#THISBY

[girltomripley]

Wild grey ocean, buried in my eyes...

One day late to the party but I humbly present you my The Scorpio Races edit :) one of my fav books ever, I had to do something about it!! (Faceclaims for Puck and Sean are Ellie Bamber and Viveik Kalra in case anyone cares...)

[ourstaturestouchtheskies]

art history playlist moodboard – thisby vibes

The Fisherman’s House – Claude Monet // Dover – Richard Wilson // Tarbert Castle, Scotland – Hans Gude // Étretat – George Inness // Neptune’s Horses – Walter Crane // Low Tide at Varengeville – Claude Monet // Rocky Coast Scene at Howth – William Orpen // Castle Urquhart, Loch Ness – Hugh William Williams // The Cliffs of Villiers – Gustave Noel 

[valleys-lily]

"The ocean knows your name, Sean Kendrick. Make another wish."

[francescaswords]

The time is nigh. 🍂

[lucimiir]

master post

[emerald-soul]

My take on a fish-phase capaill uisce from the Scorpio Races. The main man himself of course (or, of Corr-se)

[little-editor2]

incomplete art pt. 2

refrence:

Sketch:

Outline and color:

[wereadtoliveathousandlives]

“Does anyone ask you why you stay, Sean Kendrick?”

“They do.”

“And why do you?”

“The sky and the sand and the sea and Corr.”

The Scorpio Races, Maggie Stiefvater

reminded of my TSR love thanks to Marginalia Pod, which you should all check out because it’s amazing and Jenn (@jenndoesnotcare) and Jen (@quietsuperstitions)​ are lovely and insightful!

[the-man-who-loved-a-mare]

Training Challenge #1

"Welcome to Thisby!"

Jaxom pushed his russet hair from his face, hands brushing the scar that zig-zagged from his hairline down to his chin. It was stretched and faded now, but the stares it got him never seemed to lessen. Especially now, as tourists began to flood the town and beaches, the unfamiliar faces gaped and turned to their city-dressed companions to whisper under their breath as he passed. It fazed him less now than it had when he was a child, turning to burrow his face into his mother’s woollen skirts. Now, the young man had the confidence to ignore the whispers, no acknowledgement given to those who pierced the comforting vale of his island home to turn their lives into a spectacle.

His tumultuous thoughts didn’t settle as he strode back home, mindlessly following the familiar paths he’d been treading since he learned to walk. His foray to Skarmouth had taken longer than usual, as his attention piqued and pulled at the store fronts, baubles and decorations already finding homes in preparation for the Races on the first of November.

Usually, the autumn months came and went without much change for the Willis family. Isolated high up amongst the rolling hills and fields of Thisby, most years the family of sheepherders simply prepared their flocks for winter, allowing the grit and the glamour of the Races to pass them by. Occasionally, his mother, and the sister six years his junior, Maeve, would make their way down to the town to sell spun wool and yarn to the tourists for prices that made them giggle and dance with glee, but Jaxom always found himself pulled away into tending the flock by his father. Twenty-three years on the island, his entire life, and never once had Jaxom made it to the festivities, let alone the Races. When he was younger, the boy had begged and pleaded year after year for his parents to permit him to attend, “just once, just for a day, an hour, please!”

Once, in the autumn of his twelfth year, the sheep had strayed far from their usual fields, and Jaxom, the ever-attentive shepherd, followed, trailing behind his wandering flock until verdant pastures fell away into sheer cliffs and where they made landfall the soft sand of the beach met the dark waters of the October ocean. Far below him, Jaxom could make out the tiny shapes of riders and capaill as they trained, so small they seemed more like the toys laid out on his bedroom floor than living and breathing beings. Entranced, the boy had turned his attention to the beaches, watching as stories of life and death and glory played out beneath him. The soft sounds of the surf breaking against the shore filled his mind, the ‘shh, shh, shh’ of waves delighting his youthful ears in an unfamiliar way. His reverie was only broken when he felt the rough hands of his father hauling him away from the cliff’s edge, and as he looked up into the darkening sky the realization he’d been absorbed for hours shook him.

The fallout was spectacular. His parents, usually calm and loving, had seethed, his father colossal in his rage. His mother wept and wailed, and made him promise over and over he would never do such a thing again, that he wouldn’t even think about the capaill and the Scorpio Sea. Jaxom promised. He stopped begging after that.

Always an honest man, Jaxom had done right by his promise, dutifully attending the flocks year after year while the festivities passed him by. This year, however, was the year he would break that promise. He hadn’t really meant to, nor did he particularly want too, but a late February storm had brought the best thing in his life to him, and racing was the only way he stood a chance at keeping her.

Thank you to @the-seething-child for sketching Jaxom for me!

@thescorpioracesfestival

[zephyr-two]

status: one whiff of salty air away from giving into an early reread of The Scorpio Races

[valleys-lily]

"Does anyone ask you why you stay, Sean Kendrick?"

"They do."

"And why do you?"

"The sky and the sand and the sea and Corr."

[francescaswords]

I wrote part of my undergraduate dissertation on the folklore behind The Scorpio Races, and I was a bit apprehensive that during my annual reread I would see the abandoned post it notes and revert to upcoming-deadline-panic-mode. Pleased to report I have been thoroughly enjoying revisiting Thisby and my stomach only dropped briefly when I saw the word 'Epona.' Heroically I thought of November cakes and kept going. Thisby really does heal the soul 🍂

[lucimiir]

master post

[lucimiir]

Thisby

The Banshees of Inisherin 2022 | dir. Martin McDonagh

[asmalldarkmannamedfurrisky]

The sea attempts to claim its own.

Fiáin inniú / wild today