#Tales of The Soul Farrier

[umari-xiv]

Acceptance.

Umari walked through the halls, pacing rather fast as her heart began racing. Once she was in her room she looked at the maids, "Out."

"Bu-"

Before they could finish she screamed, "Get out!"

The maidens quickly rushed already seeing Voss there on the floor with a fresh drink. Umari began pulling her tucked shirt out and undoing a few buttons as she tried her best to catch her breathe.

"Let it out little rabbit." Voss said from the other side already knowing what was about to happen. A loud scream and a series of tears began to fall on her face, she fell to the floor sitting on her legs allowing everything to finally hit her.

Sybil came fluttering by but just as she was about to open the door Voss lifted his hand. "Not yet. Give her a moment. "

"She made beasty leave too so he didn't hear her or see the weakness."

"Good girl you are catching on."

Sybil sank down beside Voss, "What if he finds us here?"

"We got in trouble. That is all. I will tell him things later."

It was a painful feeling in her heart one that was far more painful than any heart break from a former lover. Finding out her sister left home, finding out she became owned by some Madame that she could not seek revenge on but had to eventually work beside.

"How many... How many did she made you lay with... Were they gentle? Were they rough?" So many questions plagued her mind. "Why did you leave.. You were doing so well there. You still had your innocence."

"I should have taken you with me. I shouldn't have left you behind. I left you for something that doesn't even exist anymore. Blinded by a false love and not only has it ruined me.. But did it ruin you to? Did our talks about the places beyond our home inspire you?" She paced, knowing well it wouldn't be long before Hex came to drop Nami off just as she asked. She would never dare destroy anything that Hex gifted her and so instead she found her own personal item, a glass jar that she threw with full force.

The sound of shattered glass made both Voss and Sybil jump, "Stay here little one." Voss barged in the room looking at the mess she became in such a short notice. The sight broke him, he had seen her weak before but this was a sight he wasn't prepared for.

She stared at him, "You knew... You knew she was there. Why didn't you save her as you did Ninthe. Why didn't you tell me! All these moons that have passed and not once.. Not once did you ever." "I didn't know love. I know you left someone behind but you never said who you left behind. Had I of known you know I would of done anything in my power."

"But you didn't you drunken fool." The tears continued to fall as Voss just stayed in silence knowing her anger wasn't towards him but it was a general anger.

The more questions, the more she began to spiral and what other way to get her to calm down than doing something rather stupid. He pulled her close and pressed his lips against hers.

For a moment time stood still until she pulled away and slapped him across the face, "First you barge into my sister's bathing and now you're kissing me. Are you truly seeking death today?"

"It got you to stop right? You can not change what is done and you didn't expect the outcomes that happened. In that moment you did what you thought right and from what she has shared she has taken care of herself. The Madame would just not let anyone have her. What can be done is make up for lost time, you can keep her safe here and this time she doesn't leave your side. Should Hex no longer need us then she will be welcomed and be apart of the crew, this I vow to you."

"But for now, you must pull yourself together. Surely this is not why you came here and had the most pent up man in this place distract her." He wiped away the few remaining tears.

"Do you still have that box I asked you to keep safe for me?" She said as she fixed her shirt.

"Yes, it is in my room still in the very same bag you gave me."

"Could you get it."

"Only if you promise no self destruction." He stared at her until she nodded. He left and returned but a few moments later, "What's inside it?"

"What is left of home for us." She didn't open it but looked at Voss, "Hex should be coming with her soon. Can I have a moment alone? I am sorry for blaming you."

"It's okay, I forgive you little rabbit if you promise to never ever bring a blade to my cock and balls ever again." He quickly looked down as if still having some type of ghost feeling like they were still being threaten, "And you massage them later. You did nip one of them with how sharp your daggers are."

"Get out, you're the one that got me them so who's fault is that." She shook her head watching Voss leave and sat on the edge of the bed. As much as she hated Voss being right, he was. There was nothing she could do about the past. What was done was done and the only way to make up for her mistakes was to make the most of the time they had now. She placed the box on her lap and clung to it tightly, "Here's to hoping you haven't changed completely little sister.

mentions: @dreadfulhowls-xiv , @nami-xiv

soft mentions: @hex-xiv , @sybil-xiv , @ninthe-xiv

[ofsigrids]

hello  my dearest fellow writers ! i’m  eden,  my pronouns are  she  /  her  &.  reside  in  the  est  timezone.  i’m  so extremely excited to be here and apologize for this being late & a little vagueish being insanely busy right before christmas. without further ado though let me introduce you in part ( there will be a google doc coming with prettier things trust me! ) to the second love of my life - Sigrid!

synnove karlsen, 25, aryndale, cis-woman. ––– i believe that is sigrid dudley nee thrane, the duchess of limburg. they are twenty five years old and are known to be very captivating & perspicacious, though they can also be very enigmatic & calculative. they remind me of flowers raised from killing fields tended by hands that know their cost, words whispered into the ears of mighty men and to magnificent beasts and the elegance and grace of a wildly capable woman.  tw mentions of death, war

I. ━━ GENERAL.

NAME : sigrid gisela dudley nee thrane . ( if you are a friend you can call her siggy )

AGE : twenty-five. 25

COUNTRY OF ORIGIN : aryndale.

FORMER TITLE / S : none.

CURRENT TITLE / S : lady sigrid dudley, duchess of limburg

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN : scorpio. scorpio sun & taurus moon.

II. ━━ PERSONAL.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : heterosexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : heteromantic

PERSONALITY TYPE : infj, the advocate.

MORAL ALIGNMENT : neutral good borderline true neutral 

HABITS : a knowing look, biting her lip, quiet but extremely detailed observations

SINS : lust  /  greed  /  gluttony  /  sloth  / pride  /  envy  / wrath

III. ━━ TRAITS & PERSONALITY.

cowardly     ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ●      brave

energetic    ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○     lethargic

forgiving     ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      vengeful

charitable     ● ○ ○ ○  ○ ○ ○ ○ ○     selfish

authentic     ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      deceitful

chaste     ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      lustful

humble    ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○     boastful

naive     ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ●      experienced

cautious     ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○      daring

restrained     ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○     bold

trusting     ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○      suspicious

IV. ━━ PHYSICALITY.

HAIR COLOR : dark brown ( depending on the time of the year it does get lighter )

EYE COLOR : dark brown.

HEIGHT : 5′5.

WEIGHT : 120lbs

BUILD : ectomorph.

ACCENT : slight. vaguely scottish in nature

PITCH : middle register. an appealing almost silvery tone that does get a little melodic when she talks faster but not sing songy

SCARS & BIRTHMARKS : Most noble women have fairly dainty hands, skin unblemished and untarnished by the ravages of hard work. Sigrid’s hand though softer and faded, are scarred. she grew up an orphan in a mountain village taken in my their horse master needless to say sigird grew up knowing a hard days work. Sigrid also served as a scout / spy when aryndale joined the war before she married the duke of limburg so our girl has scars.

V. ━━ BIO  POINTS.

Before there was a great lady of limburg, before a duchess once again wandered the halls of house dudley, before there was title to her name a girl had none. Sigrid had no family, no family name, no relatives to call her own but a simple point of origin. A girl was born for all she knew in the village of thrane high in the mountains. Who her parents were, whose blood ran through veins she couldn't tell you but a babe was taken in by the horse master and his wife. They would raise a young woman to survive her world and she she thrive no matter her start in the world. They would teach her about Aryndale's greatest treasure. Horses.

She grew up learning the secrets of the great beasts, marveling at such magnificent creatures learning she preferred the company of the animals more than people and her adoptive father saw she had a way with the massive animals. Even the most wild and seemingly untamable of mustangs calmed at her touch, continuously risking her life to tame wild horses. In another life Sigrid often wondered if she had been a great mare that had ruled the countryside with a great mob at her back when men did not inhabit these lands just yet as if she were the legends ever aryndale citizen knew. It was no idyllic existence, no wonderful youth like many women of her eventual station would have tales of. It was many years of learning a trade, of toiling with rugged earth and stone to carve out an existence and the expanding of the horse masters influence in the surrounding areas. Weeks were spent on occasion by the side of the hunters leaning the ins and outs of the mountains and its passes and the secret places to find game to feed the village that was her home.  It was many days of whispering words into the ears of massive chargers, the hearty aryndale steed breed for war and peace both filling them with ideas of being legendary and of the things they would one day accomplish even becoming the mount for knights and kings. It was hours of the horse master's wife teaching her etiquette and proper manners despite a girls desire to run off and join a traveling band of merchants or entertained ideas of becoming a warrior. Either way they would ensure she'd be capable of living a lie of her choosing. It was an unfortunate thought they both shared that she'd make no man any real wife destined to be a spinster no matter the attention the boys in the village paid to an orphan girl.  They doubted war would come to pass and the village of Thrane would continue on as it always had and the horse master and his ward would work to supply the nobles of aryndale far and wide the best horses there were and provide their services as farriers, trainers and on occasion as trick riders. Sigrid did love it no matter how hard it was or the challenges every day presented with it would of course give her an edge later in life

She was a fine looking thing at sixteen, a mane of hair as silken as a prince's mare, a backbone to her and the complete availability to do whatever she wish. The threat of war consistently loomed over head like storm clouds that refused to release their rains and with such a close proximity to it potentially. When it did come to the borders of Aryndale her caretakers knew exactly where she would run to. Directly into the thick of things, to war, to serve king and country and protect a village entirely too close to the war. Sigrid lied about her age when she enlisted, declaring she was eighteen and due to the wealth of information she had was placed directly into a scouting position under the charge of duke dudley's son.

Would you believe that in the middle of a war against incredible odds in the thick of danger and death constantly two people were capable of falling in love. Sigrid Thrane as she called herself now, as it had been signed on her contract served as a spy and a scout had more than a dozen times saved her commanding officers life. Three full years was spent in freezing rain, in mud and dirt covered in blood and the constant threat of death together and two universes that had no possibility of colliding before became intertwined. In close quarters the two increasingly sought out each others company. The duke's son would tell her about his home, about the land he was eager to get back to and she would whisper of fairytales, horses and military strategy. They talked about lives after the war if both survived being so close to the front lines and he asked her after three years od serving together and seeing each other at their worst if she'd come back to his home with him. Could Sigrid see a future with the son of a duke? In answer to him she said these exact words. "For three years you have known me now - you knew that I lied about my age in order to fight for Aryndale, you've seen me at my most unattractive self and we've survived much and spoken at great length of dreams and foolish ambitions and how we would make a world better. My question to you Dudley is could you see a future with the daughter of no one?" A week later the two were married, recalled from the front lines for a small leave to celebrate their nuptials.

A choice had to be made and it was a heavy and hard decision to make despite newly wedded bliss. Which of them would return to Limburg and which spouse would go back to the war to serve aryndale and their allies? Despite her husband's protests and desire to keep her with him Sigrid reasoned with the mighty man that she could've have him unnecessarily going out of his way to save her risking the life of others in his command to lose more life. She would go back to his ancestral home without him to an ancient father in law to help aide in a necessary part of the war effort. Feeding their troops, supplying horses and help minimize the already heavy strain of aryndale's resources. Giving a kiss goodbye, Sigrid sent him back to the front lines, to the scouting party he led into dangerous missions to take on an even more monumental task.

Arriving at Limburg it was clear the place wasn't untouched by war, nearly ravished and run down. Villagers hadn't paid takes and had little food that wasn't already given to the troops and her father in law who would resist her aid for a short while was losing his sight and the ability to govern his duchy properly. Rolling up her sleeves, pulling back her hair and with a fierce determination to return the duchy of Limburg to its former glory the new duchess put her heart and soul into restoring her. Sigrid a newly wedded nineteen worked with farming families, with merchants and laborers to not only work down their seemingly insurmountable debts to house dudley without taking food from their children and doubling their annual yield. She worked in the fields scorched by fire and still smelling of death to show that this was as much a fight for nobles and commoners on the home front as it was for their warriors on the front lines in defense of their nation. Sigrid won them over, every last soul her husband would eventually have charge over and in the end even her father in law called her his most beloved daughter and a blessing to his house. Sigrid too would help where she could acting for the man to carry messages, to provide suggestions and strategies she'd offer forward as the old man's before it was noted they came from the young duchess proving herself an invaluable asset to the crown and the war effort much to the honor of house dudley.

It would be six years until the war would halt, six years for her husband to return and know the struggles she faced in the aryndale interior but the flowers risen from killing fields, grown out of soil that had seen blood and tears and his wife's hard labor to fix it and the lives of those in the duchy of limburg. Understandably there is some distance between the two as there are only so many letters that can sustain a marriage and they have barely laid together more than a few times in the entirety of their wedded lives. They’ve changed as individuals - they are strangers now really learning about one another again despite shared experiences. Here away from their home in the neutral zone this is a new realm of existence for her. The world in which she became a lady and fought tirelessly on front lines and to restore her husbands holdings was one where the definition of lady was altered. Rules here are different and she is a different. A relative unknown to all despite a select few she was involved with regarding the war effort they will soon know her.  Ever a most captivating woman she  breaths life into all she does Sigrid is bound to traverse these uncharted waters and make a splash. Truthfully perhaps they should be afraid those who know nothing of her as she will reveal nothing to them but sees more than those who were raised in this life of princesses and politics. Lady Dudley, despite how unsure of this new territory she is will do what is necessary. Sigrid will help her king and husband make a success of this even if she’s an unpolished lady with much to learn about really being one beyond a few etiquette lessons. 

VI.      ━━  CHARACTER RELATIONS. ( more to be added )

UNKNOWN  (  father,  deceased?  ).

UNKNOWN   (  mother,  deceased?  ).

HORSE MASTER BURGRED  (  caretaker/adoptive father, unknown  ).

ALFRIEDA (  caretaker/adoptive mother,  unknown  ).

DUKE  AERON DUDLEY (  husband; 28+,  wc! name can be changed  ).

VII.      ━━  WANTED  CONNECTIONS.

Again like Altain all the things! I will have specific wanted connections on the google doc that is taking me forever and a day but I’m a firm believer in brainstorming something special to highlight both characters and help build this gorgeous world so please hit me up!

[blueyesandleatherjacket]

A Taste Of Christmas, 4/6

Volume: 1.

Number of parts: 4/6.

Pairings: Metacrisis Nine x Rose.

A/N: Sequel for The Summertime Of Our Lives. Written for doctorroseprompts' fall fic bingo and ficmas challenge. Fall fic bingo: Jack O' Lantern, Fire, Crunch, Hike, Road Trip, Book, Mask, Blanket, Hug. Ficmas challenge: Chestnuts, Coal, Naughty and/or Nice. Tagging @thebookster on her demand.

“Christmas is a time when you get homesick - even when you're home.” - Carol Nelson.

CHAPTER 4:

“Have you ever been told the story of Jack O’ Lantern?” The Doctor and Tony were sat under the large tent the human Time Lord had built with sheets, chairs and even the couch. He had used a Time Lord trick to make it look bigger on the inside. They could fit an entire room in this tent. Instead, they had put cushions and blankets on the ground. It was the greatest tent Tony ever had. The only one he ever had. Once he had built one in his bedroom. His nanny had found him, lectured him and forced him to clean his mess. He never ever did that mistake ever again. He didn’t want to be lectured for having fun. Which was happening every time he was having fun. They all seemed to forget that he was a kid and, as such, he needed to have fun so he could grow up as a decent man. However, fun wasn’t in their dictionary. As the only Tyler male, he was the inheritor of Pete’s empire and he had to behave. Tony loved coming over at Rose’s place because she had little respect for those conventions and was showing him the real side of life, the one where you were having fun and still could grow up as a decent person. She had told him stories about her childhood in the Estates of London – that were far more dangerous and devastated in this universe – and how she had fought to become an ordinary woman until the Doctor swept her off her feet. She had had her ups and downs but she had had fun. Tony wished he could have such a life. He could only live it through Rose, through the Doctor who always had amazing stories to entertain him. Something Jackie hated about him – among all the other flaws she was finding in him. But it was only because he had stolen her daughter’s heart. That was what Tony’s nanny was saying. “That’s our watchman’s nickname,” chuckled Tony. “But you don’t know the real story.” Tony leant forward. The Doctor was holding his sonic screwdriver under his chin like a torch. It was partly lightning his face and giving him a scary look. Tony was fascinated. The Doctor had tried to explain Christmas, had messed the story up and talked about Halloween instead. Another tradition they weren’t celebrating in this universe. “Jack was a farrier in Ireland a long time ago. He was known for his greed, his nastiness and self-centredness but also for his love for alcohol. One night, he was in a pub and jostled Satan, the big bad boss of all devils. Satan tried to convince Jack to work for him to keep his soul but the farrier was cleverer than that. He asked for one last drink before accepting the deal. Satan turned into a six pence coin to pay for the drink. Jack pocketed it with a silver cross: Satan was trapped. The cross was a powerful artefact against him.” No need to go into details for that one. Religious were a dangerous path to go on and since they didn’t seem to exist in this universe, the Doctor refused to be the one bringing them in. He wasn’t a believer. Neither were Rose and Jackie, the two only other persons beside him to have known about religions with their good and bad sides. “That’s rubbish.” “That’s not over.” “So Satan doesn’t stay trapped.” “Of course not. Jack convinced him not to take his soul in the next ten years. Satan and Jack met again after those ten years. It was on a road of the Irish countryside. When Satan asked for Jack’s soul again, the farrier asked him to pick an apple from the closest apple tree. Satan climbed on Jack’s shoulders and clung to the branches. And Jack carved a cross on the tree with his knife.” “And Satan was trapped again.” “Yep.” “Did they make a new deal?” “Yeah. But this time, Jack hadn’t been that lucky. The day he died, he was refused the gates of Heaven, of the good afterlife and the deal he had made with the great Devil prohibited him the access to Hell, to the bad afterlife. He was condemned to wander endlessly in-between those worlds. Satan tossed him a bit of burning coal that Jack placed in a carved turnip he used as a lantern to find his way in the dark until the end of times.” “I thought we were celebrating Christmas in this house. Not the time to carve pumpkins.” “But we’ve met Jack O’ Lantern once.” Rose sneaked in the tent and settled down beside the Doctor. She put cornets full of roasted chestnuts on the ground between the three of them. She had been roasting them on the chimney’s fire that was burning bright to keep them warm in the house. The Doctor picked a chestnut and crunched it happily. There were small pleasures that were similar to what he knew in their universe. It was making it easier to live here. “You did?” “Yep. A long time ago. When we were traveling.” “That was with Captain Jack.” The Jack of this universe was a totally different person. He was a geek with big glasses, a serious problem with people and had an impressive intelligence. Their Jack wasn’t an idiot but compared to this one, he would have felt like it. No one was as clever as the Doctor. It didn’t mean they couldn’t get close to his superior intelligence. “We decided to go on a hike.” “You decided that it was a good idea!” “I wasn’t the one who spent the night in a dance club getting drunk!” “Obviously, you were refusing all the plans Jack was making up!” “It only consisted on getting wasted and… ahem.” “I never did the second part. It was only Jack.” “Anyway, we did that hike.” “That turned into a complete road trip by foot because you lost our vehicle.” “I never lost my vehicle.” Tony burst out laughing. At least, the Doctor and Rose were cute when they were arguing. There was never the threat of them splitting up or doing worse than just arguing. They loved each other too deeply to even think about splitting up. This was beautiful and Tony hoped to live something like this one day. Stupid tales would say his father. Pete didn’t believe in these things. After all, his real Jackie had died when the Doctor came in his world for the first time and the one he had gotten to replace her was too wild and independent for his liking. “Anyway, we were walking through a forest. Night was falling. There was a thick mist and we were getting lost in the woods. And there was this soft glow traveling in the dark. A silhouette carrying a carved turnip and looking for its way just like us.” “I’m still convinced it was Jack playing a trick on us.” “Maybe. Or maybe not. We’ll never know.” “You could write books, you know? With all the bullshit you say.” “I could, and they’d be serious books. Books of knowledge. Humans have a couple of things to learn, especially in this universe.” The Doctor was a show-off, Rose was lecturing him on his Mr-Know-it-all attitude and Tony was laughing. He was the happiest little boy when he was around them. They took care of him like he was their child but also like their equal. He was so glad to have gotten the right to spend all his holidays here, away from the pressure his family was putting on him. He wondered if his big sister ever had to go through this pressure. From what he had heard, she was living her life freely and didn’t have the intention to change it. He wished he could be as free as her. If only he wasn’t the successor of Pete Tyler… “Come on, you two. It’s bath time.” “I can take my bath alone, thank you.” “Well, one of the two is going to the bathroom, the other helps me with the dinner.” “Bathroom occupied!” exclaimed the Doctor. He crawled out of the tent and rushed upstairs. Rose wasn’t surprised to see him reacting this way. The Doctor wasn’t a man to cook. Sure he knew how to cook and he knew that very well but he also considered it as too domestic for him and refused to use his incredible talents. Even if it was to satisfy his wife’s taste buds. What a selfish man sometimes. He felt forced to take Tony’s place when he found out that they weren’t done by the time he was out of the bathroom and pretended to be unhappy about it. Rose was aware that he was faking it all. This man was spending his time pretending things he wasn’t really thinking. Like the day he had called her a stupid ape. She had taken it badly then, but now, she was reading between the lines, seeing behind the mask he was wearing to protect himself in society. The Doctor was a complicated man and she was the only one able to understand him and to love him for who he really was. “Are you being nice to be sure to have gifts on our Christmas celebration?” “I prefer being naughty to unwrap the delicious present I have under my eyes.” “You, naughty boy.” The Doctor chuckled and Rose swayed her hips in a coquettish way and a gasp escaped her lips when he dropped what he was doing to pull her close to him. His hand grabbed her arse, his lips brushed her pulse point and she held her breath, not knowing what to expect from him now. “Who is being naughty now, Rose Tyler?” His voice was hoarse and Rose adventured her hand on the hard bump of his pants. She smirked. She wasn’t the only one to be naughty today. The hoarseness of his voice indicated how aroused he was feeling right now. She squeezed his groin, heard the muffled groan and was taken by surprise when she sucked on the tender skin of her neck. They didn’t go to the end of this naughty game. Tony was giving them an idea of what life with a child would be. Rose wanted to be a mother. This wish had grown more important with the birth of Tony. She had taken her big sister’s part to heart, and over the years, she had wanted a kid of her own. She just didn’t want to push the Doctor into this. He wasn’t ready. And what would it be like to have a Bad Wolf/Human Time Lord child? Certainly an interesting mix. “What’s going on, Rose?” The Doctor was in bed, lying on his side, his head casually placed on his hand, and he was watching Rose getting ready for bed. All evening she had been distraught by thoughts he couldn’t decipher. Something was bothering her. She joined him in bed and snuggled against him under the blanket. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her in for a hug. “Nothing.” “Don’t nothing me.” “Nothing to worry about.” “You won’t convince me.” Rose sighed, “Fine. It’s a thought I have casually. It really nagged at me with Tony’s birth but your question that day…” “My question?” “When I told you there’s three of us.” “Oh.” The Doctor could be very stupid at understanding her sometimes but this was pretty clear. What she wanted was a family. She had been alone for so long in this world and she wouldn’t have filled this need or expressed it if a version of him hadn’t been trapped with her in this universe. “It’s too early for you. Forget it.” “Rose Tyler,” he looked at her straight in the eyes, “I’ll be more than honoured to have a family with you. Now, or later.” He kissed her lips tenderly. She was astonished that he was so willing to have a family with her, so honoured that this man who had no ties and no home was now feeling comfortable enough to settle down and have children with her, a woman he loved passionately…

To be continued...

A Taste Of Christmas © | 2019 | Tous droits réservés.

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[noahhawthorneauthor]

In the softest, softest place.

The ‘Old Language’ is based on Hebrew, and I found this old song that I had to incorporate into the story, which fits Novak’s parents so well. This scene is from the prequel, Children of Iverbourne. (Content contains loss.)

Shards of faded slate fill the unending wasteland, a nipping blizzard steals what little visibility we had before. Little Warrior wails into his mother’s chest under layers of wool, and Lilah’s frozen angelic wings break off in pieces in my exhausted arms. I stumble but remain upright, struggling under the cold and the drain of my Aether warming the two in my arms.

The shaman warned us how dangerous the h’orba lands bordering the mountainous barrier between Iverbourne and us are, but it’s safe to say we underestimated her. I’m starting to think this so called hidden portal is determined to stay just that.

“We’re almost there, just a little farther.” I grunt out, dragging my feet through spears of rocks impaling the soles of my leather boots. It’s been days and we’ve done nothing but travel in circles, but this was our last resort. The day after we took Little Warrior’s wings, life was different, we were different. By evening of that too beautiful day, I think we both fooled ourselves into thinking we could hold onto him for a little bit longer, forever even.

By dawn, Fenrir’s personal battalion had raided the nearby village, in search of a child born with cursed magic that will one day bring destruction upon us all. The High King’s propaganda and fear spreads like wildfire throughout once peaceful lands, and for centuries he has hunted the so called Cursed Ones. Legends of havoc and destruction follow the paths of the few remaining Cursed Giants who have managed to live in solitude, but not many people have actually met one and lived to tell the tale.

Or an accurate one, anyways.

Back in the old days, I heard a story from a traveling blacksmith about two Cursed Giants meeting in a small village he was offering his farriers’ services to. The wrinkled behemoth of a male was full of drink at the time, but I still hung onto his every word, at the time I hadn’t met Lilah yet, and was quite the romantic. The thought of two kindred souls reuniting after so much time spent alone was heart warming.

“I think you’re pulling my leg, how could you tell just by looking at them?” I slap the tree trunk of a male’s shoulder and he narrows his brows, chest heavy with low laughter. His flashing green eyes were wild before, but now they take hold of my soul and demand I listen. I lean closer to him over the table, eyes wide with intrigue.

“Neither of them appeared extraordinary, save for the obvious marks of course,” He chokes on a dribble of spit and slugs back his ale, and I nod. I’ve heard the males have wings of shadow, fatally beautiful enough to suit Death himself. As far as the females, I think it’s something to do with the hair but I can’t remember, and don’t want to interrupt his already slow going story.

“The girl was a librarian, quite a kind thing really, but when that male walked down the main street and saw her walking by, stack of books in hand, the entire world stopped.” He spreads his arms wide and my own lengthy mottled wingspan draws tight to my shoulders, “The great Sun God Samson himself was blocked out by his wings, and the girl became something else entirely, as did he.” A shudder rips through the blacksmith and my heart beats wildly. He takes a slow drink and his eyes glaze over, excitement replaced by grief.

“What did they become?” The blacksmith’s eyes lock with mine, and his words are so low they pound my heart into place.

“Death.”

A gust of ice shoves me forward and I slam onto my knees, fighting the shout thundering in my chest. I can’t drop them. Our son goes quiet and as I struggle to stand, my fluffed white ears fold down when they can’t find the sound of Lilah’s shallow breathing. A whimpering groan escapes my cracked chest and I set her on the ground with care but it’s no use, her wings are shattering apart into flecks of gold and white. I wrap my arms around her and the bairn both, frozen sadness sticks to my frostbitten cheeks.

“No, no, no. You can’t leave. Come back.” I beg, pressing my forehead to hers. I refocus all of my Aether on her, giving her the last of my magic. Ice replaces my veins and a strangled breath escapes from her shuddering body, her hand squeezes tight on my wolf fur covered shoulder.

“No, save him.” Her words freeze in the air between us, and her frostbitten face is calm.

“I’m not leaving you, I can get us all there.” Fresh tears freeze into my beard.

“Then we will all die, and Novak can’t save the world.” She breathes out with a smile, air raggedly leaving her. Warmth returns as she pushes back on my Aether keeping her alive, and her grip softens. “Help me.” She murmurs, and I do so with cautious efficiency. I unwrap our son from her chest, then peer under the many layers he is swaddled in. Aside from trembling blue lips and solemn eyes, he is alright.

For now.

“Novak?” I ask while focused on his face, soul warm with her decision to finally name him. Silence jolts my attention back down to her pallid sharp face. A cascade of strawberry blonde flows from under her oceanic knit hat, the one I made horribly for her last Yule. Panic paralyzes me, the Aether in her eyes is fading. With haste I bring my frozen lips to hers, and she smiles softly under my breaking words.

“Wait, wait for me, ahuvi, in the next life, and may you love me then half as much as you do now.” I hurriedly lift Novak to her face and his tiny hand rests on her dimples, then her light fades before both of us in an instant. Before I can react, Novak is staring at me with those soulful eyes, a deeper faceted blue than his mother’s. He doesn’t cry, just reaches for me. I fold him close to my chest and allow myself a moment to break, holding my passed love in one arm, and my child in the other.

Novak nestles into my warmth and I push out the last of my momentary grief, then focus on the task at hand. I lay Lilah down and rise with a stumble, then undo my thick jacket with one hand and sling Novak onto my chest, wrapping him tight with the stiff patterned linen. I replace my wool jacket over top and ensure he is settled decently for the trip. I glance down at Lilah’s body, then around us, the snow now blustering and offering momentary glimpses of a nearby grove of dead trees.

The h’orba lands are rumored to be devoid of life, animal or plant, and thus far I would have to agree, besides the skeletal grove in the hazy distance. I can’t just leave her body in the middle of nothing, and at the very least she deserves a nice final place to rest. Camp might be a good idea as well if there’s a wind break, but if I can’t bury her …

“Hold on tight, Little Warrior.” I say, throat torn and voice broken, then scoop Lilah up with another stumble. Every exhausted muscle I have screams as I carry her to the grove, body begging for a reprieve from the elements. Feathered icicles trail the ground behind us and as the dead trees near, a heavy thought occurs to me. Instead of begging her to stay, I should’ve sent her off with song.

I weave through brush and thicket, thorns snag on my clothes and Lilah’s hair, feathers are caught by bark covered fingers. When I step into a bare clearing filled with snow, I am face to face with what might be the oldest tree on earth. Awe overwhelms my other feelings for a moment, and I close my eyes. I breathe in crisp snowflakes and exhale the guttural, deep music of our people.

“Huhayámalérakút; Hi haytákashaVechólkámashenistálehishaérkach, Pashút, uvlísibátová, Lakáchotáeltochatzmó, VeheníachBamakómhachírach.”

Novak rustles against my chest and I open my glistening eyes before they freeze together and take slow strides across the clearing. I halt before a gnarled tree with ancient bony branches spreading into the grey sky, scraping the unending blizzard storm. I settle onto a wailing bloodied knee and place my wife at the base of the ancient tree, folding what’s left of her wings underneath her. I clasp my hands together over the bundle on my chest and lower my head, then sing with softness this time.

This one, last time.

“He was full of tenderness; but she was very hard. And as much as she tried to stay thus, simply, and with no good reason, he took her into himself, and set her down. In the softest, softest place.”

With the last of my gentle words, the wasteland around us transforms in an instant and I fall backwards, quick to steady Novak with a hand. Sunlight cuts the snow down and reveals a brand new day. A carpet of spongy moss rolls out from the tree, transforming the rocks under my hands into inviting green.

Vines erupt from the ground surrounding the ancient tree, thrusting into the sky and latching themselves onto the bark. Wildflowers of every color quite literally pop from the warm grass around me, and leaves unfurl with haste onto every tree in the grove.

I scurry onto my feet and my heart drops at the sight of Lilah’s body, or where it used to be. Now all that remains is a massive peony bush, overflowing with pink flowers larger than my head. The plant continues to grow as I approach and caress a petal, not ceasing until it is two feet taller than I.

I throw off my jacket and reveal to Novak the sun filled world that has sprouted up while he was hiding from the cold, and he is even more amazed than I. “Look, Little Warrior, look what Ema did.” I say, a smile finds my face whilst I watch his eyes light up at the sight of all the colors.

“Why must you cross?” An ethereal voice creeps around me, and I rest a hand on the thawed sword at my side before turning with caution. No one else is in the grove with us, but a heavy presence fills the air thick with power and wickedness.

I have the audience of a God.

[idontgiveaflyinggrayson69]

I find it so funny reading some of the comments you guys leave saying that what I wrote was super sad and stuff because it’s NOTHING compared to what I’m writing for my gay ww2 story like... you can’t read that without a drink...

I joined this war to help; to be a hero, but I’m a killer. I’m nothing more than a killer standing among other killers pretending we’re more than that.

There is a reason why, when the hero died, people write tales of heroism. They want to immortalize the brave as they wish to picture them. Not as they were. Not as they would become.

I knew before he pulled away. Maybe I knew it even before I kissed him, but I knew it.

That little boy from Scotland who was so ready to fight this war, I buried him. I buried him along with my heart and soul out on that tar matt. God forbid I survive this war… I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I did, because I haven’t. I’m already gone. This war has taken everything from me, all that remains is the cold shell of my body. Maybe it’s time it takes that too. But I promise you, the one thing this war can’t take is my love for you. That will remain long after the two of us are gone.

The colours dance across the sky and the water graves below. I know we’re sitting ducks up here, where we’re most vulnerable, but it’s the only place I can find any peace nowadays. But even here I know it isn’t the most beautiful sight. No, that’s reserved for you. The sun is beautiful to the earth, but you, you’re my sun. All that I am revolves around you. I guess that makes me the earth, the place of war and ruin.

You’ll survive this war, maybe just in spite of it, but you will survive. But I won’t, I know that much. I can’t marry, I can’t be happy, but you can. But you can. 

It’s a watery grave for me. Even if I did parashoot out, I would die of hyperthermia. There is no way they’d send someone for me, and even if they did, they wouldn’t reach me in time. It would be pointless. No, I’d rather ride this one down. Go down with her, like captain with his ship.”

I can hear the pain in his voice, but I can’t answer him. This is the end for me. Farrier always said he didn’t want to survive this war, and I always dreamed of becoming the hero. But I’m not a hero, I’m not brave. Here’s the truth they don’t tell you: to become a pilot is a death sentence. I lasted longer than I should have, but pilots are meant to die, it’s what we do best. But I can’t answer him. If I did I would rob him of our final moments together, when I was really me. I don’t want him to remember me like this. So I don’t answer. And I’ll go down into the water like so many other pilots, another tally on an endless chart. For once I’ll be like everyone else.

People always talk about the fear and anxiety of the inevitability of death, but they never talk about how death is easy and living is not.

[pugliepug-influencer-dog]

Disney +

Disney since November 12, 2019 created a streaming application called Disney+ which is a composite streaming application divided into four large segments: Marvel, Disney, Pixar, Star Wars and National Geographic. At Disney you can see original Disney premieres+ series like Wanda Vision, Pixar in a real life, Family Day, movies like; Luca, Soul and Noelle, successful shorts like flota, el princesito and purl, you can also watch the Disney Junior children's series like Elena of Avalor or maybe documentaries of animals o survivals.

At Disney you find everything! From the last superhero movie from Marvel to the first princess created in 1937, and the future princesses Disney is a place where you can dream

One of the films that occupy the Disney + application is Dumbo Directed by famous director Tim Burton, tells one of the most classic Disney tales about the big-eared elephant that could fly, however in this new adaptation this story can be seen as a live action in which Medici, Circus ownerrehires former circus star Holt farrier and his children’s Milly and Joe to take care of a baby elephant that has ears so big that it is the laugh of the whole circus, However, thanks to them, they discover that the elephant Dumbo can fly, bringing with him fame and the occasional problem to the circus. This film is a classic of Disney films that are characterized bycelebrating differences, making dreams and imagination fly.

Dumbo, the elephant without a mother who could fulfill all your dreams, leaves us a lesson through the screen, without a doubt it is a good movie to watch as a family and get Disney + because it is not a streaming application for a single age range, but on the contrary it is for all.

[montanabarb]

Puppy Tales By Phoebe “Bug” Harriott

Log Entry #1: There is Evil at the bottom of my water bowl that I must uncover. I paw frantically, sometimes with all four paws, to no avail. I am hampered in my efforts by my Human who continues to fill the bowl with liquid. Does she think she can drown Evil? Silly Human. Evil cannot be vanquished by drowning. I will resume my efforts later, when the Human does not have her video recorder at hand.

Log Entry #2: The Big Dog is under the illusion that she is the boss of me. I find this amusing as I am skilled at subterfuge. Big Dog is not easily charmed, yet. For now I bide my time until I assert my rights as Top Dog.

Log Entry #3: The Old Red Dog has rebuffed my advances. At times he seems to invite play by running to his food bowl. Confusing. He avoids eye contact and seems remotely hostile to my existence. I am unafraid. He has no teeth.

Log Entry #4: There are two felines inhabiting our compound. Orange Nose Cat welcomed my advances and enjoys our rousing wrestling matches. She flicked her tail for my amusement but objected when I engaged. My feelings were hurt. Orange Nose Cat is a tease. But I still like her quite a lot. When I introduced myself to Black Nose Cat she got very big and made a noise that hurt my ears. Black Nose Cat is not any fun. She doesn’t even have a tail.

Log Entry #5: I have discovered a tasty delicacy I call Truffles. You have to snuffle in the gravel around the large horse machine parked by the barn to find them, but it’s worth it. The flavor is grain, grass, and horse butt. Such delicious nuggets!

Log Entry #6: I like shoes. That is all.

Log Entry #6 Update: I LOVE shoes. The Human puts them on her feet when we go outside, then takes them off when we go inside, then puts them on for outside, then off for inside. Sometimes she forgets to hide them from me. Oh, the chewiness. The crumbly little horse butt tasty bits on the bottom. I LOVE shoes even more than Big Girl Lamb Chop that lost its stuffing and squeaker.

Log Entry #7: Big Dog tells me to anticipate a visit from the Farrier. He leaves a buffet of deliciousness on the barn floor. The Human thinks she clears up all the tasty bits. BD says NOT to disabuse her of this belief. I must use stealth to retrieve each tasty bit and carry it to a secure location to savor. If I must barf, I should do so in a remote area when the Human is not looking. I anxiously await the coming of this Farrier. I think my charm is working on BD.

Log Entry #8: Fences are the funnest puzzles. So many choices: go under, go over, go through? My Human understands me. I am Aussie. I am Problem Solver. The Human keeps adding baling twine and wood scraps to make it even funner! Human is so attentive to me but she looks tired.

Log Entry #9: The Old Red Dog has finally succumbed to my charms. He gives me hugs but it is rather awkward because he sits on me and arches his back. I’m not convinced these are “good” touches.

Log Entry #10: I am sorry about that time liquid excrement shot out of my pucker hole in the middle of the night on the Male Human’s side of bed. I warned the Human that a fart was a message from Fort Gut to Fort Butt that General Turd was on the move.

Log Entry #11: The Human puts Rugs all over the hard floor. They are extremely effective at stopping a power slide. The edges are VERY tasty. Especially the one that my Human brought all the way from Morocco in 1992. It is handmade and has fringes! The Human forgot about the Rug rolled up under the bed in the guest room. It was hard work but I brought it out to her when she forgot to close the door. The Human was impressed but not grateful.

Log Entry #12: Orange Nose Cat is a two-timing hussy. I think she is ghosting me. Not a sniff, not a snuffle. Yesterday, I spied Orange Nose Cat slinking her fine, silky cat fur up against Old Red Dog. “Hey Mister <<purr>> gimme some sugar.” What?! I thought we had something special.

Log Entry #13: I met a new Human and was so excited stuff leaked out onto the floor. The Human moves very fast when that sort of thing happens. The Human checks her wrist to count her steps every day so I think she appreciates the motivation to increase her Activity.

Log Entry #14: The Human who made this house put chew sticks along the bottom of all the walls and around the doors. This brilliant Human must love dogs.

Log Entry #15: Pachelbel’s Canon in D was delicious, almost as yummy as worms. I only got a small taste of Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and will have to report back at a later date if I can find it again. I am inhibited by a barrier around the big black music thing.

Log Entry #16: The Farrier visited yesterday! I only barfed once, at 1:16am. I tried to be discreet, per Big Dog’s instruction, but I was confined to this Cage thing the Human puts me in at bedtime.

Log Entry #17: I am mastering the Human’s language. “Come” and “Sit” are very tasty. This “Ouch” is confusing. I believe I have several names. In addition to “Phoebe” and “Bug,” I recognize “That’s Not a Chew Toy” and “Leave the Old Dog Alone.”

Log Entry #18: ONE minor excavation project and the Human insists on a bath.

Log Entry #19: The Human assumes I will just blindly “come” when offered a mere mystery meat morsel, sometimes just a fraction of a morsel. When I was just a kid I fell for that ruse. I am Aussie. I am smart. I will pretend I hear nothing and continue to snuffle for truffles.

Log Entry #20: The Human managed to catch me and shackle me with The Leash to go to School today. The teacher smells AMAZING! I think I love her more than Orange Nose Cat.

Log Entry #21: Every time I retrieve a pair of shoes (actually I prefer to enjoy one shoe at a time) the Human puts it immediately back in my closet. I suspect the Human is OCD. I think I’ll recommend she try a belly rub. They sure do settle me.

Log Entry #22: I hate to complain, but the Human does not refill my kiddy pool on a timely basis when I empty it. The Human calls it a water bowl.

Log Entry #23: This is confidential, but I pooped my pants in the car on the way to School. Drool dripped from my mouth. Very embarrassing but I scored lots of lap time the rest of the day.

Log Entry #24: As the new kid in the Pack, I believe I am being fed inferior vittles. I continually ask to eat the Big Dog’s chow, very insistently but politely of course, but am forever rebuffed. I wonder if I am malnourished?

Log Entry #25: Sometimes Big Dog acts like my mom and licks my face and ears. Like a spa day. Other times Big Dog does that arched back hugging thing right on my head and it just doesn’t seem right to me.

Log Entry #26: I poop on the floor and the Human steps in it once, maybe twice, ok three times, and you’d think the sky is falling. Old Red Dog drops a trail of turds from his pucker hole on the way to the door and the Human just picks it up and sprays stinky stuff. Sheesh. I did learn some new words that appear to be reserved for extreme situations.

Log Entry #27: The Human keeps the Son of Satan in a closet. SoS makes a very loud noise and tries to suck the fur right off my body! I try to disable SoS and frighten Him with my ferocious tone of voice. I suspect that Big Dog and Old Red Dog might have sold their souls to SoS because they are unaffected by his loud presence in my home.

Log Entry #28: I have been promoted to Apprentice Barn Chore Dog and awarded limited access to the horse stalls. Big Dog has full authority in the barn and unlimited access to the horse butt nuggets. BD tells me to be patient and my time will come. For now, I relish the delightful aroma that emanates from BD’s pucker hole after a morning of butt nuggets.

Log Entry #29: The Human keeps asking, “Where’s my left slipper, Bug?” I need more information, Human. Is that the one without the heel or the one without an insole?

Log Entry #30: Major discovery! If I chomp on Mr. Monkey, Moo Cow, and Weanie Squeakee just right, they sing a delightful soprano song. I can carry the melody all around the house!

[diandrareviewsitall]

Film Review: Dumbo Soars With Disney Magic

Film Review: Dumbo Soars With Disney Magic

Dumbo is a must-see for kids. The live action film of the cartooned, Disney classic made adults cry while mesmerizing their kids. Not since E.T. did I truly care so much about the soul and safety of an on-screen creature. Thus, Tim Burton has created a magnificent work in heart and message. 

From the beginning, Dumbo is set up as a “mother and child” tale. Nico Parker’s Milly Farrier and…

[movieswithkevin27]

Dunkirk

The first truly great film of 2017, Dunkirk is a return to the top of the filmmaking world for director Christopher Nolan after his last two efforts failed to rise to the stellar levels of his past works. In Dunkirk, Nolan has made a film that is artistically challenging, possesses great cinematic merit, is accessible to a wide audience, and is a box office success. Not since the prime of Steven Spielberg or James Cameron has a filmmaker been better able to turn their works into ones that are both must-watch spectacles accepted by mass audiences and cinematic achievements. Though praising Nolan has become somewhat faux pas amongst cinephiles, those who deny that Nolan is one of the best working directors today are perhaps lost in the hype surrounding his works. With his latest effort, Nolan rises to the challenge set before him by film lovers to become more than just an entertaining director of great films, but flawed, works. In a stripped down celebration of human will, Dunkirk is perhaps the finest artistic achievement of Nolan's career of consistent success.

Ever since filmmaking became an accepted piece of artistic expression, war films have been a mainstay. Whether it is All Quiet on the Western Front, The Bridge on the River Kwai, Paths of Glory, Apocalypse Now, Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, Saving Private Ryan, The Thin Red Line, or any number of other greatly celebrated works, war films often prove to be the greatest challenge of its filmmakers' careers. Forged in the blood of the fallen, attempts to build characters amidst the sea of carnage, and trying to make a universal statement about anything, the genre has its share of master works, imitators, and misfires. While the 21st Century has had its fair share of strong war films, none have quite risen to the level of being the definitive war film of the era until Dunkirk. Stepping away from the brutal carnage and character-driven nature of many great war films, Nolan takes a page out of Terrence Malick's book on how to make a war film: capture its essence. Focusing on character development and carnage in equal measure proves to be the undoing of far too many war films with not enough screentime to go around. So, like Malick, Nolan seeks to capture the feeling and experience of being at the Dunkirk evacuation through the stories of those on the land, in the sea, and flying in the air. Names are never mentioned. Dialogue is sparce. Characters are paper thin. Yet, through this work, Nolan manages to silently and loudly strike at the very essence of what it is to be human.

Perhaps no film has better used its IMAX capabilities than Dunkirk, becoming the Avatar of IMAX cinema. With bombs dropping all around, men yelling in the distance, rifles firing, and the ominous hum of German fighter planes in the distance, Dunkirk is a truly immersive experience that makes the audience more than a spectator. It turns us into a participant. The struggles of the characters to reach England and escape from soon-to-be German-held territory in France needs no character development or long scenes of backstory to make us sympathetic for the characters. Instead, it forges a brotherhood found only in the trenches, emblazoned in a way that only the unity of shared experience can conjure. By simulating the feeling of being surrounded from all sides, Nolan makes us root for anybody his camera finds. Their names are inconsequential and who they are has no impact. We root for them not because the film tells us to, but because we feel a sense of unity and brotherhood with these men. These becomes our boys. Our friends. Our brothers. To watch them suffer and die is to lose a part of ourselves. To save them and watch them reach the British shore is a cause not just for celebration, but unabashed jubilation. In creating this feeling, Dunkirk is a film that feels like no other, casting aside individuality and focus on developing single characters in favor of creating familiarity in the entirety of the British forces.

A slimmed down script that chooses its words carefully certainly bolsters this, as the film is devoid of exposition and character development of any type. Words come at a premium and, unlike in his lesser works, Nolan ensures no word is out of place. Every time a character opens their mouth to speak, those words and their impact is felt due to the rarity of speech in the film. It is for this reason that Dunkirk is best viewed as an experience. In line with Nolan's attempts to drop the audience in Dunkirk and give them the lay of the land, historical details are a rarity. Conversations about the battle's role in the war, how disposable these men are to the British, and the current state of affairs in the war are kept to a minimum. As such, this is not a film to educate. While many war films seek to have a cohesive narrative that explains the events of the war, Dunkirk does no such thing. Nolan never flirts with this possibility, nor embraces it at all. Instead, it is a film where Nolan seeks to create a unique cinematic experience by dropping the viewer into this hectic, dread-filled, and truly chilling atmosphere. He seeks to teach the audience how it feels to be in war and how it felt to be at the Dunkirk evacuation, not how it looked or be told how it all felt. By leaving this element to the audience, Dunkirk becomes a film that is devoid of cliche or manipulation. Instead, it is one that becomes a wholly unique and human experience that breaks down the barriers between soldiers and common citizens, allowing the experience to become one that does not need to be told to be understood.

It is through this creation of the feeling of having "experienced" Dunkirk first-hand that Nolan is able to subtly demonstrate the film's major themes. Through its tales set on land, on the sea, and in the air, Nolan is able to create intensely human experiences that are felt, not explained or spelled out. The human will to survive bubbles to the surface constantly in the film, one that is demonstrated by all who wish to make it out of Dunkirk alive and will do whatever necessary to make this true. Whether it is hiding under a deck like Tommy (Fionn Whitehead), trying to force out a non-Brit from hiding like Alex (Harry Styles), or any number of men swimming to ships through dangerous waters, the human will to survive at all odds is felt throughout this film in great measure. Yet, an equal and opposite force is also felt: the disinterest of those in power. Called to attention by Commander Bolton (Kenneth Branagh), Prime Minister Winston Churchill has thrown in the towel in Dunkirk. Of the 400,000 men on the beach, rescuing 30,000-40,000 would be ideal, but will have to be accomplished without any British military rescue ships. Instead, civilian teams will be dispatched to help save the men needed. This cold, callous, and unfeeling decision to sacrifice so many young men in the name of winning a war is powerfully represented. With numerous shots highlighting the extensive number of men on the shores on Dunkirk or in ships, Nolan captures the scope of Churchill's decision and the vast number of people he has sentenced to death, purely because they were called upon by their country at the wrong time. As Mr. Dawson (Mark Rylance) says, this war was made by the middle aged and elderly, but fought by young men. It is this generational gap that has led to such unfeeling strategy-based decisions that disregard the human element and focus on numbers. To this day, this is felt in various walks of life with varying levels of impact. Given that the inclusion of this information occurs repeatedly amongst the film's scarce dialogue, it is clear that Nolan seeks to create a mutual feeling of understanding between the soldiers and the audience. In the world of employment, everybody feels the cold, judging eyes of management that shows no loyalty while expecting absolute loyalty from its staff. Leaving people out to dry to save money or equipment is a staple of all companies and, as Dunkirk shows, is a staple of war and of World War II in Britain.

Yet, where Dunkirk truly excels is in the silent and subtle embracing of its deeply human themes. The quiet, yet the resolve of everybody to assist one another and fight with absolute unity in the face of death is a powerful display that deeply resonates. The sacrifices made by everyday people to help the soldiers escape Dunkirk, the sacrifices made by those in the air to save men on land, and the sacrifices of those in command to make sure everybody gets home safe, are all felt and beautifully executed. It is valor and honor that never calls attention to itself, turning it into a silently matter-of-fact course of action that makes complete sense. Mr. Dawson guiding a ship to Dunkirk is not a questionable decision, it is one he has to make to help others so of course he goes. Air Force pilot Farrier (Tom Hardy) allowing his plane to run out of fuel and land in German territory to save the men on the beach is the only decision to make. Commander Bolton staying around after the last living Brit is taken off the coast to ensure the Frenchmen are saved as well is equally obvious. These powerful acts of quiet unity, honor, bravery, and valor, are celebrated but approached in such a way that they are unassuming, reserved, and poignant without being forced or manipulative.

In focusing on this quiet resolve and honor, Nolan matches the tone set by the film's opening text. Explaining that the film is one about men facing their fate, praying for deliverance, and awaiting a miracle, it becomes immediately clear of the Biblical implications of the film. Though these religious roots are never overtly returned to, the use of words such as "fate", "deliverance", and "miracle" are carefully chosen and used in unison for a reason. Often mirroring a Biblical epic in how participants chosen to act by a calling deep within their soul traverse arduous terrain in the face of absolute evil, Dunkirk is a film that could often pass for a missing book of the Bible. Embodying the quiet sacrifice, unity, and test of one's resolve/faith, that many Biblical chapters include, the film is one that is faith-affirming in every way that term applies. It is affirming in the belief that miracles occur everyday, especially through those motivated to act by some underlying desire in their souls. It is affirming of the brotherhood shared by those in a place of absolute desperation and in their ability to come together, rely upon one another for everything, and come out on the other side of the tunnel. Above all, it is a film that promises that no matter one's fate, deliverance is awaiting us if we fight, scratch, and claw, our way there. Once ready, miracles can and will arise no matter how hopeless the situation may appear. By putting our faith in that fact, the impossible and forgotten become both possible and the making of mythical legend.

However, to suggest that the film is one that benefits solely from its characters and actions on display would be a great disservice to the film. In the finest display of control and mastery of every element of the filmmaking process, Dunkirk has perhaps the best sound of any film in 2017. This is both a credit to Hans Zimmer's score and to the sounds introduced by the ongoing battle. After becoming too reliant upon prolonged usage of organ pipes, the Nolan-Zimmer pairing slightly re-invents itself in Dunkirk. While still including this preference for organ music, the film's score is one that creates a stellar atmosphere. Ominous, filled with dread, and deeply disquieting, the score's synthy undertones and heavy-hitting notes is often reminiscent of the opening scene of David Robert Mitchell's It Follows. As a result, Dunkirk is a film that often mirrors a horror film in its usage of its composition, opting to complement its horrifying and fear-inducing visuals with the audio to match. it is one of the few war films to transcend the simplistic, "war is hell" mantra and become a truly immersive experience that is "felt" in large part due to Zimmer's score. It is one that creates the perfect atmosphere for how it unsettles the audience, lingering ominously in every scene in which it is played.

Yet, where Nolan truly commands the audio experience created by the film is when the score is not playing. Utilizing the atmosphere of dread and an ominous sense of inevitability created by Zimmer's score, Dunkirk's best scenes are consistently whenever the men are set to be bombed. Going quiet until one man notices the oncoming plane, the roar and hum of the German plane is heard off in the distance but getting increasingly closer with each breathe. Roaring by as its wings tear through the air, the impending arrival of death is felt immediately with all of the men hiding and cowering prior to the bomb being dropped on them or nearby. The scenes on their own would be jarring and terrifying, but Nolan's decision to allow the scenes to slow build-up with the subtle introduction of a distant sound that becomes more frantic and noticeable within seconds of its introduction is one of true inspiration and brilliance. Without this touch, the scenes would likely play out like any number of other bombings in a war film. By going for this visceral sense of place and immersion into the world experienced by the men at all times, the film's depictions of absolute desperation and depression are made all the more impactful due to the overwhelming sense of dread the use of sound is able to create. It is this use of sound that allows Nolan to eschew graphic war violence in favor of focusing on atmosphere to produce the visceral carnage demanded by the film and it hits the mark repeatedly.

Matching the brilliance of the score is the gorgeous cinematography, furthering cementing Dunkirk as having accomplished the triple crown of filmmaking: emotionally arresting story, striking visuals, and a brilliant use of music to accent both. While scenes in all three portions of the film are often gorgeous - especially shots of the lines of men on the shores of Dunkirk staring through the fog and clouds to find home - the sequences in the air are often blessed with the best shots. As Farrier and company dogfight German pilots, the action set pieces are brilliant in scope, smartly written, and gorgeously realized with regards to choreography. Capturing all of this in a series of close-ups to the British pilots and "over-the-shoulder" shots of the planes, Nolan captures the devilish beauty of this dance to the death and the breath-taking beauty of their English channel battle arena. Blending gorgeous background visuals with stunning set pieces at every turn, Dunkirk is a film that demands to be seen on a large screen to be able to soak up every inch of its beautiful frame. More conventionally, Nolan finds beauty in the scene in which men are swimming in oil and must frantically get on the rescue boats to avoid being burned up. Traumatic and chilling to watch, Nolan's camera drops underwater with the men. With their faces covered in oil, their bodies submerged in the deep blue ocean, and the raging orange fires lingering on the surface, the scenes are striking to watch and a beautiful blend of hot and cold colors, a go-to for many films but one that Dunkirk executes to absolute perfection.

Immersive and experiential in a way that no war film has ever become, Dunkirk is not a film that explains its historical events or seeks to develop pathos via character development. Instead, it is one that seeks to educate audiences on how it feels to be in war. The sounds, the terror, the desperation, the unity, and the unquestioned brotherhood in the face of a common enemy, all take center stage in Nolan's film. As a result, Dunkirk becomes a film that relies upon feeling, emotion, and atmosphere, in a way akin more to a horror film than a war film. Opting for this experiential method of war filmmaking in a fashion similar to Terrence Malick's The Thin Red Line, Dunkirk is a film that stands out from the crowded field of war films so proudly and with such accomplishment that it should make competing war film feel shame for even trying. It is the first war film in 20 years to feel everlasting, impactful, and transcendent. It is a film that lives up to, and often exceeds, the legacy of its genre. By the end, Dunkirk becomes a war film that not just shows battle, but becomes so real that the blood can be smelled in the air.

[therealvagabird]

A Squire’s Journey

The tale of a girl in search of glory, by C. Christiansen.

Oh, gentle mother, righteous protector

Steady my hands, kindle my heart

Let me see my fate through your eyes

Reassured of its inevitable purity

           Susannah prostrated herself before the shrine, alone, murmuring her prayer to herself. In the light of the young hours, the multi-colored walls of the chapel took on pale, pastel hues, their mosaic beauty washed out in the blue light. It was cold, but Susannah didn’t care. She could feel the warm embrace of the Goddess stilling her heart, shielding her body. Just as well, as she was dressed in little more than her nightgown, and her legs just protected from the hard, stone floor by a prayer mat she’d taken the time to lay out. Her pale, blonde hair cascaded down around her arms as she bowed, arms outstretched before the altar—her own shades; golden hair, rosy skin, sky-blue gown, now also washed to paleness in the morning light. The point to which she prayed was the sole aspect of the temple lacking in intricate décor. No idol could capture Her Holiness’ beauty, and so her prayers were directed at a simple effigy of wood, carved in the shape of an elegant tree trunk, whose outstretched branches cradled the holy text which it supported—the Vag’Yahmi, thick-bound and adorned with little more than the gold lettering that told its name, written in the holy tongue. Upon the front of the carven trunk was set a hand-sized disk of brass, which was polished so bright as to almost carry a warm sunlight of its own, reflecting those cold, ambient rays that filtered in through the narrow-slit windows of the chapel’s fortress walls. An unfortunate side effect of Castle Sarie’s nature as a martial base meant that the Order’s temple had to do without the elaborate stained glass of the inland cathedrals. Susannah didn’t mind. As a knight—well, aspiring knight—her faith was not founded on trappings of gold and silk. She could feel the light of the Goddess in any place under her loving gaze.

           The warrior heard the creak of heavy doors, and concluded her final prayer, sitting back up to have one final look at the altar. She was ready.

           “Ah, mademoiselle Deschamps.” The servant confirmed with faint relief in his voice, turning his head back around the door, “As I said she would be.”

           The elder man was followed in by someone Susannah knew to be his younger, but looked all the world more worn. Knight-Katib Bellamy, one warrior whose face bore the injuries of administration as much as they did the scars of battle; the horrors of the battlefields of war, and of mountainous paperwork.

           Susannah rose at once, placing her hand over her heart in respect for the master knight, the standard salute of the Empire of New Yahmi. She was somewhat embarrassed that her prayer had taken so much longer than she’d anticipated—she would have never kept her superiors waiting, and now here she was, dressed in her nightgown with her hair undone, stood in front of the shadow-faced Bellamy in his full regalia.

           “Good to see you’re already up and… well, ready in mind, if not in dress.” The katib’s voice was soft even though his face was as stern as always. Composure was a high virtue within their Order, though it was never supported by sour moods—the countryside that birthed the stock of Sarie was far too golden to give rise to foul tempers.

           Susannah nodded, “I was just preparing with morning worship, m’lord. I thought the hour was earlier than it was, I’m sorry to have thrown you off.” Though she was clad in casual wear, her stance was as rigid as would be expected of a soldier.

           His wave was unconcerned, the gold trim on his cuffs ever so glinting, and his cream-white suit sharp and austere, as suited his office. “It was no issue. Many warriors will seek a morning prayer before a long mission.”

           Her eyes lit up, “Is it time, then?”

           He nodded, “You’ve been selected as our emissary and champion. Bureaucracy and unwarranted secrecy has done nothing to expedite the process, but the Order on Sarie is never hesitant to jump at the call of duty.” He looked her over, “If you would prepare yourself, I shall see you in the chambers of the Lord-Paladin, where you might learn of the details of your assigned task.”

           Susannah held up both of her hands and crossed them over her chest. “Thank you, Knight-Katib. I shall prepare at once. I apologize again for my absentmindedness.”

           “You’ve no need for apology, I tell you.” Bellamy almost smiled as he turned back to the door where his assistant waited, “Action. Action shall see you stand in glory when all is said and done. Leave apologies to me and the myriad bleating souls I must write to.”

           With his biting sarcasm concluded, the katib left, and Susannah Deschamps breathed a sigh of exhilaration and relief. She rolled up her prayer mat, and gave one final bow to the alter, before walking at as brisk a pace as was decent back to her room, gate swift and unyielding.

           At the age of twenty-one years, the time of the prodigal squire’s accolade was no doubt imminent. Under all of her tutors Susannah had excelled—swordplay, riding, athletics, all fields of etiquette. The nickname of “Statue Susannah” that had been bestowed upon her by her fellow squires betrayed little of the fire that burned inside of her in the name of improvement.

           So it was that the day when her mentor, Knight Clement, had told her of an impending opportunity to prove herself worthy of knighting, she’d been crippled by her inability to think of anything else for the past month. In truth, as many of her morning prayers had been dedicated to tempering her own excitement as there were towards simple blessings, lest she make a nuisance of herself and destroy her chances.

           “You know; you might think of what kind of tea you’re drinking on the day-to-day.” Squire Richemond had approached her one day during form-practice in the yard, when they’d concluded with a rigorous fencing session. She’d been puzzled at the statement.

           “Excuse me?”

           “Your eyes—you look fit to kill somebody just practicing. Your face is like a relief, while your eyes dart around like fire. Maybe try a more herbal tea, less sweet?” she couldn’t quite tell if he was joking or not, “Less energy?”

           “I’m fine!” She’d assured, perhaps with a hypocritical amount of force. “Just focusing, staying attentive.” He hadn’t seemed convinced.

           She hurried back to her cell, which was no great distance from the chapel—in the same wing of the fortress, in fact, and threw on her proper attire; one of her nicer traveling sets, in beige and ultramarine, with black leather affects. Hose, boots, a tunic, and protective shawl long enough to wrap around her head in the most inclement weather was the total outfit, with Hair was done up in a tight ponytail, to her liking. Her main bag was already packed with what clothes she could manage, along with her own Vag’Yahmi and Guide Chevalerie, while leaving room for whatever the quartermaster saw fit to send her off with. Her sword was her own, though, the sabre’s austere hilt gleaming from the top of its black-leather sheath. Strapping the blade to her hip, and content that she had everything she could take, Susannah sped down to the courtyard with as much haste as she could muster. Perhaps she was overzealous; preparations for any travel, especially long-distance, required a wait of a good day or so just for the affairs of the fort to be seen to—supplies to be issued, rolls to be exempt—but she would much rather seem over-prepared at the very start, than prove herself wanting.

           The day was beautiful, now that the rising sun had cut through the morning fog, and the castle had begun to come alive with the morning awakening. She hoped her peers wouldn’t think less of her for not appearing at morning worship, but she figured they’d realize the importance of her duty once they noticed she was gone from the whole of the fort. She wished them well on their own trials; it wasn’t ignoble to remain a squire—her times serving by Clement had been among the most glorious memories she had made—but the life was not for her, not when the chance of Knighthood rose ahead. Perhaps even (dare she abandon humility for the thought?) the title of Paladin?

           Her boots plodded across the hard-packed dirt of the courtyard. Those knights who slept in the wings apart from the squires nodded to her as they passed en route to the chapel, and she saluted in turn. So early, most of the traffic was servants prepping for the day—preparing provisions for morning meal, tending horses, and the like. Some of weaker gut and limb might’ve found the smell of the castle courtyard in the morning unpleasant, but Susannah relished it—the fresh wind off the near sea, the smell of horses (their musk—the stable-hands were quite diligent in cleaning up after the beasts), and the smoke of the great fires in the common rooms and kitchens being stoked to new life. People donned the rich blue of the Order on Sarie on myriad parts of their clothing, complemented by cream, gold, and other vibrant hues of the morning. She waved across to the smith, the farrier out and working the bellows to get the forge ready for the day. The faint smell of baking bread also emanated from the bakery hut, though Susannah’s nose had to pine for the wisps of sweet perfume under the earthy scents of the rest of the castle—perhaps she should have left time to get breakfast first as well; it would be unseemly to have her stomach growl while conversing with the lord of the Order.

           Its pale stone height illuminated by the rising sun, the tower of the lord-paladin rose from the sea-side walls of the fortress. Its doors were flanked by banners bearing the coat of Sarie—be-antlered hippogriffs flanking a stylized ship upon an azure sea under a golden plain. From the tops of the poles holding up the banners hung the heads of threshing-flails, carved for ceremony rather than actual use.

           A polite knock on the door and a moment later a meek young girl saw her in—Giselle, who had the odd privilege of almost always working within the high tower despite nary speaking a word to anyone. The stairs to the lord’s office spiraled upwards at the side of the room, tucked away in their own well. The ground floor of the tower was little more than a waystation along the wall, but still decorated with all the trappings befitting her nobleness’ dwelling, or in fact any house of the holy. The Empire was not one to shirk on ornamentation when there were exalted deeds to be praised.

           Giselle just nodded to the steps with a faint smile. It was difficult not to envy the office of the lord-paladin, for its view alone! Status was one thing, but the vantage also made speeches easy to give, and provided a point of overseeing in times of siege—though Susannah had never once seen the fort beset by attackers in all her years of training. The only structures higher than the tower of the Lord-Paladin were the topping spire of the chapel, which was but ornamentation, and the aviary, which reeked of messenger birds.

           Susannah focused on remaining calm as she clipped up the spiral steps, making sure along the way that her clothes were neat and her hair ruly. She adopted the stone-faced demeanor of respect and reverence she had spent so long cultivating, so as to be fully prepared. What if there was a change of plans at the very last minute? She fretted through knitted brow. Impossible; the Knights of Sarie did not go back on their word once given, and would not cease a task once it had been assigned. In the year 1007 of the current age, it was said that three warriors of the Order had travelled all the way to Sibahl, in the far east, on a private crusade of avengeance even when the foes who had slighted them had already been slain at the hands of another kingdom. Susannah kept faith that this would be her moment.

           The stairwell let out onto a small terrace that held some additional finery of station upon a separating wall; the lord having a room, as well as a floor, all to her own.

           Taking a deep breath, the squire knocked.

           “Enter.” A woman’s voice came—the resounding timbre of Lord-Paladin Imogene. Susannah pushed open the heavy pine doors, so thick and deep-lacquered that the girl had to put in a bit of extra effort to get in the room, lacking the momentum to swing the dark hinges inward. As she stepped inside, the squire looked every bit like a stone sculpture given life through fine paintwork, so stoic she became in determination to maintain dignity, though perhaps a faint amount of sweat on her forehead might have given away the effort and imbalance of pushing in that blasted door.

           “Susannah.” Knight Clement nodded, his face matching the stolid composure of his apprentice’s, though his eyes were wrinkled into a hidden smile—he was by far the least decorated thing in the whole room, as his status as a senior warrior and friend of the paladin granted him the leniencies of a wild crop of hair, and plainclothes dress. Katib Bellamy sat apart at his own desk, laden high with scrolls and letters, sitting with the attentive stance to be expected of his station. The whole of the office was bedecked in sigils of the Order, the Empire, and small trinkets, mounted scrolls, and the like marked with the coats of kingdoms and factions those upon Sarie had helped in the past.

           And dominating the room in terms of sheer presence was Imogene Soucia, Lord-Paladin of the Order on Sarie. She was an older woman, but far from her dwindling years, as her sharp face was still rosy and comported into the most elegant of defaulted expressions, so graceful one might think it would be a great exertion of her’s to keep it so. She was dressed in a deep navy-blue dress of simple cut—for warriors, not nobles—though laced with gold thread and turquois, while her black hair was held back into twin-tails that joined into one braid at a brass ringlet. Were it not for Susannah’s deep and long-built faith in her leader’s legacy of compassion, she would have made for a terrific and intimidating sight. And perhaps she still did, for the sheer grandeur she gathered around herself.

           “Ah, mademoiselle Deschamps.” She smiled through thin and smirking lips, “Wonderful, wonderful.” Susannah counted a small victory in her head when she saw one of the Paladin’s hands close a small book and place it to the side, knowing her Lordship hadn’t just been waiting, staring at the door in impatience for her arrival.

           “Lord-Paladin.” Susannah crossed her arms over her chest with military vigor, “Thank you for seeing me.”

           “Thank you for rising to the occasion. Sit.” Imogene instructed, offering the chair across from her massive desk. As the young girl seated herself, the Paladin took a long sip from a copper-colored cup, from which the faint tinge of cold, sweet tea could be caught.

           “To it, then?” Clement asked, at a might too high a volume. Despite looking nary over forty, Susannah’s mentor was more battered than he appeared, and had the dubious honor of being the sole member yet living in the Order to have fought in the Crusade of 1266, where he had been (though he would never acquiesce the fact) deafened in part by the booming guns on the fel war-machines of Kostchya.

           “No sense in delaying any further than our allies have, I suppose?” Imogene chuffed, “Very well. Squire Susannah Deschamps of—” she snapped her fingers.

           “Normère.” The squire finished with a nod. The river-crossed village was not far at all from the cliffs of Sarie.

           “And you are, as of last winter, twenty-one years of age now, correct?” she clarified, though there was little doubt—it was inked in the pristine records of the katib.

           “Yes, ma’am.”

           The Lord-Paladin smiled wide, breaking her stern face, but none of her confidence. “And I’m told by dear Clement that you’re something of a prodigy. Indeed, I’ve seen your attentiveness in matters around the fort, and your piousness is respectable, though I’ve not had the fortune of seeing your performance in the field.” With every statement she finished, a slight flick of her fingers cued Susannah that she was allowed to speak.

           “I was shield-bearer for Knight Clement at the Battle of Saltfort, and I held the line with him on the fields of Brod. Among other battles.”

           “Brod?” Clement plucked up, “Ah, yes. Cut down many a traitor swine. As did she!” he pointed to Susannah, holding his trembling hand still, “Fantastic display! I think at one point she stuck two Norse barbarians upon one spear!”

           Imogene cocked an eyebrow, “Impressive—”

           Susannah coughed, brow furrowed with discomfort and cheeks red with flattery, “Not to, uh, discredit my mentor, but there was only one Norseman at that battle. I did once spear two men on one pole, though. More of an accident, truly.”

           “I do not believe in accidents.” Imogene pursed, before smiling, “Perhaps this is a good precedent, that the Goddess favors you so?”

           “Maybe, ma’am?” she didn’t know if it was a joke, compliment, or serious consideration. She hoped in her heart of hearts that it was the latter.

           “Needless to say, you’re a prime candidate for an early knighting, and it would be a great boon to all upon Sarie.” Susannah sat up even straighter than her already pole-backed stance, “And the time has come for your trial.” The squire suppressed sweating further, “No knight of this order has risen to their station without a solitary test of their mettle and virtue. And after much deliberation—perhaps unneeded, we have just such a test for you to prove yourself on.”

           Susannah placed her hand over her heart again, but was unable to make eye contact with the paladin, “Thank you, m’lady. I will uphold the honor of the Order.”

           Imogene continued, not perturbed at all by the interruption, “We have received word from across the sea, from the lands of Naeng, from the Academy of Gishornas.” Susannah could not know at the time the horrendous Naegnish spelling of the shibboleth “gee-horn”. The squire couldn’t say she knew anything of the academy in question, though Sarie had maintained fair relations with the northern islands for many years. “One of their senior magisters was abducted—taken whilst away on research upon the northern coasts of the Empire. The Kelgal barbarians are suspected of the crime, though the information we’ve been allotted is unsure.”

Now this was where Susannah was thrown; she was to fetch a mage? She had nothing against mages, they were of great import and usefulness in the New Yahmian Empire—even those suspect ones from the libertarian colleges of Naeng—but they were odd folk, and their presence upon a mission or battlefield heralded confusion and bizarre happenings. Furthermore, she was expected to travel to the lands of the Norse for this rescue—the rescue of a magician worthy of the title of Magister, but unable to withstand the might of this particular party of raiders? She did not envy the encounter, though she likewise would not allow fear to seep into her heart.

           “Ah, yes.” Clement interjected again, craning his head in a knowing gesture towards Imogene, “It has been an unfortunately long wait, for having such a man’s life on the line. I’d lay the blame on the academy itself, however—word is they only asked for aid once they were certain there was no easy retrieval of the scholar in secret. Then there was the usual scramble of alliances amongst the orders nearest to Naeng. It is a shame so many of our calling do not seem to share the dedication of Sarie—once we heeded the call, there was no more argument to be had.” He smiled, “First to glory.” He recited the latter half of the Order’s holy motto.

           “Am I to go alone?” Susannah asked, more as a way of determining what assistance she would have, “There were no Naegish orders to answer the call? Sarie is some ways south—is the Academy lacking for allies?”

           “Oh no, there were many who leapt at the mission, though I’d dare say it was simply us who were the most determined.” Clement boasted, “The Naegish holds found the threat of raiders so bold to be fair cause to hole up and defend their lands from further attack. Those of the mainland, I’m sad to say, became embroiled in politics. No such trivialities for the Castle upon Sarie! Though you follow my mind, Susannah, the absence of ready defenders of an academy, a northern one… it is suspect.”

           “How fortunate then that we have someone as pure of purpose as our squire here, then?” Imogene remarked, “Fulfil your duty and return with haste, and all will be well, that is what matters in the here and now. But to answer your question: yes, the Count of Gishornas has seen fit to send a prime warrior from among her court, foremost to accompany the mage who will also be upon this endeavor.”

           “A mage?” Susannah leaned in, “Of what kind?” she didn’t know what else to ask. She’d never met a true mage—Sarie was so rural and agrarian, there was little even in the ways of mystic medicine through the lands of the steep coast.

           “The foremost apprentice of Magister Crewe, the missing man in question.” Imogene clarified, as Susannah became more and more interested in the arrangement. It appears the mages had as firm a belief in holy vengeance as any, “Their names are not listed upon the missive, save for the surname of the warrior; ‘Sidheach’—I believe that is ‘shay-hawk’—no, pardon… ‘shaw-hawk’.” Imogene shook her head, “Neagish consonants; enough to make a dame sweat.”

           “Very well then!” Clement clapped his weathered hands, “A perfect quest, I’d say! Noble goals, a chance to experience the folk of the sister-kingdom, and a tempering in the cold crucible of the north! So cold—”      his voice withered, as if remembering his own trials; though Clement had known the misfortune of fighting in the Drained Lands, further east, rather than the true home of the Norse. His memories were no doubt more bitter for it.

           “I’m ready for any adversity.” Susannah saluted once more, “I could never not accept. I promise I will return victorious, and bring the Goddess’ wrath upon the trespassers.”

           “As I’m sure you will.” Imogene smiled, though her eyes were as ice, “Carry the warmth and fair winds of Sarie with you, and the good word of the Vag’Yahmi. Bellamy!” she pointed to her subordinate, “You can show her where to sign on the ship ticket, and give her a token for the quartermaster.” The Katib nodded one mechanical nod.

           “You’ll do us proud.” Knight Clement grinned like a joyous father, “And then perhaps I’ll have to find some other strong-armed youth to heft my shield? Ah, what a shame, what a lost squire. Return safe so that I might at least have the privilege of fighting by your side. Goddess bless.”

           Susannah stood and took his hands in hers, “If I’ll remember your stories of battle, then I won’t need to rely on blessings alone.”

           “Hear no evil.” He said with a wink.

           Though the next day or so would see Susannah consumed with preparations, her soul fluttered within a disciplined chest the whole while, thinking down to the ship that waited below and beyond the cliffs to the shoreline, floating on the same waves—though here touched by the golden sun of the mainland—that lapped at the frozen shores of her destination, the place to prove her honor.

           But first, some breakfast.

[thegreenhorseman]

February 13th began a cloudy day in Jonestown, PA.  Just a typical Tuesday with temperatures in the mid 30s.  On Brian Moore’s property horses stood waiting.

…and waiting.

Waiting on what you ask?

Simple, my dear.

An angel.

If you’re at all familiar with the name Brian Moore you immediately know this is no fairy tale story.

You see, Brian Moore is a very well known name in the horse slaughter industry; a controversial and complex dark world that few people truly know about.  When a horse is deemed unwanted and cannot find a loving home it will often find itself at an auction.  Still unwanted this horse is scooped up by kill-buyers like Moore who bring them to kill pens where they await transportation to slaughter.

These horses were born with a purpose.  Maybe someone’s childhood pony that was outgrown, the horse didn’t meet performance or even appearance standards.  Some horses were “too wild” or “too lame,” “too old” or “too plain.”  One of them might have been your child’s summer camp horse.  Another one was a racehorse.  All of these horses were brought into the world with a purpose.

Somebody took time to breed and raise them.  Trained them. Loved them (hopefully).  But yet they find themselves in the kill pen.  Over 100,000 slaughter-bound horses are trucked across the United States border every year.  Together we can dissect every detail of this dark world and discuss “Why?” or “Why not” but this is not the time.  These are the facts right this moment.

February 13th began like any day but it was a special day for one thoroughbred horse named Zeno Bay.  Angels found him in Brian Moore’s corral and paid for his freedom.  Susan Kayne of Unbridled Thoroughbred Foundation and her supporters rescued him from a sure and horrific final ending; blessing him with another chance at life.

One week later Vai Via joined him.  Another bay thoroughbred gelding with angels fighting in his corner.

Throughout this year Unbridled Thoroughbred Foundation (UTF) has been showing these two, along with their fellow rescued com-padres, what it’s like to be loved.

In a parallel story Zac and I purchased our home in December and began making preparations to have horses in our backyard by May.  We successfully set up fencing so that Blade and Happy could come live with me.  From Bad News and Good News Squared you might remember that Happy is missed at her home.  That is where our two parallel story-lines intersect.

I was in a conundrum because I cannot afford to keep two horses all on my own.  The farrier and vet expenses are crushing.  My neighbor introduced me to Susan and the story unfolds from here.

After farm visits and some discussion we grew increasingly excited for the future of the two boys.

I work overnights so I woke up Tuesday afternoon.  Bardi had his annual exam and vaccinations.  I left to work my 12 hour overnight shift.  I arrived back home from work around 7am on Wednesday September 19th.  I fed Blade and Happy, picked paddocks, scrubbed water buckets, and loaded some hay nets.

By 8:45am Zeno Bay and Vai Via made their journey from Kinderhook, NY to my home.  They unloaded from the trailer while Blade and Happy eagerly looked on from their paddock.  They had a chance to stiff Blade over the gate and we turned them loose into their own paddock.  Right away the boys trotted around to investigate.  Ears were up, eyes were bright, tails were lifted, gaits were animated, and they were clearly very excited.  The boys each found a spot to roll, and they continued to explore their new home.

This is a situation that helps everyone involved.  The arrangement allows me to keep Blade in a small social group while providing the boys a safe and loving place to call home.  This helps with the stabling and labor costs at UTF.

Once I was satisfied that all horses were happy and relaxed I took a much needed rest.  In the afternoon when I woke I treated everyone to a full body groomdown.  Happy had her favorite shoulder scratches, Blade and his tummy scratches, and I had a chance to get to know Vai Via and Zeno Bay.

From the short time we’ve known each other Vai appears to be the dominant of the two boys.  He loves Zeno and shares well but likes to make a face every now and then to reassure himself that he’s higher on the totem pole.  Vai and I took a good 60 seconds to “introduce ourselves” nose to nose…By that I mean…

When horses first meet one another you will often see them putting their nostrils together.  As one breathes out the other in, and vice versa.  This is a form of greeting and is often believed to be a bonding time.  Vai expressed interest as I was brushing him so we stood in silence for a moment breathing.  I also spent a few moments to introduce him to myofascial release; within seconds he was already responding to the heat of my hands at his poll.

Zeno Bay seems to be the curious guy.  I brought my bucket of brushes to him along with the container of treats.  He proceeded to turn the treats container and get his lips into the opening in a failing but adorable attempt to reach the bottom.  So far he’s much more food motivated than Vai.

It’s just the first day so please stay tuned for more as I get to know these lovely souls.

And, if you want to learn more about Unbridled Thoroughbred Foundation you can do so by visiting www.susankayne.com/foundation.html.  If you feel so inclined there are many ways that you can help; even a small gift can make a big impact.

Day 1 for Two… February 13th began a cloudy day in Jonestown, PA.  Just a typical Tuesday with temperatures in the mid 30s. 

[umari-xiv]

DWC - Haze.

It was not often sleep troubled Umari but when it did she could be found wandering carelessly through the woods. This morning was no different as she wore a black skirt with a slit reaching up half her thigh and a white sheer button up that was poorly buttoned and hung off one of her shoulders. Despite being barefooted she walked with a certain grace mindful that the woods were also still half asleep. The ground beneath her still as cold as death and the sun's rays had barely started to show.

The warmth she once had from the comfort of her bed was replaced by the chill of the morning's air. It was a moment of bliss and the only real connection she had to her former life. As she walked deeper into the woods she stooped for a moment and sat down. Those golden rays began caressed her exposed flesh providing a bit of warmth as she closed her eyes and let out a relaxing sigh. Nothing could disturb this moment or so she thought.

"Uma!" The sound of a high pitched voice came from behind.

"If I ignore it... It's not there..." Umari thought to herself. She kept her eyes closed and continued her slow breathing until she was tackled by a familiar face. Sybil wrapped her arms around Umari's neck, clinging to her back like a child seeking a piggy back ride.

"You left me!" Her tired face looked at Umari ready to burst into tears, "What if you got eaten! I would be masterless again!" Sybil began breathing rather heavy and reached for her chewy Hex was so kind to give her.

"Another troubled night?"

A second familiar voice came from behind causing Umari to let out a frustrated sigh. Her head tilted back as she saw Voss standing there already dressed for the day, "Something like that." She then tried her best to free herself from Sybil's grasp, "Sybil, I think I can hear your best friend slowly waking.. Why don't you give him one of your usual greetings. You know how much he loves them."

Sybil's attention perked up, "Beasty is awake?! That means snack time!" It didn't take long for Sybil to drop her chewy and rush back into the house ready to give someone else more gray hairs.

"A moth to a flame." Voss said chuckling knowing all too well who she was going to annoy. Voss sat down beside Umari wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. "Same dream?"

She rested her head on his shoulder and nodded, "Despite how real it feels I can hardly remember it."

"Maybe because I wasn't in it. If I was then you could remember it as clear as day."

She lifted her head up and gave him a stare, "Shut up." She rested her head back on his shoulder, "In truth my former life feels like a haze. All I can really remember is everything after that mistake."

"Well isn't that a good thing? Look how far you've come from then. The company you keep, the men beside you.. Meaning me and Hex.. Anyone else tries to come near you and I am certain they would have to pass the inspection. Given how valuable you are to Hex I am certain that anything that wounds you he would gladly destroy. Him and Sybil would have the perfect play date if you get what I mean."

"That is one clean up I would want to avoid." A slight chuckle escape her lips as she stared out watching the sun rise.

"Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes, but it is not like I could ever go back. So for now... This will have to do. At least there is still somewhat a connection."

Silence filled the air once again and despite having her eyes closed shut tears began to fall. It was extremely rare for Umari to show weakness in front of anyone and yet in this moment she could no longer hold it in. Tears turned into an actual cry as she covered her face from the world.

Voss didn't need to know the story he heard it once and it was enough to set the bastard into a fit of rage. He stood up only to bend down and slip his arms under her legs and carry her bridal style in his arms. Her face found comfort in the curve of his neck, "Let it out love. I think you've held on to it for far too long."

He didn't turn to head back home but instead carried her deeper into the woods.

She had loved..

She made sacrifices, sacrifices that kept her from her home, her family and friends. Her loyalty was unlike any other but when it came to love a price was always meant to be paid. Now her biggest regret came in dreams, a foggy vision of her past life with memories that were slowly being forgotten.

He carried her for what felt like hours until eventually she fell back to sleep in his arms, "I got you love." His words hushed as he carried her back inside. As he made it in he was about to be tackled until the miqo'te came to a full stop. V'shesre's green eyes shifted from Voss to the slumbering Umari.

"It happened again?"

He simply nodded trying to be as quiet as a mouse trying to get her back to her chambers, "I think she'll need that vial love. It was bad this time. Speak nothing of it, leave it on her nightstand."

V'shesre nodded and quickly rushed to her room seeking a vial from her satchel. She came rushing in watching Voss carefully place Umari in her bed, grabbing the blankets and covering her. V'shesre placed the vial on the nightstand as well as a tea bag.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" She asked in a concern tone.

"She always is. She just needs time." Voss grabbed V'shesre's hand leading them both out and closed the door behind them.

She stayed asleep this time only having dreams of the future.

mentions: @hex-xiv

@daily-writing-challenge

[umari-xiv]

The Truth in Past Mistakes.

She knew at some point this day would come.

A day where she might of tried to return home just to see what her kin would say but most importantly what would she say. Umari's past mistakes had resurfaced plaguing her in moments where she saw peace and now they were there plaguing her sister's flesh.

Umari paced within her room as recent flash backs of her and Voss were seen with each blink causing her race once more.

"I love you rabbit. Leave your home and we will always be together." "Enough Voss." "Now and forever.. " He moved closer grabbing her by the face as if about to kiss her, "You weren't enough. All of your sacrifices.. You can never see your family, you can never see her again and for what? You became what you are because you sacrifice it all. Be angry, how would would she be now?!"

It was the delicate knock on her bedroom door that made her regain her focus and as she turned around Sybil opened the door, "I found her just as you said." Her little wings fluttering about as Nami entered the room with a smile.

"Sybil, why don't you go annoy Voss and Hex for me dear. Surely Hex still has some warmth to give you?"

Sybil smiled, "Yes cuddles Beasty owes. Must make sure Voss did good or else I eat him." Sybil didn't even bother to fight Umari as she bolted out the door and zipped through the hallway leaving the two alone.

Umari walked over towards her sister, "How was your walk? Did you have fun?"

Nami smiled, "Yes, the gardens are beautiful. Different from home though, not Kugane but home." There was a moment of silence as Nami thought about her words and decided to just go for it, "Where is he. Not even Hex knew about him.. Did things not go well after you left?"

Umari sighed pulling away and took a seat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes focused on the box and then towards the floor, "It was good for a moment, or so I thought. I tried everything but in the end everything was for nothing. I was left behind, broken and full of hate but I couldn't tell if the hate was towards him or myself. I was blinded. No one knows but Voss. He found me shortly after. I wasn't sure what to do with myself so he took me under his wing, made me apart of his crew until I found something to make up for the mistake. I buried myself in readings, and finding the beauty in both life and death and because of that I met Hex and since then I've been at his side loyally."

Nami stood in silence as she didn't know what more to say. Another wave of silence claimed the two before she finally spoke after what felt like ten minutes, "Do you regret it? Do you miss home? What about me? You left for something that didn't even last? Are you ashamed of yourself?"

These were all questions Umari prepared herself to hear but there was a difference between preparing and actually hearing them. Each question was like a dagger being shoved in her heart and as she looked to see her sister's painful expression to some it only made her want to break down even more. Instead she leaned over and lifted the lid of the box, revealing what was left of home for her. A small rabbit plushie that once belonged to Nami when they were younger, a silken cloth, and dried flowers from the garden her and Nami made, "Yes and no. I regret not taking you and I deeply regret who I left for however, had I not left I wouldn't have grown as a person. I wouldn't of met those that I have and I wouldn't be at Hex's side. What purpose would I be serving back home? I was just a simple medic to our wounded."

A soft sigh escaped between her lips as she looked towards Nami, "I miss home because I missed you. You were a constant thought, even more with recent events. I thought about coming back to get you but what would you of thought of me? I thought after all these moons you hated me. As for shame, of course. That will be with me until I am dead but I can not change the pain I caused you, myself or those around me. I learned from it and grew as a person. I can only make sure I don't repeat the same mistakes. What of you? How did you end up in Kugane and this Madam did she..." The very thought of asking that question wanted Umari to rip out the woman's throat even more but remembered how she was an ally of her boss.

Seeing the box and everything inside made Nami's heart stop for a second, "You kept it all?" She could feel tears forming but much like her sister she quickly wiped it away, "At first, I was mad at you and I didn't understand it. Maybe because at the time I was young but then when I was older and left I understood it. I don't hate you I just wish you taken me with you. I thought I would never see you again. I went to Kugane because we always talked about it. It was the only place we knew that was outside those trees. Not to mention the food is good there."

She moved to take the small plushie in her hands and sat beside her sister, "She took me in when I was by the pier singing one day. Said many would pay to hear me sing. I thought with more gil the more ways to try to find you. That was until there was a high buyer who well paid her for more than my singing. Because of that and my voice that is how I came to be."

The very thought made Umari gripped the wooden frame almost ready to reach for the door and yell for Sybil when suddenly she was stopped. Nami's hand grabbed her arm, "Hex said he will work out my freedom. Besides that man no longer visits. When he was rough the Madame took care of it. Which is why when I leave I now have a guard with me. Only reason Hex was able to catch me I guess was because I snuck out. Can we just, enjoy the rest of the evening talking about how we are finally here and make new goals for ourselves? As you said we can not change the past, we can thank some of those moments as it brought us here today."

There was a soft defeated sigh that escaped Umari's lips. She felt her sister's head resting against her arm with a smile clinging to her face and the stuffed rabbit in her hands. "Fine, no more dwelling on the past. It did eventually bring us here." Silence again filled the room when suddenly there was a little chuckle escaping Nami's lips.

"So you and Hex hmmm? There something there?"

Umari's eyes grew wide, "What did that man tell you. By the twelve I will make sure Sybil annoys him until his hair falls."

Nami teased, "Just some friendly teasing that is all."

Umari playfully shoved her sister, "Right what is this you two are going to be ganging up on me?"

Nami smiled, "I see it truly is going to be a mad house here."

The two girls chuckled and let out a sigh.

"It's good to have you back Nami.."

"It's good to have you back Umari.."

Mentions: @nami-xiv

Soft mentions: @sybil-xiv , @hex-xiv , @dreadfulhowls-xiv