’d even stopped.

“Merlin,” he cried, his heart sinking as his suspicion was confirmed, racing over to his young servant. “Merlin!”

He gathered Merlin up his arms, ignoring the rain that was now coming down thick and fast, focused only on the ragdoll he was holding.

Already bruises littered the skin that was on show, his clothes torn, his face near unrecognisable. Arthur felt fear creep up his spine as he realised he had no idea how long Merlin had been lying here beneath a fearful crowd, their heavy footsteps unforgiving as they raced to safety.

“Merlin, Merlin,” he repeated, shaking the man gently, refusing to believe he was anything other than unconscious. “Merlin, look at me, wake up, Merlin.”

When he got no response, Arthur looked desperately up at his men, who had gathered round him to see what the problem was.

“Help me get him back to Gaius, now,” he all but growled, and they sprang into action.

“How should we-”

“Give him to me,” Arthur ordered, hopping back up into the saddle and holding his arms out as the limp body was passed up to him, closing his arm around the man’s upper body tightly. “Let’s go!”

With one hand on his reins, the other holding Merlin close to him, Arthur didn’t wait for the knights to catch up before he raced back to the castle. His people had dispersed by now, and the rain was making short work of dampening down the fire, but he didn’t care about the fire now.

All he cared about was Merlin, who was deathly pale, as though he’d run for miles before collapsing on the ground, Merlin, who had an ugly boot print across his face, Merlin, whose eyes were finally flickering open.

“Merlin,” Arthur sighed with relief, nearly in tears.

“-thur?” his charge mumbled, but Arthur shushed him, pulling Merlin closer as the castle once again loomed in sight.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Arthur reassured him, chancing another look down. Merlin looked dreadful, but he was alive, and that was enough for now. “I’ll fix you, it’s okay.”

“Fire?” Merlin asked, the word slightly slurred.

“It’s over, the rain is helping,” Arthur told him, and now that his attention wasn’t entirely fixated on his servant, he noted that the storm was the fiercest he’d ever seen, the heavy raindrops still beating down on them.

“Rain,” Merlin whispered, but before he could say much else, his head lolled back against Arthur’s chest, his eyes closing again.

“Stay with me, Merlin,” Arthur asked, racing through the castle gates to the courtyard. “You’re safe now.”

uhh. i meant to write like. a couple paragraphs.

THERE WASN’T EVEN THAT MUCH WHUMP IN THE END i shouldn’t write merthur again, i get too invested in the ~~story as well.

other prompts welcome!

[solarbird]

The Armourer and the Living Weapon, Chapter 5: "'Hello, cherie,' said the Widowmaker, quietly, in her ear"

The Armourer and the Living Weapon, Chapter 5: "'Hello, cherie,' said the Widowmaker, quietly, in her ear"

[AO3 link]

Definitely not here, thought Oilliphéist, scanning the apartment through her infravision sights. But not so long gone, either.

She'd had no trouble identifying Lena Oxton's King's Row apartment. Tracer's recurring presence had never been a secret to anyone, and Widowmaker already had a pretty decent estimate of the location, before. Emily keened a little, inside, thinking of her, and her absence, and shook it off, floating back up above it, happily. Soon, she thought, smiling again.

She ghosted over to the most likely balcony, and looked in. Definitely the Oxton apartment - who else would have a charging station appropriate for a chronal accelerator? Alarmed, almost certainly, thought the assassin. Police won't be an issue, but other Overwatch agents might be. We should move quickly, when we do.

Her comm vibrated, silently, the haptics tapping against her skin, and she enabled her earpiece. "Oilliphéist here," she subvocalised.

"Hello, cherie," said Widowmaker, quietly, in her ear. "I have missed you so very, very much."

Emily gasped, entire body tingling, spinning around from the glass door, no longer subvocalising. "Oh, oh, oh, beloved, where are you? Are you nearby?" She reactivated her infravision, scanning quickly around her, near and far, without finding her lover. "I don't see you..."

"I am not where I think you are. You are in London, I suspect?"

"Of course, Moira sent..." said the newer assassin, without thinking, then, upon thinking, not caring she said it. "You are not?"

"No. Not at the moment. But I am desperate to see you."

"I am coming, I promise, I will rescue you, I will bring you home, I swear," the armourer said. "Did you get my message, the one I left via the camera?"

"Yes, I did - you were right, that one was mine."

"Can you speak freely? Are you being monitored? Tell me how to retrieve you."

"Yes, but yes - Tracer is here - and I do not need rescue. My plan has been to rescue you, once you received my gift."

"Once I re..." She blinked, and thought, and thought again, and fire, lovely fire, raged through her mind. "You... you arranged all this?"

"I was certain they would accept your petition, if I disappeared. I'm sorry you got hurt on the way out, but - it did, at least, appear to provide cover."

Emily sank to her knees, shaken, more than she imagined she could be. "You... you did all that, all on your own, just for me?"

"Yes. I was so afraid it did not work, and then, I finally saw you..."

"Oh, beloved, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I am so happy, all the time, everything is..." she stretched, feeling her body, feeling every cell and sinew and rod, "...wonderful."

"They... did not disable your emotions, as they did with me? You do not need that kind of rescue?"

"No. Aunt Moira had a free hand, she left me happiness - and she wanted to give that to you, too. But I told her, there was no need, we'd already done that ourselves, oh, love, you're so brilliant..."

It worked, thought the Widowmaker, back in Gibraltar, gasping softly, quietly, sinking back into the console's chair. It worked. She smiled, as broadly as she had at Lena when she realised they'd both played each other into actual love, and Lena nodded, and squeezed the senior assassin's hand.

"Tracer," Emily said, a hard edge to her voice, "Since you are listening: you will release Widowmaker, at once. Let her come to me, freely, and I will allow you to live."

Lena shrugged, hands in the air, uncertainty on her face, and mouthed, "You gonna tell her? 'Cause she needs to know." Widowmaker nodded her agreement.

"Emily - I am not a prisoner. Lena has been aiding me in this. At first... we were using each other, but..." she swallowed, "...it became more than that, much like it did with you. I still love you, more than anything else, even the kill, but... I also love her. We want you to come be with us, and away from Talon. Talon would never permit what I have become, and I will not go back to what I was."

Oilliphéist frowned, and tilted her head, and thought, What matters most?, and thought some more. "Everything else aside... you still love me."

"More than anything I have ever known in my world."

Bliss washed over the newer assassin like luminescent ocean waves, and she closed her eyes and rocked herself, diving through the joy. "And her?"

"You'll notice... she is still alive."

Oilliphéist breathed out long and slow, accepting the statement on an almost primal level, knowing exactly what the Widowmaker meant - yes, she thought, she does, more than she is even willing to admit. She nodded, and smiled, again, though no one could see. Ah, my spider, she thought, always weaving such beautiful webs. "Then... then I don't care. If you want her, too, I don't mind. But we have to meet, in person, to work this out. Just us. I have to know you aren't being... coerced."

"Where?"

"Hoof & Haunch, King's Row, seven o'clock tomorrow night? They're already used to your new girlfriend, surely they can handle two women showing up in blue..."

My home turf, Lena thought, and smirked. And it'll be two on one, if things go south. Easy peasy. But let's not count chickens. She looked at Jesse, Jesse who'd done this kind of thing before, Jesse who had experience in King's Row, Jesse, who could shoot flies off horses at range, and mouthed, "Backup?" And he nodded, and Lena smiled. Three on one. She turned to Winston and mouthed, "Pilot and backup?" And he nodded as well. Four on one. She tries anything, she'll never know what hit her. We've got this.

"I'm willing if you are," said the Overwatch agent.

Over comms, Oilliphéist's voice, or no, Emily's, specifically, again, so familiar. "How 'bout it, Blue? Is it a date?"

Widowmaker narrowed her eyes, weighing possibilities. Emily couldn't call on Talon for support - the video showed that clearly. It would be her, possibly a few of Moira's personal agents... and not much else. All she'd need to do would be to convince Emily there wasn't any going back, and her original plan would come together, exactly as she'd planned.

I overreacted to the video, she decided. We can fix this. Most of it has already fixed itself. They could repair the rest of it, she felt sure.

Widowmaker smiled. "It sounds wonderful. We'll see you tomorrow."

"I can't wait."

-----

Lena wandered the halls of Watchpoint Gibraltar, late at night, alone, carrying Widowmaker's Kiss on her back, the assassin asleep on the double bed in in Lena's new quarters. Even with much of the new Overwatch together in one place, and generally one building, the facility felt cavernous.

She walked up to the old control centre, lately Winston's office, and looked out the bevelled window. Her flyer sat quietly, below. Tomorrow, they'd take a heavier craft, one with more gear, enough for Winston to scan for incoming hostiles from Talon, or Vishkar, or whoever else might be oh so very interested in the two products of Moira's Widowmaker process.

A door opened, and closed, behind her, and she looked back, over her left shoulder. "Hello," said Winston, loping down the hall. "I thought I heard somebody out here."

"Y'have good ears, y'know that?"

"I do."

Tracer grinned. "Ready for tomorrow, big guy?"

"Are you?"

"I think so."

"I'm surprised you're out here alone, given that you're carrying her rifle. She didn't seem to want it out of her sight, before."

"I asked her, before she went to bed. She... stocks up on sleep before missions? Does that make sense? Says it builds up cellular energy storehouses, so she doesn't have to eat or sleep in the field." Lena shifted the Kiss on her back, just to feel it move. She liked the reminder of her presence - she felt nice, an odd thing to feel about a firearm, but true nonetheless.

"How'd you get here, Lena?" asked her oldest friend.

"Flyer's right there, luv, don't you remember?" she joked.

"Lena..."

The teleporting pilot bit her lower lip, and thought. "You know the story. Thought I was playin' her. Turned out, I wasn't, I was playin' myself. Same for her."

"You raged for a month after she killed Mondatta."

"I know." She shifted the Kiss again, subconsciously.

"You're carrying the weapon that killed him."

"I know."

"And you're... fine with that?"

"It's... complicated." She pulled Widowmaker's rifle off her back, holding it gently, not putting it down. "It's... you weren't there, luv. You can't know. I screamed when I saw what she'd done. I howled. I could've just killed her, if I'd been able, and at the same time, I couldn't." She ran her hands along the firearm's bluish-grey casing. "It... it wasn't just me bein' angry, and it wasn't just me grieving... it was... I felt so... betrayed."

"Betrayed, that she did... exactly what we'd expect? Exactly what she came to do?"

"Yeh," she nodded, still looking at the rifle.

"That doesn't make any sense. Anger makes sense. Grief makes sense. How could you feel betrayed, unless..." and his eyes widened.

Lena took a big, deep breath. "Y'got there. Can't feel betrayed by somebody if y'don't care for 'em, and y'can't feel betrayed like that unless it's strong."

"Already? Then?"

Tracer just nodded.

"I... I had no idea. You barely even knew Amélie."

"Didn't know her at all, luv! Not even sure we ever met. I don't have that excuse."

"Then... how? Why? "

"Dunno. It was always just her, just Widowmaker, since the first time we ever met, but some part of me knew. Just took the rest of me a while to figure it out, that's all."

"She still killed Mondatta."

"Yeh, she did. And she didn't feel a thing, yet - least, not much of anything, other than the kill. But while all that's true... she didn't kill me, when she could've. My accelerator was barely holding me in time, I couldn't've fought her - I was done. She could've finished me, or, worse, taken me back with her, to be... transformed, like she was."

"And she didn't," he said, understanding, at last.

"And she didn't. Even hid me from her extraction team. Took me a while to figure that out, but I got there eventually." Lena pulled the Kiss close to herself, held it tightly for just a moment, and slipped it carefully back over her shoulder. "And if we can reach each other... maybe she can reach Em." She shook her head. "Emily."

"You just don't give up on people, do you?"

Tracer grinned her famous half-grin, and fuzzled her best friend's hair. "Nope! Leastways, not if I can help it."

"Never change, Lena." He patted his best friend's back. "Never change."

"Don't worry." She skitched his head a little more. "I won't."

[losalcazares-blog]

Nothing to do? You’re invited to come and meet Easy Horse Care’s rescued horses, ponies and donkeys during their open day, held on the first Sunday of each month from 1pm to 4pm. Entry is free and children are welcome.

On the day, they offer a free guided tour of our stables and fields from 2pm.

Easy Horse Care Rescue Centre Partido Lo Garriga, 59 Rojales, Alicante, Spain, 03170

[truffesnaseaux-blog]

[ingaphotographerspain]

A Sunday for the Horses.

A Sunday for the Horses.

Sunday August 4th 2019, Lady in Spain visits Easy Horse Care Rescue Center.

This last sunday began so beautifully with clear blue skies & the sun rising as usual here in Spain. However, this Sunday was different, it was my first time visiting this wonderful establishment that the Easy Horse Care Rescue Centre is. They are located near the little town of Rojales in the province of Alicante…

[findingfeathersseanchaidh]

Chapter 67: A Time to Cry

Guillaume lay, his hands behind his head, his ankles crossed, stretched out on the narrow truckle bed in the dingy apartment. His cool blue eyes were closed, and his breathing deep and even. Softly, so softly, a dark figure approached the sleeping figure, one hand outstretched and reaching for Guillaume's throat. The figure paused, veiled by shadow, and let the hand descend. Fingers closed about the wrist, exerting vicelike pressure in an unbreakable grip.

"My son, it is time to rise!" Pere Etienne complained bitterly, wincing as pain shot through his innocent arm. At the sound of his voice, the pressure diminished and the hand withdrew.

"You could have just said, mon Pere," drawled Guillaume, dropping his hand to push himself upright. "I am a very light sleeper."

"So it appears," muttered the young priest, rubbing the bruised flesh of his released wrist. "Come: the hour approaches. I have made ready your supplies, just as you instructed, and there is a hot bowl of cassoulet resting on the table to break your fast. And yet, I wish it were not so. Truly, there is no help for it? You must escort our friends to Cap Gris-Nez yourself? But what of the news from our friends in England?"

"It worries me not," shrugged Guillaume, sauntering over to the rickety table in the centre of the room. "You worry me, Etienne. You must not fear for me: I know my business. I am well aware of the digging this new nemesis has been doing in England. He thinks me as all the others do: a hidden scion of English nobility, interfering in his country's just and righteous affairs. He would like nothing better than to capture me and drag me off to face his own brand of justice. I will flout him, however, have no fear. You, on the other hand, must have a care, and leave here before dawn, with no trace left of your presence that might lead to your identity. Take the route we have prepared. Go to the fifth of our safe houses. Do not return here. Our little apartment in the Rue du Bac must fall by the wayside and be taken from our list of hiding places. Word has reached me that it is suspected. I know not how. Nor would I have risked our short tenure here this night but that our plans could not, at such short notice, be rearranged. As such, they may be watching the place for my departure. Let me leave, as planned, and give them time to follow me. It is I they want: not you. Then go, and God be with you. I shall see you again before the next new moon."

Pere Etienne's brow wrinkled at this news, but he did no more than sigh, then turn to kneel before his crucifix and say his morning office. Guillaume sat down with a nod and began to eat. He had a long journey ahead of him, and the lion's share of the supplies Etienne had procured must go to his rescued refugees, some of whom had barely eaten in days, if they were to make it to the coast. When he had finished the meal - a relic of the priest's own childhood in Carcassonne - he donned the costume he had prepared, raised the travelling bag of supplies to his shoulder, and nodded a bow to his comrade in arms, still at prayer.

The escape from Paris was daring yet simple. A foul-smelling muck filled the cart: the collected excrement of as varied an assortment of animals as he had been able to find. Likewise he, the carter, stank as odiously as his wares. Together they, with the bold assuredness of a poor man going about his usual daily toil, made their way through the guarded gates of walled Paris, heading out on the road that would take them to the tanneries, ready to sell what effluvia had not been carried there by the sewers, down by the now mostly covered Bièvre river. The stench alone had been enough to deter the guardsmen: surely no haughty aristos would be able to take such an awful aroma as that! Nor would they soil their person with such detritus!

On the cart went and on, out past the tanneries and further. Out to the very edges of Paris where, amidst the shaded seclusion of the trees, fresh horses waited by a gently flowing stream. With a careful look round, the carter took up the rake held safely by the cart's side and dragged the heap of muck from the foremost end of the cart. The sides of the cart were deep and the waste was piled high, but after a short time it became apparent that there truly had been something else hidden below the muck. A wooden box was built into that end of the cart, reaching from one side of the vehicle to the other. It filled the bottom half of the cart, and had an iron ring screwed into place halfway along the edge that bordered the front of the cart. Guillaume hooked the ring with a tine of his rake and lifted. Below lay a canvas, and from below the canvas came two stiff and weary figures, who hopped over the front of the cart with Guillaume's help and headed for the stream to wash and drink. Air holes, though present, had necessarily been small and forward facing, and remaining still for long periods of time is detrimental to the comfort of any journey, no matter how luxurious, or not, the circumstances.

Removing his outer garments with a flourish, Guillaume stood ready to continue their journey as a pilgrim priest: a costume Etienne had found easy to supply. He mounted his chosen horse, waiting for his companions to do likewise, then turned its head west, to circle round Paris and head north, then west again, and on to the coast, to Cap Gris-Nez. As the little pilgrimage passed the cart, he reached into his pocket and took out a folded slip of paper, letting it fall on the once hidden door to the secret compartment of the cart. Contained within it, written in invisible ink that only his associates knew how to develop, were his instructions for both the cart and his return. Should the citizen soldiers of Paris catch up with them before one of his merry band could retrieve the cart first, however, all they would find was a pithy note and a red-ink rendering of a small, five-petalled flower.

XXXX

"Ah, the mistress! I was wondering when you'd be back," Kate Hoban sighed in that singsong voice people use when they feel they know something everyone else doesn't, and are bored waiting for the fireworks that will go off when the rest of the world catches up.

"My, my, don't you seem awfully pleased with yourself," Sara mused, strolling round the room with folded arms. "Not worried you might be missing all the fun?"

"What fun would that be?" Hoban blinked, all demure innocence that didn't wash one bit with the assassin.

Sara snorted a derisive laugh. "You got caught. You're stuck here, in our brig, until we take down your bosses. So you can sit here and count the panels on the ceiling if you want, but last I checked: that didn't take too long."

"I expect you're waiting for me to ask what my other options are," breezed the traitor, settling her hands in her pockets and leaning back against the wall. "Maybe you have a few ideas of your own. I've heard you have a type."

Sara's eyes narrowed. She took another look at the Time Captain, standing, leaning back against the brig wall in oh, so very familiar clothing. The denial on her tongue was superseded by another thought. "Now where might you have heard that?"

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘THE MAGICIAN’: “It was war, and the enemy stalked…”

© 2019 by James Clark

     This is a film so dependent upon its sense for Bergman’s previous output, and even for Bergman’s subsequent work, that it sustains the adage, “Go full out, or forget about it entirely.” But adages can be wrong; and here we welcome one and all to a breathtaking tone poem, which we hope can benefit from a few suggestions.

On the face of it, The Magician (1958), features an intense protagonist, leading a crew so heterogeneous as to wonder how their objectives can succeed. They first come to us in the countryside, at a pause in their horse-driven coach. The vehicle is affixed with the sign, “Vogler’s Magic Health Theatre.” The black and white optics induce silhouette along a ridge, the virtual trademark of the film, The Seventh Seal (1957), where a couple, Jof and Marie ply the far-flung roads in a caravan advertising their circus musicale.Those two carnies manage to transcend the deadliness of the ridge (the seduction of death and its happy ending), by virtue of Jof’s blessing of his baby boy, to be a great acrobat and a juggler capable of an impossible trick.Although Jof and Marie made their breakaway in the 12th century, those traces of magic lean heavily upon Vogler, in Sweden, in the 19th century.Therefore, while far from playful banter disturbs the “Health Theatre,” the opportunity to see deeply into the nature of conflict never flags.

During that stopover, two of Vogler’s company, not for the first time, you can be sure, express that they hate what the other loves. A happy-go-lucky marketing and PR director of the caravan’s catchy affairs, namely, Tubal, devours a heavy lunch in the clover. Though earthy to quite a degree, he stunts his better self in order to harry a very old woman (Vogler’s grandmother, in fact) who, in his eyes and nose, reeks of offensive obsolescence.The old lady busies herself with finding herbs for her manufacture of the “health” area of the theatre, while frequently urging her grandson to fire a figure dangerously crude. Leaving aside, for the moment,Vogler and his assistant-showman, as the coach resumes, Tubal, sneers, “You and your mandrake and your severed fingers, and other mischief.” As if she were some kind of relative of the old and opinionated genius, in Bergman’s Smiles of a Summer Night (1955)—actress,Niama Wilstrand covering both roles—she fires back, “Spirits used to howl so loudly in this forest [as did the forest where Jof and Marie parted company with the mainstream] that no one dared enter after sundown. I remember it well…” The canny, though perhaps not fully savvy, one, thinks to prevail by reminding the oldster, and the other two, that he’s the only functional businessman in the coach. “How would Vogler’s Magic Health Theatre manage without Tubal, I ask you…” 

Turning to the stylish and rather impressively silent other two, being obviously the stars of the show, their first coming to us is a very slight vignette of them surveying, on that same ridge, a sort of mine shaft with a ladder reaching out.In the course of  elevating his sense of the salt of the earth, Tubal snaps out, “Who bailed you out in Copenhagen at night, and at risk to his life, after the Danish Tour went to hell?”Though the silent ones fail to shine in the coach, Vogler gives us some indication about his strong suit when the so-called health theatre comes upon a dying man in the lake-land. Granny alone had heard the latter’s cries, and Vogler alone had gone to meet more than irate cops. He gently addresses the alcoholic wreck in question, with, “Good day, sir…” The rescued man without hope replies, “My name is Johan Spegel [mirror].(We’ll have to figure out later if that designation is valid.Moreover, we must also await for the validity of the exchange of “bird catcher” in the moniker, Vogler.Could the boss-man be running on empty?) That the dying man, an actor, readily sees through the elaborate disguise Vogler deploys—panther-black hair and beard, and game-face, black, carriage-trade outlaw to all—somewhat crimps what style there might be. That the dying man soon reveals to Vogler, and to us, his cascading cynicism(detectable before any conversation), allows us to realize that the protagonist, instinctively not sharing the nihilism of the wreck, deploys a chivalry about those who have striven and fallen. (Those who have not striven would be something else. But along with this complication, one of many, there would be the remarkable matter of short cuts to a questionable striving. (A war, indeed; but a war with a bewildering range of theatres.)Pausing on the walk to the coach, the actor/ mirror overacts to the tune of, “I’ve always longed for a knife, a blade to lay bare my entrails, set my brain and heart free, free me from my substance… and cut away my tongue and my manhood. A blade that would carve out all my uncleanliness. Then this so-called spirit would rise up from this meaningless carcass…”

At the last moment of the actor’s screed (now installed in the caravan), he asks Manda, the other careful dresser, about what kind of reading a smart young performer would prefer.The answer, “ a novel about swindlers,” comes as somewhat of a surprise, from such a seemingly serene, almost doe-like centre of  grace.Even more surprise results from Manda’s bitter outlook. “Deception is so prevalent that those who speak the truth are usually branded as the greatest liars…” That elicits, from the reckless negator, a spate of shoot-to-kill. “The author presumes there’s a great general thing called truth, somewhere out there. That theory is pure illusion.” That theory is also pure Tubal, the majoritarian, would-be top-dog in reveling that he’s sitting on a quorum to quell inklings that he doesn’t have what it takes.He sneers at the aristocratic reader (in fact, actress Ingrid Thulin, dressed in male styles), “So much for your reading, Mr. Aman.” Manda fires back, “Mr. Tubal shouldn’t speak with his mouth full…” [a mouth full of hate and raw meat]. That skirmish somewhat consolidates that the dandies have some kind of purchase, however lacking earthy force, upon an exigency prone to embarrassment, while occupying the orbit of, from one angle, the fancy-free untouchable dowager, in Smiles of a Summer Night.

What seemed at first to be a kind of eccentric road saga has developed into a war story. Tubal’s rounding out the argument, with smug recourse to the popular will—“I find this business about truth devilishly interesting. It’s a beautifully passion. My head sits on my neck… That’s an absolute truth, and I like such truths. You’re very amusing. I have no care for the past or the future. I’m a lily of the field”—constitutes a run-up to far more violence, just around the corner. As the actor dies, eliciting from Vogler a sadness, Tubal quips that the corpse is a nuisance for an affair of making a financial  success of the business of imminently wowing the burghers of Stockholm.At this juncture, the coach is imperiously intercepted at a police roadblock, and the company of diverse players comes into another moment of truth. Having been forewarned by virtue of Tubal’s advanced announcement about a magic health theatre, the City’s health watchdog, Dr. Vergerus, along with a pliable police chief and wealthy deletant, Egerman (the name of the lawyer rounded up by Desiree, in Smiles of a Summer Night), stages an inquisition of crimes against holy science—a proponent of literal truth far more single-minded than Tubal.(The proto-Nazi husband/ medic pushing his poetic wife into a mental hospital, in Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly[1961]iterates the helmsman’s disdain for careless dotage upon overrated and very dangerous idols.)

On being deposited outside of Egerman’s mansion, and left there for a long time(to digest that enemies rule) we come to realize that, whereas the rest of the crew maintain considerable composure, Vogler uses a cane, a pipe and a hunched position.Whereas, particularly, Manda’s face is poised, as if confronting those who don’t know how lucky they are to be in her elevated presence (her directing her eyes upon the detainers, in the wake of the first moment when the notables have their back to them and continue to snigger) and her entering the house having been regal, Vogler is a picture of stress, covering his face with one hand.Hearing from Tubal that Vogler is mute (mute-seeming, for the same effort of synthesis on the part of Elisabet, in Bergman’s, Persona[1966]), the inquest settles for Manda’s account, and it’s not only smooth but revelatory. Vergerus presents evidence that the bad-asses conduct “magic seances.” Looking at the technocrat straight in the eyes, she states, as if the mere thought could never cohere with someone as cool as she is, she tells the attacker, “We didn’t say that,” [the promotional hacks having rushed to childishness].The learned doctor then shifts to the scandalous notion that this rabble presumes to “heal the sick.” During her rather brazen denial of that, we see that Vogler is as unsatisfied as the prosecutor. Though petrified by the audit, that subject of lifting the frail hits, for the strange leader, a nerve, entirely absent in the spokesperson.(What troubling eddies of sensibility have come to stay, over and beyond facile provocation?)Vergerus, nothing if not a facile, but clearly murderous,provocateur, trots out the well-known zeal about the prisoner’s study for the reflections of one, Franz Mesmer (1734-1815), he, of the matter of, “animal magnetism” and “natural energy transference.”The earlier non-banter about “truth” thereby segues toward a more nuanced theatre of sensibility. (I’m reminded here of Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight[2015], to wit, “Nobody said it would be easy.”/ “Nobody said it would be this hard.”)Amidst the crazy bumper-car zone to come, we must be on the look-out, within the spin, for those dramatic ideas turning a bilious plunge into an invigorating discovery.

Not getting anywhere in face of Manda’s sang froid, the special prosecutor uses some hands-on toward Vogler to determine if this terrorist leader can prove that there is any substance to the claim of being bereft of speech—a proof to the contrary being tantamount, in the doctor’s view, of fraud all across the cosmos. (As this third degree becomes necessary, there is a rather remarkable out-of-the-blue by Tubal, shooting down the idea that the business could dabble in “supernatural powers.” Of course, his patented materialism would be a slam-dunk; but, as we close into the heart of the drama, we shall have to adjust to the practical guy being actually more viably uncanny, Mesmer-like, than Vogler and Manda.)The doctor, not accustomed to arguing against his bright lights, performs upon Vogler a scrutiny of his mouth.He shoves the badly-self-possessed but garishly-promoted stranger—having been touted by Tubal as, “a big name on the Continent” [not a welcome idea to a megalomaniac vigilante against non-scientists]—into a chair, grabs a lamp, and orders the target to hold it. Before making his analysis, he delights in reproving, “Why such furious looks? You have no reason to hate me. I only want to ascertain the truth. That should be your wish as well.” The glare in the defendant’s eyes is supplemented by the local big name’s grabbing his rival’s chin, thrusting open his mouth and jerking his subject’s head back. “Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue.” After that, the doctor pushes his mouth closed, and reports, “I find no reason for your muteness.”Hovering over the captive, the chief of health sneers while Vogler leans back, gasping, and then covers his face with his hand. Amidst this humiliation, he’s asked if he would perform inducing a “state.” Vogler nods “yes,” with some vigor; and thus a counter-attack begins to form, not without many difficulty.

In Bergman films we’ve covered over the past year, we’ve seen quite a few riveting instances of “states” or moods, pushing the envelope of “truth.” The Magician, however, would seem to take the cake, inasmuch as its alliances and enmities are forever changing, requiring a true magician to discern where it’s going.The lexicon of dueling—the doctor pressing his expose by means of, “I’m at your disposal”—would seem to be the makings of a climax of such. But Vergerus, after heaping upon Vogler smears like “weak souls” (as to him and his following) and toying with the idea, “You think I hate you. You are wrong. I’m interested in one thing only: you’re physiology, Mr. Vogler… I’d like to perform an autopsy on you, weigh your brain, open up your heart, study your nervous system… take out your eyes”—in supposing having shown immunity to Vogler’s presence—comes into significant fire by the host’s wife, who asks him, “Why are you lying?… We can see you’re lying. Something frightened you terribly, but you don’t dare say what…” This rejoinder having somewhat punctured the gratifications of the town’s big names, the Chief of Police decrees that next morning the less than accomplished outlaw must show what he’s got to give.

Dinner is served; but only for those in formal attire. The troupe is directed to the kitchen where the, servants dine, an exile which involves the tuxedos laughing uproariously. (The hostess, however, declares, “Isn’t it amusing to humiliate defenseless people?” The doctor thinks to put it all fine, on the basis of her husband and him in the midst of a bet about the pros and cons of spirituality, “inexplicable forces.”“By all logic we’d be suddenly forced to reckon with a god.”) We see our voyagers stomping angrily in the shadows of the lower depths. Vogler and Manda stride through the kitchen harboring visions of revenge. Tubal, however, has mastered his initial anger and proceeds to charm the women who cook and clean. The rude exponent of cheap truth now gives us an undemonstrative clinic of wit, grace and primordial juggling! Two young girls working there, Sara and Sanna, are the first to bask in Tubal’s magnanimity. Sara, a year or so older than her friend, advises, regarding the strangers, “Anyway, they have no money. You only need fear the rich.”The calling card for the mover and shaker of the peripatetic show addresses the girls with, “My name is simply Tubal, simple as a folk tune.” The main cook arrives, and Tubal’s charm goes into overdrive, captivating her by his vitality, savoir faire and genuine pleasure to be with her and the girls..Soon Sara is wanting him to read her palm; but he is solicitous of her future possibility being more mature. “I wouldn’t want to stifle your curiosity.”With the senior chef, he provides free “love potion,” eliciting from her, “It makes me hot under the corset…” This draws from him, “I see a light”—abundantly unique amidst this most dark of Bergman’s early works.

While Tubal, having ignited amorous flames amidst all but one of the servants, there is the grandmother, having said nothing since the arrest, taking under her wing (more juggling, which the beautiful people, Vogler and Manda, eschew) the perpetually confused, Sanna, too young and simple for orgies. What she recommends, in the form of a bedtime story, covers much more than a good sleep. Though the girl ingenuously begins with, “You’re so old and ugly” [and a witch], this witch/ oracle can also rise to disinterestedness paralleling and transcending a normal narrative. (This incident also being a specialty of Bergman as a phenomenologist initiating logical problematics far beyond what Yale and Harvard could manage, shackled[like the venomous doctor here] to classical rational rubrics.) “Did you sell your soul,” the naïf asks.“Yes, perhaps I did,” the frail battling-ram smiles. (While this preamble was marching along, Sara , having swallowed some of the suggestiveness, admits, “I felt a funny feeling, especially in my tummy… Now what happens?”) Getting down to the juggling, the witch begins with, “You must wish for things that live, that are alive or will come to be… I’ll sing you a song”[very mindful about Vogler’s plight; a song about Vogler and Vergerus and Manda]. “It was war and the enemy stalked/ On tired legs the soldier walked./ The enemy [including the dying actor] charged from the woods that day/ Our man stood in the thick of the fray/ Knives flashed and blood was spilled/ Many a warrior there [including the hostess] was killed/ The soldier’s face with victory was bright[not, as we’ll see, it did him any good]/ Heavy poured the rain that night[wait for it]/ The soldier sat by himself and wrote/ To his dearest[that is dearest, as in “dearest”] a lengthy note/ Love brings solace/ Love brings rest/ Love brings strength/ To the weakest breast/ Love is one/ Can’t ne’er be twain…”

That remarkable interlude, by someone who is, in fact, the saga’s true magician, spells not only the incisiveness she lives by, but the cave-in of Vogler’s falling short of that magic of a paradoxical “twain” (comprising acrobatics and juggling). The last passage of her song is, “Love is simple. Yet hard to explain.[Vogler trapped in an explanation.]/ It’s going to thunder./ Far, far, far away…”Leaving Sanna to her simple sleep, granny—well aware that she must leave the dead end troupe (even more decisively than the dowager’s cut away from Desiree and her dead end friends, in, Smiles of a Summer Night);and also Tubal, the mixer,now headed to marry the religious cook and probably stay on at the Egerman concern—her hard-won fortune from plants, here and there, and spells, phony and valid, being her ticket to persevere, rounds off her stint in the servant quarter, with an invocation. “I call you down, I call you out,beyond the dead, beyond the living, the living dead.” Here the subject is the dead actor, seen by her to be of use in effecting some kind of escape for a dysfunctional show and, moreover, a dysfunctional marriage.

The denouement can be quickly described. But the relationship between Vogler and Manda is beyond ending.In the night, the power-couple, who couldn’t care less about mere servants,set up their apparatus in hopes of giving the shallow cynic a jolt of blue-chip mood. Mrs. Egerman drops by, Manda cuts out; and Vogler has on his hands the hostess’ delusion that he’s heaven-sent to resolve the pain of her young daughter’s recent death(plunging her, however slightly, beyond routine piety). She assures him her bedroom is out of range for her husband, whom she has also stuffed with sleeping pills. Dragging himself away from a vignette he doesn’t want to be in, he comes upon his and Manda’s designated bedroom, where a slightly tipsy Vergerus has had an eyeful of Manda being a dazzling blonde in her petticoat. From the shadowy hallway he doesn’t discover anything new; but, nevertheless, the world takes a painful step, bereft of the hostess’ shot in the dark. Perhaps  the thrill evident in the mourner by Vogler’s shaky charisma(a possible version of the cliché, “A great man never seems to be so to his wife,”) has something to do about her  tolerating the rat here.Vogler’s wildly inflected wife is in the course of getting off her chest, “Our entire act is a fraud, from start to finish… a miserable rotten lie, through and through… We’re the most pathetic rabble you could find…” (That would somewhat coincide, then, with the intruder’s, “You represent what I despise most of all. The ineffable.”The doctor extracts from her that, “a long time ago” she found some cogency in the-man-in-black’s priorities. But now there’s nothing.)

Just as he gets around to offering her help to his idea of full health,Vogler steps forward, smashes him about and the test becomes a test of the smart guy. Next morning, by virtue of the resource offered by the corpse, the nominal leader of the magic show gets down to business by way of pretending to have died during a rigorous part of the exhibition (involving the Egerman’s coachman, who had muttered, while Tubal was doing his magic, “A face like Vogler’s makes you furious. You want to bash it in…”)With Manda’s assistance, he terrifies Vergerus, whose perfunctory autopsy comes back to bite him. Using body parts and aural and optical features, he nearly murders the hated opponent, only dodging a homicide conviction by way of Manda’s intervention of common sense.

This film anticipates Bergman’s Winter Light (1963), where a charge of cosmic dynamite dribbles down to a rather tepid long shot. But, when all is said and done, The Magician is in a league of its own.It portrays, in the grandmother, a canny mystic, almost validly  inured to hidden isolation.During that prophetic downpour, she is the first to depart the shell-shocked manor, entering the coach in order to indict the poor form of Vogler and Manda.Then she hits the road; but not until describing the fortune in her purse, the rewards of her delighting in the earth and a polyglot clientele. Something she doesn’t tell them, but something we should know, is what drives her on.She is far from alone, in her preferences, though she clearly has never, in her long life, encountered her ilk. Consider the regime of solitaire for the dowager in Smiles of a Summer Night. Her hovering over the cards while secured by pillows involves a taste for order, to be sure; but at the same time, there is a premium upon silence and stillness, irrespective of the fate of the game. Despite the optics of stasis, the addressing of the situation comprises ripples of initiative, a cosmos she has had much to do in its making. While her disappointing daughter stars in a questionable firmament of gluey childishness, the elderly hostess beholds beauties on the go, headed for extinction, felt as a gift. The grandmother/ witch lacks the oracle’s ease; but loves her hardships in the same frisson. (Jof and Marie, in, The Seventh Seal, are a mixed bag—he a poet, she a practical mom. But, during their dash for the sake of the new, the lonely new finds them on the same page [evincing how often we all, however slightly, prefer an outlaw life]).

On the other hand, the former lions of Lyon crash infamously.In the wake of Vogler’s unbecoming revenge, he becomes mired in asking the notables (including Mrs. Egerman) for spare change.They reach the coach, feel the scorn of their relative by-marriage; and find that their coachman has (after a brief notion of his and his sweetheart to resume, for what it’s worth, the magic of the open road) decided to stay with Sara in the kitchen. With no horse-power in sight, the magic stars come to us in a total doldrum. Whereas the dowager could reign sprightly on her bed, to great aplomb, Vogler and Manda resort to sterile fantasy. They see themselves summoned by the king to a command performance. The first stage of this coup, that isn’t, involves the notables, back at the Egerman mansion, now having become their fans.

Instead of standing pat with the loners—a conclusion somewhat out of whack with the fine juggling of Tubal and granny and sundry others—let’s listen some more to that barely-marriaged couple. (I find in Bergman’s scenes of chilling devastation, the demand to attend to recuperative strengths—on the basis of a comprehensive courage. As we listen to them, we’re listening to their tolerance for disappearing. Frid, the savvy servant, in Smiles of a Summer Night, coins the term, “punishment,” for the situation of full-scale , reflective love.) There is a gambit, in that dialogue with Vergerus, in which the divided woman goes some distance to put into play the state of affairs she finds herself in.In the midst of her expressing her hatred of her métier, she touches upon how her life had been elevated by “the nightmare.” “He has no secret powers?” the vigilante asks. “No, perhaps not,” she answers, in total confusion. Therefore, we get, rather predictably, “It’s meaningless…” “So I can put my mind at ease?” the scientist asks. “Yes, put your mind at ease… We can demonstrate our incompetence as often as you like…”(Wallowing in her own incompetence, being, it seems, in the vein of Vogler’s subsequent panhandler role.) The intruder reads her dissatisfaction, notwithstanding, “You seem to regret that fact and wish it were otherwise. But there are no miracles… God is silent, while men babble on.” She can’t resist saying, “If  just once…” [the ecstatic could prevail]. The doctor, misdiagnosing the phenomenon to be a lift by a supernatural gift-giver, smugly prates, “That’s what they all say” [all he knows; but not all she knows].

After the doctor leaves—sneering at the idea of Vogler being a doctor (but without comprehending that the latter’s purchase is far from an exact science)—there is left in the air the hopeless impasse with Vergerus: “You think your husband wants to kill me? Do you want to kill me, Mr. Vogler? You hate me. I like you. Quite stimulating!” After slamming the door and smashing his head repeatedly upon it, he tears off the disguise and joins her in bed, far from the first time this impasse has flared.Their conflict has more to do with acrobatics lost than mere treachery, and, as such, their distemper resembles a death spiral. Whereas his face shows anguish, her’s is impassive.Lying behind where he lies. she kisses his head. Mustering a somewhat ironical smile, she purrs, “Remember in Lyon, where we earned lots of money?” [at what line of work, the question is], and bought a country house and intended to stop traveling… Then we sold the property and bought the carriage and horses… That’s where you started acting mute[another version to come, in Persona, for the sake of progressing into the labyrinth of truth, the ways of the cosmos]. Remember the Grand Duke—a less than grand duke appears in Smiles of a Summer Night–who was so taken by me that he promised to recommend us to his Majesty in Sweden? You thought I’d been unfaithful, and you gave the Duke a thrashing. We sat in prison for two months until he forgave us. Do you think he recommended us to the Swedish court, anyway?” His reply is silence.She continues, “No, I don’t think so, either.” All he can muster, with the field of acrobatics and juggling defeating him, is, “I hate them. I hate their faces, their bodies, their movements, their voices… But I get frightened, too, and then I lose my power…”With Vogler’s virtual surrender to the appalling, she thrusts her assets, “What if I left you?” “Go on, if you want. It makes no difference…”

We have been privy to other figures under similar pressures, under the auspices of phenomena the uncanniness of which has begun to chafe creatures like the doctor.This film seems to involve, however, a drama, as never before and never later, demanding full attention to the factor of horrific odds, slicing away, like barracudas, upon those who would venture to put into play“faces,” visages and bodies, moving into a sense of integrity confusing to nearly all of the population. Furtive figures, like the lady abandoning the demoralized couple, represent a shadowy agency for initiatives needful by nature itself. But why couldn’t there be buoyant partnerships instead of mere escapees?Impossible juggling tricks carry far, given range and spunk. Bergman’s cinema, transcending political tallies, draws upon viewers who have allowed themselves to be part of the show in a remarkable way.That allowance demands special courage, but courage encouraged by inspiring creatures and other magical things.

(Further complicating an already very subtle and rigorous reflective task, is the widespread nonsense that The Magician amounts to a mea culpa about Bergman’s being humbled in a fraudulent, pointless attempt to surpass common sense.Bergman may be famously a Byzantine husband, a constant health crisis and a vicious employer. But along the way he cultivated constructs far surpassing most Nobel Prize winners. He had nothing to be embarrassed about in his work.)

By way of reiterating the test of physicality embarrassing Vogler and Manda—holed up in the carriage and biting their fists, coming down to servant-Sara’s brief whim to get into a circus and thereby get the show on the road—we have the herbalist’s final goodbye: “I always said you were a foolish and reckless man. One should know one’s limitation” [and drop the idiocy of becoming another pope].

[theleaderdotinfo-blog]

High Alert at Horse Rescue Centre! has been published at http://www.theleader.info/2019/04/23/high-alert-at-horse-rescue-centre/

New Post has been published on http://www.theleader.info/2019/04/23/high-alert-at-horse-rescue-centre/

High Alert at Horse Rescue Centre!

Ok folks so we were all totally flooded out by the recent gota fria but most of us could tuck ourselves up in our cosy homes with our lovely cats and dogs all snuggled up on the sofa beside us but not at Easy Horse Care Rescue Centre! It started to pour down on Friday evening and never stopped until Sunday morning but as if that wasn’t bad enough didn’t it came back with a vengeance again on Sunday afternoon and the rain just continued incessantly.   You’ll see from the photos the effects of the weather on the Centre. Throughout this period the Co-founders Rod and Sue Weeding had two workers and one volunteer turn up during the hours of 9 to 5 and throughout this time and on into the night and early hours of the morning Sue and Rod never stopped. Now you might be saying to yourself why do they do it? Well the answer is because they just do. There is such a need and demand for this type of sanctuary, which receives no funding, but of course it comes at a cost. They are working fervently with local and state authorities to try and obtain regular and ongoing funding. The bottom line is, there is nowhere else for these neglected, abused and abandoned horses, ponies and donkeys to go. They would love to have better facilities but at least here each and every animal gets the best food, health care and of course love, kindness and understanding of their special needs. What many people don’t realise is that now they are working with the most severe cases and solely with the local and national Police, the Guardia Civil, Seprona and the Councils. When they are called out to assist and collect an animal they are given official documentation with a case number. This legal notification enables them to transport the equine to the Centre and there they must remain until the case is closed. To date there has only been three closed cases. This is why most people can’t or won’t take on these animals. This type of rescue is in the early stages of development in Spain. There is a clear need for new legislation to help the authorities with these so deserving abandoned and abused animals and to get robust funding for the Centre. Although they have the ongoing basic expenses which amount to €5,000 a week, at this particular time what they really need is another pump well two actually. They have three areas at the Centre which are particularly susceptible to flooding and Rod has to trudge through the torrential rain and unforgiving mud night and day to rotate the pump from one place to another. They did have another pump but sadly it was stolen last year before they installed the security system. The cost of a new pump is approximately €550 or a donation of one or two of the quality and function they need would be absolutely fantastic. They are eternally grateful  to all their supporters, donors and volunteers for everything they do for the horses. If you would like to contribute towards the new pumps or towards the Centre’s ongoing costs or you would like to donate good quality furniture to their Charity Shops or volunteer then check out their website easyhorsecare.net.

[rangersdoguk-blog]

Finding a home for a dog - are you ready to adopt or rehome a dog?

We have a feeling your family is ready to grow when you are thinking of adopting a dog. It is a big step. Your dog need to know you are in charge and you have rules to live by. The leadership and order you show your dog will have a big impact on its’ behaviour. This will make its transition from the shelter to your home easier, faster and more rewarding. Bringing your new dog home is an exciting and fulfilling experience.

To get your relationship off on the right foot with your dog here are some tips on how to prepare.

#1 – Be flexible

Accommodate your dogs need, know it has a mind of its own and adjust your life and get your routine set that works for both you and your dog. Slowly introduce your dog to your friends, new places, maintain a good sense of humour during the transition time to make your dog feel wanted.

#2 – Available basics

Just like how you prepare for a new born baby ensure you prepare for your dog. Shop for an ID tag, leash, collar, bed, food and water bowls, food, anything the dog might need to avoid last minute rush. The dog need to find an orderly place not a confused home.

#3 – Rules to family member

Ensure the dog is trained and shown its place from the word go. Ensure all family member are responsible and agree to particular roles of caring for the dog. If you agree that the dog should rest in its’ crate your child should not allow it on the sofa. Some ground rules should be set and make sure that all family members agree to follow and enforce them. Ensure your dog is helped to adjust. Being in a new environment your dog might be anxious, hide behind seat, stay in one place, this is all normal but help your pal adjust slowly. For a few weeks your dog will be going through an adjustment period be patient and understanding. Helping him through this tough time and showing him how wonderful his new home really is will make him fit in quickly.

#4 – Slow introduction

As much as you want to introduce your amazing dog to your friends do it slowly. If possible introduce one friend at a time to avoid confusing him/her. The walk to the park can wait a few weeks to avoid interactions with many people at once.

#5 – Bonding session

Once in a while have time with your dog. Talk to him/her with a soothing voice and pet him gently. Touching and petting your dog is a powerful way of communication and will show him he is safe, loved and your relationship will set off to a beautiful start.

#6 – Time alone

Give your dog some time alone every day to learn its surroundings. Your dog will love that and watch from a distance to ensure he is safe as you give him some ‘me’ time.

#7 – Vet visit

True love is hard to find. Your dog is your best friend as a priority ensure the first week or immediately you take your dog to the vet for check-up. Just to be certain it is not sick or just a regular check-up especially if you have other pets in the home. Bring any vaccine and medical records supplied by the shelter or rescue from which you adopted your dog from. The first visit is great as it will show your dog personality and past history, so ask a lot of questions to the veterinarian. Also have your dog acquire a tag, collar or micro chipped for easy identification in case of getting lost or wandering away it will be easy to reunite you with your dog.

Myths of dog adoption

Most people have myths of dog adoption, some people think that most dogs do not have a home due to their fault. The truth is dog shelters and rescues are full of lovable, active and healthy adoptable dogs just waiting for someone to take them home. Dogs brought at the shelter can come from divorced homes, the dog owner could have died, due to financial constraints the dog owner might not be able to sustain the dog anymore and gives it up, the owner might not have time for the dog to offer it attention and love which the dog needs. By adopting a pet you are giving room to another pet for shelter that is out there. A shelter or rescue will want to know more about where the dog will call home the goal is to balance the interest of the two of you, the adopter and the dog. They have a procedure to get to know you.

Adoption Procedure

They will want to know your housing situation is it renting or owner occupier, the number and ages of children in your household if any, the name and contact of your veterinarian, your previous experiences with pets, your activity level, lifestyle and expectations for a new pet and the type and number of pets you own. Most shelters have the animal best interest at heart and want to ensure the pet is matched with responsible, appropriate owners and have a screening process in place for this. The process vary from shelter to shelter but it involves:

#1 – Questionnaire

It has a variety of questions to help know the adopter better on living standards, household members and pets, ages of children if any, your lifestyle and activities.

#2 – Interview

This is a follow up face to face on what was answered on the questionnaire to know you better or to clarify any information given.

#3 – The meet and greet

This process is where you have multiple pets at home they accompany you to the shelter to meet the new pet, if you have.

#4 – Adoption contract

This is signed if everything goes well. Many shelters and rescue groups have information about their adoption process on their websites so you can know in advance what to expect. If possible examine the adoption process thoroughly before going to the shelter. If your family is ready for dog adoption they are several organisations that take care of rescued dogs and also dog welfare. Some are perfect as they ensure your dog is snipped, vaccinated and micro chipped to help you settle fast into a new life together and avoid paying huge veterinary bills as you take them home.

We will feature three organisations.

Rehoming at RSPCA.

RSPCA helps animals in England and Wales. Every year thousands of animals including dogs suffer from neglect, cruelty and abuse. With your help we can end this misery. RSPCA have many animals in their care who have never experienced life of a loving family home and want a person who will give one of their animals the happy future it deserves. Their dogs are unique, loud, quiet, fluffy, big, and small and come with a personality readymade, a past that is unique to them and a lot of love to give. The organisation does not rely on government funding but on your support. The RSPCA understand the adopted dog can be sick or uncomfortable in a new home and it might be difficult for the new owner hence they provide guidance for your individual dog so you should not be worried. They also have an online dog advice booklet-dog pre-adoption booklet that advices on health environment, behaviour, diet and company for smooth transition, you will not feel left alone with your dog. I just had a look at the RSPCA website https://www.rspca.org.uk and they have a lot of fantastic beautiful dogs who are housetrained waiting for a loving family to adopt them. Now it is up to you to give them the love and care they deserve by housing one.

DogsTrust

DogsTrust mission is to bring about the day when all dogs can enjoy a happy life from the threat of unnecessary destruction. Founded in 1891, it is the largest dog welfare charity in the UK (United Kingdom). In 2016 DogTrust had a great year as it cared for around 15,300 dogs across all their 21 centres. This is awesome. Around their centres they have currently 908 dogs needing new homes and have a good variety to choose from. The figure changes with time and you can keep checking in their website https://www.dogstrust.org.uk . The dogs ranges from puppies, older dogs, dogs with injuries/ Medical conditions and even healthy dogs. DogTrust works with foster carers who play a huge role in a rescued dog’s life. The DogTrust fully takes care of the dogs’ food, veterinary treatment and advice for their foster carer before a permanent home is found for them. This works very well for people who cannot adopt full time, you just volunteer to take care of them. It does not cost anything, just your time and love. Looking after the dog give you some fulfilment, something to get up for and brings the best in you and your dog as you care for it.

BlueCross

BlueCross is a registered charity in England and Wales and Scotland. They find homes for unwanted cats, dogs, small pets and horses across the UK and find the right person for their pets. They provide veterinary services to pet owners who cannot afford and give free talks and workshops to educate them on their pets. For more details check https://www.bluecross.org.uk The dog adoption topic is wide and cannot be exhausted in one article. The basics have been highlighted and now finding a perfect dog for your family is a phone call away. Make that important decision and give a home to one deserving dog. You can be a permanent dog owner or foster carer the dog will appreciate the love and warmly home atmosphere.

[gyrlversion]

Incredible transformation of adopted slaughterhouse survivor dogs

A 22-year-old student who adopted three slaughterhouse survivor dogs has revealed their transformation after escaping the Chinese dog meat trade.

Skye Wardle, of Minsterworth, Gloucestershire, has taken the three animals into her care over the past three years – first adopting Clover in November 2016.

The golden retriever was starved, left dehydrated and contracted pneumonia and canine distemper after being rescued from a dog slaughterhouse in Changchun.

Golden retriever Bonnie was abandoned in Beijing (left), but he is now doing much better after being taken in by animal welfare assistant Skye Wardle in Gloucestershire (right)

Nellie is a Samoyed dog who was rescued from a puppy mill that bred the animals for dog meat and was set on fire. She was treated for burns (left) and has recovered from her ordeal (right)

Animal welfare assistant Miss Wardle then adopted another golden retriever, Bonnie, in March 2018 who was abandoned in Beijing, covered in sores and lice.

She also had distemper, which has an 80 per cent fatality rate in puppies, and was left with myoclonus and involuntary muscle spasms causing a neurological tic.

Eight months later, Miss Wardle found out about Nellie, a Samoyed dog who was rescued from a puppy mill that bred the animals for dog meat – and was set on fire.

The pregnant dog survived the blaze and she was treated by a vet for her burns before giving birth to eight puppies. Seven survived and are they now in the US.

Now, Miss Wardle has helped care for her three rescue dogs and is hoping to raise awareness of the benefits of rescuing and adopting pets instead of buying them. 

Miss Wardle has helped care for her three rescue dogs, including Nellie (pictured together)

Nellie survived the blaze at the puppy mill and she was treated by a vet for her burns before giving birth to eight puppies. Seven survived (pictured) and are they now in the US

Miss Wardle, whose mother Julie, 51, works for animal charities, said: ‘We are all animal lovers and have always had lots of pets including dogs and horses.

Nellie, a Samoyed dog who has been rescued

‘We have always known about the Chinese dog meat trade and Yulin [dog meat festival], as it’s publicly spoken about by celebrities such as Simon Cowell and Ricky Gervais.

‘But we never thought we’d be able to adopt a dog from the meat trade. A friend of ours rescued a Spanish street dog from Rushton Dog Rescue and we saw their Facebook page.

‘We saw they had started a project rescuing dogs from the Chinese dog meat trade, so I contacted them and was surprised to find out they had a golden retriever. 

‘We saw photos of him and immediately wanted him. Clover arrived in the UK in December 2016 and we went to Rushton Dog Rescue’s farm in Somerset to meet him once he had been there a few days to settle.

‘We adored him and signed the adoption papers and took him home that day. It was the same with Bonnie and Nellie – we agreed to adopt them and waited for them to pass quarantine and fly to the UK.

Miss Wardle adopted Clover in November 2016 (left) and has nursed her back to health (right)

Golden retriever Clover was starved, left dehydrated and contracted pneumonia and canine distemper after being rescued from a dog slaughterhouse in Changchun, China

‘The adoption process was very easy. We contacted Rushton Dog Rescue and explained we had always had golden retrievers in the family, they recommended Clover to us and we knew we wanted him immediately. 

Bonnie is pictured snuggling up to Miss Wardle after being rescued from China

Miss Wardle told how Clover, Bonnie and Nellie have compatible personalities, which has made the transition easier – although they all needed plenty of human love. 

She said: ‘Clover is the sweetest boy, he is quiet, friendly and sensitive. I would say he is the most affected by the abuse he has been through, as they are manhandled and beaten, thrown around by metal poles around their necks in slaughterhouses.

‘He is a cuddly boy but loves his own space and loves his walks where we he can walk for miles on his own exploring.

‘Bonnie is a larger than life, hilarious character. She is small from stunted growth from her starvation as a puppy, but she makes up for it in personality.

‘She is loud, loves to bark and play fight, she is funny and a real tough cookie, gets bowled over and trampled by the other two when playing and gets back up and carries on every time.

‘She is the little boss, always starts the play fighting and is fiercely independent, even though she needs a lot of help and support with her myoclonus. 

Bonnie (left) with Clover (right) and Nellie (centre) have all been taken in by Miss Wardle

The three rescue dogs, who now all live in Gloucestershire, enjoy their time on the beach

‘She has definitely come out of her shell and changed the most since we adopted her, she was quiet and frail at first, very weak and her tic was very bad to the point she could barely sleep or stay crouched to go to the toilet. She has blossomed and grown into an amazing character.

‘Nellie is a typical Samoyed and has been from the beginning. She has the ‘Sammy spirit’ and Sammy smile, is endlessly happy and adores her life.

‘She absolutely loves chasing her ball and running, walking lots and cuddling up to us at night. Her and Bonnie have a special bond we noticed straight away.’

Speaking about the positives of adopting dogs, she said: ‘We would just like to raise awareness of the dog meat trade and rescuing and urge people to adopt instead of buying dogs.

‘People have a common misconception that rescue dogs are difficult, problematic, or always cross-breeds and undesirable breeds who aren’t family friendly.’ 

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