#Warhorse band

[hammill-goes-fogwalking]

The heck. There's this silly little known 70s band called Warhorse which I discovered some days ago... now I found out Nick Simper was in there.

DEEP PURPLE E V E R Y W H E R E

[despazito]

i love when they add pissed off sounds over an animal actor that looks totally chill in the scene

[cosmic-dichotomy]

Necomancers hate them! Local half-orc has huge ass and even bigger heart

The Stormbringers were a tribe of orcs that were, for centuries, feared. Their warhorses were said to bring a fear into your heart like you were facing a tempest.

The leader of the Stormbringers when our story begins was a woman named Ferin. She was a powerful sorcerer, and as time went on, her magicks grew darker. She grew obsessed with death, with the idea of defeating it permanently. Her style of necromancer was particularly heinous: she drained the life of her victims, using them to fuel her own life, and then puppeted their bodies in battle. Those she drained were utterly destroyed, not merely killed. Their very souls fueled her.

The Stormbringers were aware of Ferin's necromancy, but not the depths of her profanity. She was beloved to them, a fair leader who had led them to victory for many years, and many chose to see her longevity and health as a blessing, rather than trickery.

Her ways angered the gods themselves, particularly those who lorded over the domain of death. With so many souls destroyed, Ferin had not only profaned the balance and cycle of nature, but had upset the balance of souls in the universe. She owed death a debt of souls, and they eventually came to collect. Eight times did death appear before Ferin, and eight times she refused to pay. On the ninth time, death did not ask. What wouldn't be given willingly would be taken. On the night that death took its revenge on Ferin, eight Stormbringer babes screamed, for their very souls had been marked for the sacrifice. For Ferin's sins, her entire tribe was punished.

One such babe was, at the time, the toddler Golnar. Golnar's life was already storied, for its mother was a noblewoman, Zoreh Tilki, who had eloped with its father some years before. And its father was Ferin's own son, Fregga. Not only did Golnar cry out that night, so too did its yet unborn brother Firouz.

Death came quickly after that. A band of adventurers, led by Selna, a paladin of Kelvemor and Sturm, a paladin of Tyr, marched on the Stormbringers. Led by their own self-righteousness, they slaughtered almost the entire clan, sparing only the elves and humans they believed had been kidnapped and bewitched by Ferin. Selna also refused to allow the young children to be killed, a choice that nearly brought her and Sturm to blows. Eight orc and half-orc children were spared the slaughter, the eldest of which was a six-year-old Golnar, and the youngest of which was a mere infant.

The orphans grew up in the slums of the very city Golnar's mother hailed from, though neither mother nor child knew the other lived. The eight were always an oddity, looking more like tieflings than orcs. (I do not know enough about the Faerun setting to pick a big city, but Golnar grew up in complete poverty, surrounded by nonhumans and a large number of tieflings, to the point that it speaks Infernal fluently.)

When a sickness went through its community, Golnar became truly enshrined with Death. Very few survived, and it shaped Golnar into the person it is today. It began working as a healer at fourteen, learning at the shoulder of Selna, the very paladin who had saved it as a child, who came to save it again. Even after the plague was gone, Golnar chose to heal. But its focus was on the elderly, the ill, the frail, the dying. It learned of Kelemvor at that time from Selna, and began to receive visions and dreams from the god from the moment it heard his name.

In its dreams, Golnar serves Death still. While it sleeps, its soul is transported to Death’s domain where it tend the souls of the recently deceased as a soul gardener, digging grave-plots for the souls to slumber until their next step. Over the years, it seemed that Kelemvor became truly fond of Golnar, doting on it and favoring it with magic and gifts. When it dies, its soul will return to his domain for eternity, to serve him in death as it did in life. As soon as it was old enough, it swore its paladin's oath before Selna, taking up their weapon to ensure that the cycle of life and death is always respected. It left behind the other orphans, all of whom it has lost contact with, with the sole exception of its brother, who they write too frequently.

As a paladin that serves Death, Golnar's adventuring life is primarily that of a monster hunter. They particularly target the undead and those who raise them, as well as those who cause great amounts of unnecessary death. These types of jobs are not very frequent, so functionally Golnar is a traveling healer. They tend to the sick and dying, but also ease the pains of birth and broken bone with holy magic, a gentle hand, and an even gentler manner. They never stay in one place for long, both due to their calling.

Unfortunately, the way it's lived its life has led to Golnar being a recluse. It is so preoccupied with death that it’s lost sight of what makes death worth it all: the life you’ve lived. It has no friends, no close family, nothing to look forward to or care about besides the dead and dying, and see no value in its own soul except for what it’ll be when it dies.

Golnar is also a romantic, a devoted soul who has a great deal of love inside that has only ever been aimed towards the dead and dying. It has a strong sense of politeness and chivalry, and loves stories and song. It doesn't remember its surname, but has taken the monicker "Strifeslayer" to remind itself what it aims for.

Its heart and kindness are obvious to any who speak to Golnar, but said heart is guarded and uncertain. Though it has had quite a few flings and dalliances, the one intended longterm romantic entanglement Golnar allowed itself in its youth ended when its partner abandoned it and the community they had been defending to a grim fate. Golnar prevailed, but it never sought out its first love again. It fears that its purpose and dedication have left them with a heart incapable of experiencing deep lasting love.

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Tom Verlaine - Cooky's, Frankfurt, Germany, April 6, 1987

More Verlaine! I've posted this one before, but it was at least a decade (or more) ago, and it deserves a little more love. Any of the 1987 Verlaine shows I've heard deserve a little more love, really — I think of that year as the culmination of Tom's musical searchings up to that point in his career. There should be an official live album from '87, I think it would blow a lot of minds.

For one thing, the band here was a real band, as much as Television ever was. Patti Smith’s drummer Jay Dee Daugherty was behind the kit, Fred Smith was on bass, and Jimmy Ripp filled in ably on second guitar, adding rich textures behind Verlaine's flights of fancy. This recording doesn’t sound like a solo artist with an anonymous group — it sounds like a cohesive unit, the songs often blending into one another, seamless and sleek.

The first half of the set is focused on tighter-than-tight rhythmic interplay — guitar riffs bouncing off one another, bass and drums locked in a death grip. Verlaine’s guitar sounds gorgeous here — much more melodic, playful and lyrical than the Television days. The second half sees the Verlaine Band loosening up a bit, stretching out on “Kingdom Come” and the old warhorse “Marquee Moon.” Tom’s solo on the latter is something to behold! Things finish off with blazing renditions of “Glory,” “Psychotic Reaction,” and “Red Leaves.” Not sure if Verlaine says more than a few words to the crowd throughout, but he's said enough.

[porterdavis]

Bone-deep

This picture was taken in 1965 for my high school yearbook picture. Few things have been constants in my life, but a love of the Stones is one of them. There have been ups and downs, fallow periods, albums I couldn't stand, but also scores of concerts around the globe and many friends made along the way who shared my passion.

The last few decades have been a little sparse in terms of new material and the band was on the verge of becoming a tribute act of themselves (I could name 15 of the 20 songs they would play on any given night, and horror of horrors, I've left concerts before the 'warhorses' started to get a jump on traffic).

All of which is to say I had only moderate expectations for the new album Hackney Diamonds (why they would risk such a close name to 'hackneyed' is beyond me). My fears were tempered when I heard the kick-off single "Angry" -- a nice rocker with the signature Stones riff, tasty solos, and a great video.

Today I was able to get my hands on the entire album and pump it through my headphones. When the last notes of "Sweet Sounds of Heaven" finally faded away I had tears in my eyes. Damn near a religious experience. This new producer, Andrew Watt, has guided them to a Phil Spector wall-of-sound in the best possible sense of the term. The crescendos, the false finish, the fills are all perfect in their purpose and execution. Lady Gaga and Stevie Wonder are supreme value-added.

I've only given the rest of the songs a once-through, all seem complete, no filler. If there's any complaint it would be with Mick's lyrics, but then an 80-year old man isn't going to come up with "Rape...murder...it's just a shot away" more then once in his life.

Call me an old softie but I'll say it again -- I was moved to tears.

[turtleduckscribbles]

Warhorse

After a long and grueling day on the road, Twilight feels like he's at the end of his rope. But before he can lose his grip, he receives a helping hand, and it comes in the form of a sharp retort and winning smile.

Read on AO3 or continue below.

~o~o~o~o~o~

Twilight wilted as he spared a backward glance at his careworn contemporaries. For a procession of divinely appointed heroes, not a single one of them was looking very heroic. Or divine. Or even appointed, for that matter.

It had been a long and arduous day of travel. Dirt, sweat, and suffering made a compelling refrain for the itinerant band of Links, and providence was sending clear signals that it wouldn’t relent anytime soon. The oppressive rays of the midsummer sun blazed hot and heavy upon their stooped backs. Though there was a conspicuous lack of infected monsters crossing their path, the frequency of attacks was no easier to bear, running them ragged from point A to point B.

Wild, adding much to Twilight’s silent consternation, sustained a considerable laceration to his side while on the road, courtesy of a large congregation of kargaroks. The razor-taloned buzzards had swooped down on them from the sky, screeching and scratching as they assailed the heroes as one murderous body. The nettlesome creatures were remarkably efficient; once Wild began mercilessly pelting them with arrows, they singled out his superior marksmanship and targeted him in earnest. The others slaughtered the giant birds of prey swiftly enough, but the damage had already been done. Such an unfortunate state of affairs earned the champion the accolade of “Most Injured Member of the Group” and a place atop Epona, where he currently sat hunched, nursing his wound.

Twilight clenched Epona’s reins as he led her on foot, wiping the slick perspiration from his brow. As fond as the rancher was of his homeland, he couldn’t claim he was in his happy place right now. His back twinged; his legs burned with lactic acid buildup. Somehow, a wayward rock had lodged itself inside his shoe, heedless of every effort he took to oust it. He squinted up with a frown. While the sun still shone brightly in the azure heavens, it was well past its zenith. Soon they would need to start evaluating where they’d settle in for the night; the plains bordering the castle walls were vast, and without any vegetation to use as cover, they were easy pickings for the next eager gang of monsters. It wasn’t wise to make camp where it was unsheltered. Twilight would rather find an overhang, a shaded thicket, a gorge: somewhere better shielded from the elements as well as potential hostile encounters.

It may also be said that he was—in every respect—dog-tired.

“What’s that?” voiced Hyrule, halting Twilight’s musings. Eight heads shot up in response.

A curlicue of black smoke stood out against a muted blue backdrop. And not just one, but four dark helixes, snaking their way up from the earth’s crust. The ribbons streaked across the land like unfurling banners, coalescing into one monstrous plume. Twilight’s stomach constricted as he eyed the horizon, revolting against the invasive stirrings of memory. Too seasoned to hope this didn’t spell doom.

“Let’s pick up the pace,” he ordered, urgent, with a short tug of the reins. “Hurry.”

They set off with renewed haste. Clopping hooves mingled with the thuds of boots as they hustled toward the tendrils of darkness. The toll of exertion blended with escalating dread and weighed heavily on Twilight’s joints; still, he ignored it, forced it down and below the threshold of his consciousness. From his position astride Epona, Wild grimaced and clutched at his bandaged side, his limbs jostled with each of the mare’s footfalls. Twilight winced in commiseration, knowing it couldn’t be helped.

Hyrule was the first to crest the hill. Winded and windswept, the traveler came to an unsteady halt atop the ridge, eyes blown wide as he took in whatever new horror spanned the abutting lowlands. Panting, Twilight stumbled over with the others, Epona chuffing noisily in his ear.

He cast his gaze out before him.

Scorched earth. Blackened barns. Smoldering farmland. Droves of cattle, scattered in every which direction, tailed by frantic herders. Splintered wood. Piercing cries. 

Destruction had alighted rapidly upon this little community, and it wasn’t kind.

Twilight spurred himself forward, galvanizing the rest of the group. He took in the gruesome sight. It was an expansive farm—part of Hyrule’s nascent dairy enterprise, no doubt—yet despite the pleas for help that could be heard above the wind, Twilight took it as a godsend that there were no bodies strewn about the wreckage. He steered their course toward a cluster of sheds that fumed with secluded fires. An older man stood motionless on the perimeter as he absorbed the burning remains. Twilight placed a gentle hand on the man’s back, speaking the words of reassurance he had offered countless times throughout his journeyings:

“It’s okay, sir… We’ve come to help… You’re safe…”

A flurry of activity proceeded these words. Ice rods and arrows materialized into able hands. Legend, ever the stockpiler, had his magical staffs out and distributed among them in no time flat, and they got to work freezing over the skeleton of the structure. Twilight unleashed his gale boomerang on isolated pockets of fire, choking the mutinous fumes. The acrid smell of smoke was staggering, overpowering. He coughed dryly into his pelt, eyes watering from the sting.

In the midst of the commotion, someone came running at them—a man, with the look of a wild animal in his eye, clutching at his hair.

“Please, please! My wife, my child… They’re trapped inside! They’re… they’re…!”

Before Twilight could so much as take a step, two of his companions sprang into action. Without a moment’s delay, Hyrule and Warrior took off in the indicated direction, the latter’s scarf flapping about in his wake. The distraught man dogged their heels in hot pursuit.

It wasn’t long until the persisting flames were snuffed out. With the fires extinguished, a sort of stunned hush fell upon the ruined land. Sooty, noxious fumes leached from charred wood; roofs lay crumbled upon their foundations; villagers roamed aimlessly amidst the detritus, like wraiths drifting through a ghost town. Twilight looked around vacantly. A bleak numbness began infiltrating his veins. His comrades’ synergistic efforts, while certainly a boon to these citizens of Hyrule, ultimately couldn’t repair their damaged property. They couldn’t restore their crippled farms. They couldn’t save their livelihoods, nor could they save their broken homes.

They couldn’t save everything. Couldn’t save everyone.

Sounds of pounding feet reached his ears. Twilight straightened to his full height, dismissing the searing stretch in his hamstrings. He trained his expression into one of impassivity, his trusted default, praying that Hyrule and Warrior hadn’t brought bad news. 

But it wasn’t them. Instead, two farmers appeared from the miasmic haze. They made a beeline toward the Hero of Time who, accoutred in the plates of his finest armor, most resembled the part of leader.

“Soldiers of Hyrule,” said the first man, speaking to Time but addressing them all, “y’all came to render us aid in our time of greatest need. Light Spirits’ blessings be upon ya.”

A pause lapsed as his words were allowed to hang in the air. Time’s eye shifted almost imperceptibly over to Twilight, his brow cocked in a way that was implicitly understood by the younger. Twilight stepped forward and accepted the mantle his motherland had thrust upon him long ago.

“We’re not… soldiers of Hyrule,” he said. “We don’t work for the Crown. We’re freelancers.”

The farmers glanced at one another. Sheepish, the first turned to Twilight, leaning heavily onto his pitchfork.

“We was ambushed by bulblins,” the man continued in subdued tones. “Came just this mornin’ when we was out in the pastures. Burned our crops, scattered our livestock… took some fer their own, too. Nobody killed, I don’t think, thank the Spirits fer that… Still got us good, though. Thievin’ devils cleared off once they had their fill, leavin’ us to burn. Someplace yonder.”

He pointed west, away from the castle borderlands. Twilight squinted against the bleeding hues of the evening sun. A handful of men on horseback were in the distance, working in tandem to corral their cattle, panicked and running rampant, back into the fold. There was no sign of Hylian soldiers anywhere.

“We ain’t have much left ’cept each other.”

Sympathy flared like a sucker-punch to Twilight’s gut. As a rancher himself, he understood how taxing farmwork was. He understood the ramifications of today’s events, that it would mean more than just a day’s loss for them in total…

He recalled the self-avowed monster boss—King Bulblin, reigning terror—and the havoc that he and his pernicious band of bandits had inflicted on the kingdom in years past. He was the catalyst that drove Twilight to heroism. It was by his hand that Twilight was first dragged onto this perpetual quest, never resting, always fighting.

But King Bulblin wasn’t supposed to be in opposition to Hyrule anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be raiding and pillaging helpless farmsteads. Twilight had seen to that personally.

Hadn’t he seen to that…?

“Can any of y’all ride?”

Twilight tore his gaze away from the skyline. “What?”

“Horses,” said the farmer. “Can ya ride ’em?”

“I… Yes. I can ride.”

“Will ya track down them bulblins fer us?”

Twilight wasn’t sure what the farmer read on his face—shock, obstinacy, perhaps even fear—because suddenly the man was wavering, stammering, pleading desperately with the assembled group of heroes to take upon themselves this role, this insurmountable task he felt constrained to present them with.

“Please, I… W-We can’t do it ourselves, see… Can’t stop them alone… They took our homes, our cattle… ’S only a matter a time ’til they’re back fer more… We ain’t got no swords like y’all’ve got… We ain’t equipped like y’all… Ain’t fighters…”

Fighters.

It was who Twilight was. A fighter. A protector, through and through, from the fire coursing in his veins to the indomitable wolf that consumed his spirit.

It’s okay… We’ve come to help… You’re safe…

And nothing—not exhaustion, not pain of death—could break that promise.

“...I’ll help. Of course I will.”

Sweet relief crested over the two defeated men. Twilight bore witness to it all: the rush from their lungs, the falling of their shoulders, the sheen in their eyes. From the corner of his own, he also bore witness to the concerned looks of his companions, whose stares seemed to bore holes into his back.

But never mind that. He’d deal with it later.

After an abundance of grasped hands and heartfelt thanks, the farmers gestured to a remote stable—one of the few buildings left intact after the assault. It served as the prime relocation site for the remainder of their cattle, and it was there where Twilight would find fresh thoroughbreds to use in his endeavors to bring the bulblins to justice. Considering the load Epona had been burdened with all day, Twilight agreed to this plan of action without reservation. He couldn’t ask his dear friend to fight all his battles for him. She was just as weary as him, if not more so. She’d worked enough for today.

As for his own strength… he’d make do.

The farmhands departed, and foreseeably, the icy prickle at the back of Twilight’s neck grew impossible to ignore. He turned and met the troubled faces of his allies. They looked at him as if he were on the verge of collapse, like a compass that had been improperly calibrated. Four rubbed at his singed elbow, his countenance one of reproach.

“So… you know that most of us don’t ride, right?”

His question sounded more like an accusation. Twilight was unmoved. “I know. But I do.”

“Well, yeah, but you’ve been working your tail off all day. We all have.”

“This farm has been working longer, I guarantee you.”

Four peered at him incredulously. Sky, dirtied and slumped against a hitching post, blew out a ragged breath and asked, “How can I help? I ride loftwings. I could try horses.”

“No, that wouldn’t be wise,” said Twilight. “You’re worn out, and the learning curve is too steep. I won’t risk it for something this serious.”

Instinctually, he locked eyes with Legend and his gaze hardened, daring the teen to contend. But even the agonistic veteran had nothing to say; he broke eye contact with Twilight, his head lowered in submission. Even Wind, usually so keen to offer suggestions, was quiet, slouched against the grubby Hero of the Skies. Their lethargy wasn’t a mystery to Twilight: like him, they had also been going at it all day. And, like him, they knew their options were limited.

Time hadn’t taken his eye off Twilight since the farmers arrived. The old man stood stock-still, unblinking, taking in every inch of his battered descendant. Twilight stared back, giving his mentor the same treatment. Decked in his distinguished suit of armor, Time was the largest and heaviest among them—much too heavy for sustained mounted combat. While he was doubtless experienced in this area… or at least to some degree… Twilight knew it wasn’t his strong suit. It was evident that he was lacking in some respects. Twilight sighed and raked a hand through his hair.

“Pup…” Time said into the stretching silence, “I know I don’t have your aptitude for horseback warfare. But with our champion incapacitated, you’ll need someone to cover for you. You shouldn’t go alone.”

Epona snorted and tossed her head, her feet shifting warily beneath her. Twilight placed a steadying hand on her broad neck and hushed her softly. He glanced up at her silent passenger. Wild looked positively green; he sat lopsided in her saddle, face screwed into a rictus, bandages nearly soaked through. Needless to say, he was out of commission. Resigned, Twilight rubbed soothing circles onto Epona’s velvet coat, sending her a wordless apology through his touch.

“I don’t want you getting hurt, Old Man,” he mumbled. “But… I have to go. Without aid from the infantry, these people won’t stand a chance against the next attack—and believe me, it will come. The bulblins can’t be left unchecked. I won’t let them.”

With steadfast resolve affixed firmly to his face, Twilight handed the reins of his beloved steed over to his mentor, not quite meeting his eyes. Wishing that the words that followed from his lips didn’t sound like a lie.

“...I’ll be fine.”

~o~o~o~o~o~

In the cramped isolation of the stable, it was relatively quiet, save for the stamping and bleating of skittish barn animals. The scent of straw mingled with the lingering residue of ash and sent the residents into a gyrating tizzy within their stalls. Shafts of skylight impaled the rafters down to the floor below, blinding in their intensity. But Twilight couldn’t see or hear any of it. Slouched on a rickety old stool, he stared down at his hands, his hair shrouding his eyes.

Of all the imprudent decisions the ranch hand had made throughout his life, this ranked highly on the list. Try as he may, he couldn’t prevent the inexorable slide of fatigue into his limbs, into joints that stiffened like rusted hinges in the winter. A craving for rest pressed down on him from all sides, stifling his stamina, making his impending task seem that much more impossible. With exhaustion serving as his helmsman, it was plain that he was destined for failure.

Twilight mindlessly picked at his nail. This wasn’t a solo man job. In the past, he’d always scraped by on sheer adrenaline and the little help he received along the way… with her help… but today the thought was unconscionable. He was just too tired. Ideally, he’d take the night to recharge and consolidate his energy so he could better serve the people around him. But today, that wasn’t an option. Today, he had to fight—even if he fought alone.

But if he just had some extra help… just a little would go a long way…

He thought back to his rejection of Time’s offer. Was it wrong for Twilight to have impugned his mentor’s competence? Should he have still sought his support, regardless of any misgivings? In the moment, it had felt like the right call. Not only was Time’s armor unfit for vigorous riding, but it had probably been years since he’d last attempted this type of combat. Twilight would never admit it to the old man, but while he wasn’t… old, exactly, he wasn’t as adaptable as he used to be. Twilight didn’t want to see him get hurt.

On the other hand… Time did have the most equestrian experience, barring Wild… he was a skilled wrangler, after all… 

An abrupt clonk resounded through the stable as a nervous hoof stomped the ground. Twilight’s head jerked up. The bay horse he had just finished currying glared at him with one large eye, its tail swishing with blatant impatience.

“Hey there, bud,” Twilight soothed, rising sorely to his feet. “Didn’t mean to leave you hangin’ there.” He stroked the coarse fur under its mane. “Sorry about that.”

The bay stared coolly back at him, unswayed by his placating words. A flash of guilt surged through him. Just like Epona, this horse was obviously picking up on his agitation. He’d only meant to sit down for a minute before saddling up—his feet were killing him—but he must have lost himself. Truth be told, he wasn’t paying this horse the attention it deserved, especially considering they were supposed to be battle partners. He had already picked its feet and brushed it down to ensure it was primed for armed conflict… but they’d still only just met. He was supposed to be getting to know it, reassuring it—not sitting down on the job, feeling sorry for himself. Twilight shut his eyes and released a drawn-out sigh, picturing the tension ebbing from his body.

“Ah, here he is—the lone wolf himself.”

His eyes snapped open. Seconds ticked by before Twilight turned slowly in place. His expression leveled out, braced for the inevitable.

In the entrance, framed by the open doorway, stood the Hero of Warriors. With crossed arms, the captain rested a hip against the wooden jamb, the setting sun contouring his figure from behind; yet even with the dazzling light, it was difficult to miss his smile, that cloying grin that never failed to allure as much as it did vex.

“I’ll admit, when they told me you’d run off to the stables, I didn’t expect to find you,” Warrior said. “I thought you’d be long gone playing man of the hour by now.”

Twilight didn’t grace that with a response—only a blank stare. A brief moment passed as they stood there, sizing each other up, before something in Warrior’s mien began to change. His grin slid gradually from his face, morphing into a look of tactful discretion as he surveyed the hero across from him with a strategist’s eye.

“You look downright beat. You all right, man?”

The blunt shift of tone caught Twilight off guard. He regarded the captain skeptically. Was this Warrior’s idea of a good time? To while away Twilight’s limited daylight as a way of amusing himself? Another breath, and Twilight wrenched his gaze away, turning back to his four-legged charge.

“I don’t have time to shoot the breeze with you, Captain,” he murmured. “I have to tack up.”

The bay, sensing the mounting friction, snorted and backed away from Twilight, hooves tapping a frenzied rhythm onto the pavement. Twilight placed a stabilizing hand on one of the two ropes securing its halter in place. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop the irritation from brewing in his chest. He didn’t have the mental fortitude to keep up with Warrior’s repartee at the moment. It would be best for everyone if he left.

Footsteps from behind. Twilight wrestled with the flailing lead, jaw clenched tight—only to hear a gentle clucking noise. He glanced back.

Warrior approached from the other end of the aisle, his pace slow and easy. He came at them by degrees, crooning softly, movements relaxed and deliberate as if gliding through water. From his satchel, a handful of apple slices emerged; he stopped a short distance away and proffered his open palm.

“It’s okay, big boy,” he consoled the bay in syrupy tones. “We’re all friends here, see? I’ve got treats—surely you like treats? And listen, I know he looks scary, but Wolf Boy’s actually a good guy, I promise you. He’s really a country bumpkin at heart. Major softie.”

While the content of his speech left much to be desired, it had the intended effect. Curious ears perked toward the sound of his voice. At the sight of the apples, the bay stilled entirely, held captive by Warrior’s enticing offer. Putting a tentative hoof forward, it stretched forth its neck and guzzled up the pieces, nuzzling his hand for leftovers.

“Yeah, I had a feeling,” said Warrior with a smile. He pressed some additional apples into Twilight’s hand and dipped underneath the cross ties, patting the horse’s opposite side. “Good boy.”

Twilight stood frozen with the sticky apples in hand. Reality was playing out in front of his eyes, yet his brain was having a time of computing it. In spite of everything, it seemed that the captain spoke “horse” quite well: With practiced hands, he caressed the bay’s shoulder by way of friendly greeting, his manner attentive and respectful. He spoke to it tenderly, lovingly, as if they’d known one another for years. Then—convinced at having successfully pacified it—he began to move. Gracefully, and mindfully, he trailed a lingering hand down the length of its back, so as to impart his position, circling around its rear to the other side where the tack was kept.

As he passed by, a few details caught Twilight’s eye: torn gloves, blotted vambraces, scorch marks that stood out like bruises on his tunic. Distracted, Twilight barely managed to salvage the apples that went tumbling from his hand due to a pair of greedy, scavenging lips; he indulged them absentmindedly.

“What… happened to you?” he asked the captain, the bay’s whiskers tickling his palm.

Warrior returned with a saddle pad from off the guard rail. Without meeting Twilight’s gaze, he gave an insouciant shrug and set the pad lightly upon the bay’s back, smoothing out the creases. “Someone’s family was stuck under a collapsed roof. They’re all fine though, don’t worry. Traveler and I got them out.” Satisfied with the pad’s alignment, he went to retrieve the saddle.

And that was that.

Interest piqued, Twilight watched the captain as he worked, pacing the hungry horse through its treat intake all the while. The thought entered his mind that he probably hadn’t given Warrior his due credit; even after confronting a harrowing situation, the man seemed just as unflappable as ever. Alongside his collected composure, he appeared to hold zero reservations about the equipment he was handling. He knew exactly how to place the saddle, exactly where to attach the girth, exactly how to fasten the breast collar. Deft hands flew through the various belts and clasps without affording them a second thought. He worked as if he were the horsemaster and Twilight the bumbling stableboy.

Perhaps it was wrong of Twilight to have pegged him as a novice straight out of the gate.

When Warrior drew near with the bridle, Twilight stepped aside to grant him room, shaking himself from his stupor. “So,” he said, unclipping the halter and its accompanying ties, “you ride? Since when?”

Warrior took the bit and coaxed it gently into the bay’s mouth. “Since you were in diapers, more likely than not.”

“Spare me, Cap. You’re not that much older than me.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“It’s a little hard to swallow coming from someone like you, frankly.”

“Wow—‘someone like me,’ huh?” Warrior’s mouth twitched. “That’s bold talk for a goat-roper.”

“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Maybe, but it’s no skin off mine.”

Their words were sharp, but the smiles tugging at their lips were anything but. Warrior’s concentration never once wavered from his duty, but all the same, Twilight felt the tension evaporate from the room like steam ejected from a pressure valve. He gave the bay an encouraging pat, diverting its awareness away from Warrior’s fiddlings.

“Okay, duly noted,” he said. “So you can ride, among a few other things. Any extra tricks I should know about?”

Warrior gave a small huff of amusement. “There are more than just a few tricks up these sleeves, Farm Boy.”

“Anything else you’d like to tell me, then?”

There was a pause as Warrior finished threading the bay’s forelock through the head band up top. Then, he blinked a couple times, refocusing on the straps.

“There are lots of things I could tell you.”

Twilight studied Warrior’s face: those flawless features that harbored the faintest trace of some underlying depth. It was true that he and the captain weren’t exactly close. They didn’t dislike each other, per se, but they also weren’t the best of buds. They had no trouble exchanging witticisms and the occasional insult when the opportunity presented itself, sure—but Twilight couldn’t claim he knew the man. Until now, he had assumed they had nothing in common, that the two of them came from completely different worlds.

Maybe it was high time he changed that.

“Well, by all means, enlighten me then. I hadn’t realized you grew up around horses. I’ve never seen you so much as glance Epona’s way before. What gives?”

Warrior didn’t answer straight away. Twilight watched him meticulously tighten the bay’s cheek strap, his even expression betraying no hint of emotion. It was only after finishing these adjustments that he finally spoke.

“This might come as a shock to you, but it hasn’t always been city pomp and grandeur for me. I had a life before I enlisted—one with horses, believe it or not. So horsemanship pretty much came with the territory.” He threaded his fingers through the dark strands of the bay’s mane. “I didn’t like bringing her into battle if I could help it, but… sometimes it couldn’t be helped. She helped us turn the tide of the war more times than I can count. She’s a real force of nature.”

She?

“...I miss her.”

The revelation dawned on Twilight like sunrays between parting clouds. As someone who’d come of age outside the city’s embrace, Twilight had grown accustomed to the unsavory labels directed his way—naive, obtuse even—but now, as he listened to the captain’s reflections, the brand fit embarrassingly well. Surprising as it was, Warrior too had a cherished horse companion back home, just like he and the old man had. And Twilight had been blind to it.

The thought left a sinkhole of shame in his stomach.

“I know the feeling,” Twilight said at last, feeding the bay another apple slice. “Few things rattled me like the time Epona was stolen from me. It’s tough being separated for so long. And, well… I know she’s not yours, but… you should try making friends with Epona sometime. I think she’d like you.”

Warrior arched an eyebrow at him. “You think? Even if her rider prefers keeping me at arm’s length at all times?”

“You know that’s not true.”

“It’s sort of true.”

For an instant, Twilight almost felt cornered—that is, until he saw the playful glint in Warrior’s eye. Twilight leveled him with a weak scowl before he was overcome by the unruly grin that broke out on his face. 

“All right,” he conceded, “so her rider might be a bit of a chump sometimes. I’ll make sure to knock some sense into him.”

“You do that.”

They exchanged good-humored smiles. Though the burn in his calves and magnitude of the mission at hand loomed before him, Twilight couldn’t help but feel a stabilizing peace settle into his core, as if his center of gravity had been restored. This time, he wouldn’t be alone. He had support.

“Speaking of making friends,” Warrior said, giving the bay a finishing pat and turning to the neighboring stall, “looks like we have another one to make before the day’s through.”

Twilight followed his line of sight. A chestnut stallion regarded them curiously from behind the closed gate. Warrior passed off the bay’s reins to Twilight with a roguish wink and loped his way over to the other horse, his scarf fluttering around his heels.

“Hey, Captain?”

“What’s up?”

Warrior turned back with an expectant look. Several beats slipped by before Twilight blinked away the daze.

“...Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

Even through the gritty haze of the stable, it was hard to mistake the genuine affection that crept over the captain’s features.

“You bet, Rancher.”

~o~o~o~o~o~

The sun barely kissed the horizon as they thundered west, two speeding shapes in the amber gloaming, silhouettes distending behind them like inky filaments reaching across the divide. Grasping shadows engorged themselves on the lay of the land, steadily devouring the last fragments of light; an apt memorial for a forgotten netherworld.

Twilight gripped the bay’s reins as he scanned the barren countryside, eyes narrowed against the glare. When he caught sight of a dark, moving entity not even a league out, he instantly knew the farmer’s directions were sound. A sizable entourage of bulblin archers on boarback were marching their way across the parched grasslands toward the western desert. From the steepled formation of their ranks, it appeared they were protecting something in their center—a group of somethings? Twilight licked his lips and glanced his fellow rider’s way.

Sitting astride the chestnut stallion, Warrior was the picture of the respectable cavalier. Resplendent color adorned his frame from every angle, a whirling sail of greens, blues, and golds that rippled on the wind as he worked his horse through an even canter. His fatigue must have equaled Twilight’s—surely it must have—nevertheless, there he was, right by Twilight’s side, riding in perfect form.

As if he could feel the brand of Twilight’s stare, Warrior met his gaze. A searching look; a nod of tacit agreement; a drawing of weapons… and the chase was on.

Twilight urged the bay into a full gallop, Warrior matching his gait beside him. Hammering hooves ate up the ground as they hurtled toward the convoy of unsuspecting monsters. Twilight’s blood ran hot with the thrill of the hunt, eyes streaming in the crush of air. Once within firing distance, he dropped his reins. A volley of arrows leapt from his bow, striking several of the archers from behind. Before the bulblins could react, Warrior veered left and Twilight veered right, effectively boxing them in.

Chaos erupted on the field as the bulblins broke ranks. Boars squealed with fright as their riders dropped like flies. Felled foes were trampled under the stampede of hooves. Warrior plunged fearlessly into the fray, lopping off horns and cleaving every obstacle that got in his way. Twilight scoped them out at range, covering the captain’s six. There was no retreat, no safe haven. Flanked by the two formidable heroes, the brutes could only flounder.

As the bulblins scattered, it was suddenly revealed to Twilight what they’d been dallying over. A horde of cattle were huddled amidst the pandemonium, dithering over which way to turn: the bulblins’ plundered spoils of conquest.

Not on Twilight’s watch.

With an inciting whoop, he spurred the bay forward, pitching violently in his seat. Limbs went flying as they plowed full steam through a cluster of toppled bulblins. Shrieks and wails were lost to the roaring clamor of his steed’s stride, its powerful legs clobbering the unfortunate beasts beneath it. Twilight rocked with the motion, quadriceps screaming in protest, feeling the animal’s heaving breaths through his thighs. Nothing was more liberating.

Without warning, his bow was knocked from his hand. Twilight lunged, but to no avail; it disappeared in the fracas. He looked back. A number of bulblins had moved behind him into his blind spot, their bows drawn and raised. A dangerous predicament. Another fired arrow, and pain lanced across Twilight’s vision as it grazed his temple. A warm trickle slid down his cheek, wetting his collar.

A rallying cry blared forth. Suddenly, Warrior was charging them from the rear, eyes blazing and his blade held aloft. With a mighty overhead spin, he cut the bulblins down, sending them sky-high, their figures twirling like tops through the air. As the boars swerved wildly, he streaked between them and drew level with Twilight. “Catch!” he yelled, tossing his bow, and Twilight did. With a flourish, Warrior dashed ahead in a shower of dust, trailed by a wave of billowing blue.

Twilight watched in wonder as the captain overtook him. The chestnut stallion was on the warpath, a flurry of racing limbs, mane and tail soaring: a raging war machine, only eclipsed by the warhorse up top. Warrior grasped his knight’s sword with both hands, muscles taut with battle-hardened energy, hacking and slashing on both sides. He rode reinless, using his legs to direct the stallion’s path, hips twisting with precision as he harnessed his momentum to drive his attacks. Synced perfectly with his steed, he was power personified; the embodiment of control.

Spirits, he’s strong.

It didn’t take long for them to eliminate the remaining bulblins. Working in unison, the two conquerors mowed them down until nothing was left except for a razed battlefield and a throng of shivering cows. Twilight slowed the bay to a stumbling halt. Bruised and breathtakingly sore, he slumped against the saddle horn, the captain’s bow dangling from his fingertips. Runnels of sweat coursed down his back beneath his clothes. The back of his throat seared with the metallic tang of dusty air; he gulped it in with an audible rasp. From across the circle of cattle, Warrior mimicked him, his sun-bleached hair in savage disarray. A few gasping breaths later, and Warrior rolled back his shoulders, sheathing his sword.

Though exhaustion was inscribed into every dirt-ridden crease of the captain’s face, his eyes shone with an undeniable glimmer of satisfaction. He gave Twilight an affirmative nod, the corners of his mouth turned up. Twilight shook his head in fond exasperation, marveling over how he could have ever doubted him.

~o~o~o~o~o~

“Well—that was a day and a half.”

Twilight huffed out a giddy breath. For all of his mentor’s gravitas, the man had a knack for delivering the understatement of the century. He hobbled over to join his stiff companions by the fire that had been prepared for them under an improvised shelter. His legs gave out from under him, unable to bear any more, his rump striking the hard ground. “Tell me about it,” he wheezed.

Something nudged his shoulder. A damp cloth was held in Time’s hand, his look one of obliging concern. 

“Here. That can’t be comfortable.”

Twilight accepted it with thanks. The pungent scent of antiseptic flooded his nostrils as he pressed the rag to his smarting temple. Time squeezed his shoulder and retreated to the other side of the fire.

It had taken Twilight and the captain the better part of two hours to corral the spooked herd of cattle back to the farmstead. They arrived well after dark to find their comrades in a state of weary, orderly commotion, clearing debris and extending aid to the townsfolk. Despite the devastation surrounding them, a hero’s welcome had greeted them upon their return. The farmers, with tears welling in their eyes at the sight of their preserved livestock, thanked them profusely, singing their praises, offering oblations of gratitude from their meager supply of possessions. Twilight and Warrior had graciously declined them all. It was enough to see them safe—to restore their lives to them, even in the smallest degree.

And now, granted shelter and a generous share of food, the heroes had finally found a respite, a place to rest their tired and aching bones.

Twilight inhaled deeply through his nose. The brisk night air was a soothing balm to his flushed, salt-crusted skin. Wincing, he gingerly crossed his legs, setting his elbows onto folded knees.

“Oof… Got you pretty good there, did they?”

He glanced up. Four eyed him from a few paces away, a thick, woolen blanket drowning his little frame. Twilight shrugged and readjusted his cloth. 

“Not really. Just a scratch.”

Four raised a cynical eyebrow. With a small smile, he tossed a tattered throw Twilight’s way, which the latter gratefully used as a sitting cushion.

“Hey, I’ll vouch for him,” said a gravelly voice. Warrior’s boots shuffled into Twilight’s periphery. “Rancher’s telling the truth—no heroics this time. It barely nicked him. He kicked some major monster butt out there, you should have seen it.”

Twilight—used to the captain’s backhanded compliments and far less ambiguous gibes—couldn’t believe his ears. Was this a ruse? Dumbstruck, he whipped around to gaze at Warrior, whose signature simper was nowhere to be seen.

“What?” said Warrior. “I’m serious—you were a beast.”

Ah. There it was.

And yet… notwithstanding the quip… his words lacked the usual bite Twilight had come to expect. Warrior looked at him straight-faced, eyes devoid of ridicule. An open book. It left Twilight strangely warm. He banished away the feeling, averting his eyes.

“Yeah, well… thanks. So were you.”

He wasn’t met by a response, only the sound of crackling wood. Around the fire, the circle of heroes sat in various states of repose, nursing the hurts they’d accumulated throughout the day. Twilight noticed that Warrior was the only one standing among them. The captain stood slightly apart, staring into the flames, making no move to sit. Twilight eyed the scuffed leather of his boots, the dark smudges that marred his cheeks. Bright yellow bangs hung limply on his forehead, stringy with dried sweat. He looked utterly spent. With an awkward shimmy, Twilight scooted over and waved over the captain’s attention, patting the space next to him on the blanket.

Warrior regarded him with hopeful disbelief. Then, the hint of a grin dawned on his face. He accepted the ranch hand’s offer, moving beside him on the throw.

“Ugh,” he grunted, dropping down to the ground. “Nothing like a thrashing ride after rollicking in the fields all day. Really gets the blood moving.”

Twilight snorted, massaging some feeling into his cramped calves. “Really, though. I think I’m stuck like this. Everything aches.”

A weak laugh sounded from Wild. The champion lay on his bedroll with his eyes closed, hands resting on his wrapped torso. “Very astute of you, Captain Obvious.”

“Whoa now, I’m Captain around here,” Warrior returned.

A whirl of sparks surged into the air as Time poked a stick into the fire. “You have much to be proud of, Pup,” he said softly. He looked up, the light catching his eye. “You did fine work today. Both of you.”

Twilight dragged a hand through his matted hair, conscious of the many pairs of eyes. “Um… thanks. I… Well, I couldn’t have done it without the captain. His help was invaluable.”

“Aw shucks, Rancher,” said Warrior, putting a theatrical hand to his chest. “You flatter me.”

“It’s true, though. I owe you one.”

An abrupt stillness fell as Warrior’s expression shifted from impish to solemn in the blink of an eye. He lowered his hand, his face set in stone.

“You don’t owe me anything. Not you, not anybody. Not ever. That’s the purpose of a team: to have each other’s backs.”

Then, like the breaking of a spell, the cloud passed. Warrior turned his attention to his shoulder armor, commencing its systematic removal. “Besides, I told you already—these sleeves hold all the aces. This baby’s got some moves.”

Twilight gave him a sideways look. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Weren’t you watching? I’m no one-trick pony.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do. And you should have seen the look on your face when I busted them out, too. Priceless.”

“Your humility’s on point, Captain.”

“Perhaps, but not as much as your bullheadedness, Goat Boy.”

Twilight scoffed. As if to drive home his case, Warrior was suddenly adopting Twilight’s plaintive drawl, the cadence of his voice uncannily accurate:

“Now, Captain, I ain’t got time to chew the fat with you, so you’d better skedaddle. You’re crampin’ my rustic style. And don’t you be comin’ after me either, you hear? I’m a big strong boy, with big strong muscles. I can shoulder the world by myself, and then some.”

Ripples of laughter swept around the circle. Twilight scrubbed the cloth over his face, tamping down the heat rising to his cheeks. “Just for the record, I never said any of that. Not even close.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you didn’t.” Smirking, Warrior leaned over and gently elbowed his side. Twilight looked away to hide his smile, refusing to give the other man the satisfaction.

Git.

“Okay, you two, that’s enough of your dog and pony show,” droned a hoarse voice. On the fringe of the firelight, Legend lay curled on his side, sleep sack pulled up to his nose, peering out at them with sleepy irritation. Warrior set the last component of his arm guard down with a jolting clank.

“I was wondering when you’d speak up, Vet,” he said, flexing his wrist. “We’ve missed those dulcet tones of yours. You’ve been quiet as a lamb all day.”

It was unnerving to Twilight how much venom could be contained within a single look. Legend glowered at Warrior something fierce before he quickly turned his back to them, kicking at the sheets. “Shut up,” he grumbled, voice muffled by his covers. “I’m tired.”

Warrior swapped a shrewd smile with Hyrule, who shook with restrained laughter. Twilight watched this transaction play out with guarded interest. Thankfully, he had enough experience with Legend’s peculiarities by this point to know that the affected air he put on was only a front—harmless, really. Even so, they left the veteran to his beauty sleep, and soon, Sky and Wild joined his ranks, drifting off into the realm of a fitful slumber.

Silence fell. With the townsfolk retired to their provisional lodgings, the nighttime song of the plain filled their place. The gentle susurration of the encircling weeds and shrubs hypnotized and lulled the enervated mind. Twilight watched the steady movements of Wild’s bandaged chest with unseeing eyes. Though he yearned to follow his companion’s lead, he knew sleep wouldn’t be finding him in his sorry state. The tendons in his arms felt on the verge of snapping and his legs cramped and spasmed incessantly. He needed a diversion, something to distract himself from the nagging pain. He rolled out his stiff neck, peeking over at the captain.

Warrior’s eyes were shut to the world, his hands resting lightly on bent knees. He appeared meditative; straight-backed and grounded, his chest rose and fell with the rhythmic pulse of his breaths, as if each exhale were relinquishing the aches from his body. Twilight frowned. Oddly, the idea of abandoning their earlier conversation wasn’t sitting well with him. Besides, he needed some answers. He cleared his throat, setting down his rag.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he began, voice diminished so as to not wake the others. “So… your ‘moves,’ as you call them. What’s the story behind those?”

Warrior cracked an eye open. He thought for a moment before he stretched out his legs, leaning back delicately onto his elbows. 

“So much to say, and still you jump straight to horsey talk.” He grinned. “Is that always where your mind runs to, Farm Boy?”

“Hey, it’s a fair question,” countered Twilight. “With all those tricks hidden away in your sleeves, can you blame me?” With a wince, he lowered himself to the captain’s level, mirroring his reclined pose. “Close quarters combat on horseback isn’t easy, even for people who’ve been riding their whole lives. Where’d you learn, the army?”

“Partly. They schooled us in the art of war, but I’d already been riding for years by then. The military only facilitated the transition.”

Twilight hummed. “You ride well. What tack do you use—modern, classical?”

“More classical-cutting, actually. Not as hardy as your discipline, but I find it more versatile on the battlefield.”

“Makes sense.” A vivid image from earlier that evening flashed across Twilight’s recollection. “That spin finisher you did today? That takes a lot of strength, not to mention coordination. Nicely done.”

“Thanks, man.” Warrior shot him a winning smile. “I took a leaf from your book on that one, believe it or not. You and your girl brought down those aeralfos last week like pros. You’re a natural.”

The unexpected praise sent childish delight swirling in Twilight’s chest. He felt himself flush. “Oh… well, I’m honored. I shouldn’t take all the credit, though. Epona’s the real MVP.”

“Huh, what’s that? You’ll need to crank up the modesty a little more, I couldn’t hear you.”

Twilight rolled his eyes, feigning apathy but failing miserably. Fortunately, he was saved from a reply.

“If we’re telling horse stories, then you should hear about the time Captain stormed Ganon’s stronghold,” interjected Hyrule with a sly grin. The traveler sat warming his hands over the fire as he listened in. “Ganon holed himself up in Hyrule Castle and was all smug about it. He thought he’d won, but Captain and his horse kicked down the keep door and rode roughshod over his troops. Ganon was pretty peeved, right Captain?”

Twilight, who had never heard any such story, raised a quizzical eyebrow. Time too looked over with intrigue, as did Wind and Four. Warrior dipped his head with a smirk, looking exceedingly pleased with himself.

“Yeah, he wasn’t too thrilled about that,” he said. “When a single rider and his mount prove mightier than the entirety of your armed forces, you know you’ve got problems. Serves him right for hiding away, though. Any martial tactician worth their salt could tell you that one of the most essential precepts in military leadership is leading from the front. Ganondorf’s powerful, but he doesn’t know the first thing about commanding an army—and that’s mutual respect and collaboration. He throws his troops around like they’re cannon fodder, not equals, and I’ll tell you what, that’s the wrong way to lead. When we raided his base in the desert…”

With a captive audience wrapped around his finger, there was no stopping the eager captain’s deliberations. Warrior beamed with pride, gobbling up the attention like it was his last meal on earth, gesturing fervently as he regaled them with the sensational details of his triumphs. Clearly, he was in his element. Twilight smiled down at the ground, feeling that familiar fondness blooming within. In days past, such histrionic displays from the captain would have likely sent the rancher packing. Back then, he was too caught up in their differences, too distracted by the impassable gulf between them that existed in his mind. But now? Twilight thought he understood. To Warrior, this time of merrymaking was a reprieve. It was a rejuvenating breath of air after an endless, taxing day; a joyous reunion with the people who mattered most to him… and Twilight could respect it. Histrionics or not, Warrior was a good horseman. He was a good fighter, a good leader. A good friend, whom Twilight could always count on to have his back, through thick and thin.

And Twilight wouldn’t change that for anything.

~o~o~o~o~o~

A/N: Warrior's love language is Acts of Service and nobody can convince me otherwise >:3

Thanks for reading!

[krispyweiss]

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Day No. 1, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, Sept. 29, 2023

- Rickie Lee Jones, Christone “Kingfish” Ingram, John Cragie, Peter Rowan and others highlight first day

Rickie Lee Jones opened the 2023 edition of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass - and christened the festival’s new, Horseshoe Hill stage - by reading from her 2021 memoir.

And Peter Rowan played country - not bluegrass - music during his late-afternoon set on the Banjo stage.

These were just two highlights from Day One at the long-running festival, which also included Christone “Kingfish” Ingram redefining the blues and John Craigie finding his quirky spot alongside Todd Snider in folk-Americana.

Seated on the small stage set up to resemble a living room and flanked with clothes drying on the line, an animated Jones embellished her reading from “Last Chance Texaco” with playful asides and wise cracks. She talked about how Laura Nyro made her feel connected and how Neil Young made her realize odd voices can be successful voices.

“I like it up here,” Jones said of being on stage. “I think artists sometime mistake the excitement for fear.”

Jones read about hitchhiking through California as a 14-year-old in 1969 as a foggy drizzle enveloped Golden Gate Park. She had soundchecked with a snippet of “The Horses,” but ended her well-received spoken-word gig by playing her father’s composition “The Moon is Made of Gold” solo and acoustic and earning a standing ovation from the small crowd seated in grass surrounded by tall trees.

Afterward, Mr. and Mrs. Sound Bites took in a couple of numbers from Vetiver - think the Byrds with a slide guitarist - on the Swan stage as the blog couple headed for Ingram, who played before an audience of thousands on the Towers of Gold stage.

Borrowing Stevie Ray Vaughan’s tone and adding equal measures of funk and R&B, Ingram and his band were super-charged during 50 minutes of electrifying blues as they continually tore the music down before building it right back up. The guitarist sang of lost love on “Fresh Out;” walked off stage, but kept playing out of sight, to showcase his band on “Not Gonna Lie;” and engaged powerful call-and-response with his keyboardist during the set, which ended as Craigie took to the adjacent Swan stage.

Backed by electric bass and guitar and playing acoustic axe and harmonica, Craigie mixed humorous stage banter with tunes both playful (“I Wrote Mr. Tambourine Man”) and serious (“I am California”). Stage presence and song craft made fans of the Sound Biteses, who got their second dose of Craigie in as many days following the previous evening’s benefit for Camp Winnarainbow.

Bluegrass legend Rowan was the biggest surprise of the day, turning in a country and blues set that found him alternating between electric guitar and mandolin, supported by guitar, bass, drums and fiddle. This was exhilarating, though low volume at the Banjo stage lessened the impact of the instrumental guitar duel of “T Bone Shuffle” and made “Panama Red” -> “Freight Train” -> “Panama Red” sound like they were coming in on the winds from Ocean Beach.

Small price to pay for the opportunity to hear Rowan perform such warhorses as “Lonesome L.A. Cowboy,” “Land of the Najavo” and “Midnight Moonlight” in novel musical settings in the bucolic landscape of Golden Gate Park.

9/30/23

[baronetcoins]

six sentence sunday, because it's still sunday if I haven't gone to sleep yet. right? anyway, more of this i've been brainrotting over recently but I think this bit actually gestures towards the inciting incident.

“Ah, the herald.” The dauphin waved him over and he dismounted with a squish and thud, removing his chaperon. “We need you.”  He dipped his head in acknowledgement.  “Find the lord Exeter, or whoever speaks for their sorry band, and tell him this: bones we were promised, and bones we will have.” Montjoy’s eyes passed from over his shoulder to beyond, where his prize warhorse was still standing. Behind it was a shape made indistinct by the thick cake of clay which covered it. “If their king would wager his life, he will pay out his oath with his flesh.”

[rastronomicals]

8:39 PM EST December 26, 2023:

Warhorse - "Solitude" From the compilation album   Mojo Presents Heavy Nuggets (2007)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Giveaway with the December 2007 issue of Mojo. "Fifteen Lost British Hard Rock Gems 1968 - 1973."

Warhorse was the band started by bassplayer Nick Simper after he was fired by Deep Purple. Originally from their debut, Warhorse, released November 1970.

--

[ryunumber]

Guts from Beserk?

Guts has a Standard Ryu Number of 3 and a Limited Ryu Number of 2.

(CORRECTION: Per the Twitter account, warhorse DLC for BERSERK and the Band of the Hawk that includes Red Hare, Lu Bu’s horse, enables a Standard Ryu Number for Guts. Thanks to @torka914 for pointing this out.)

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: Matty Kincaid Species: Vampire Occupation: Musician Age: 76 Years Old (Looks about 33) Played By: Gray Face Claim: Sam Claflin

“I don’t live with anything, man. Technically.”

They were supposed to be a forever kind of thing, Matty and the band. That’d been more than the idea, when they started out; it was a promise, stacked up on all the promises that came before. Like I’ve got your back, dickhead, and can’t get rid of me that easy, asshole, and always - so many alwayses, which everybody knows never, ever turn out that way. But you want to believe, yeah? Matty sure as hell did. 

And he believed in the music, too. In what they could make, together. It showed, and people noticed. Fast. Matty spent his twenty-first birthday touring the country to sold out shows, and by his twenty-fifth, it had all gone global. They were legends, and he was thriving on it. And on the fiercely tight-knit family he’d found, in his bandmates. They weren’t gonna be like the rest, falling out and apart. No way. Not that there weren’t highs and lows, of various kinds. But they made it through, for love of the music. And they always would, despite all the drama, and the distractions, and… yeah, the drugs. Hey, they were rock stars. Par for the course. 

Through it all, Matty didn’t just believe - he worked for it. Blood, sweat, tears, a throat sang hoarse, apologies tugged out like cactus spines, pride choked down, a heart laid bare, guts spilled. All that musical, creative stuff. All that human, growing up, figuring yourself out crap. All that real shit that none of the there-and-gone, stone-faced people in his army brat life gave a damn about. Not like the band did. They were worth it. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad nights. 

The worst night, though - they were there for that, too. His best friend in this life - and the next, as it turned out - was there, wide-eyed, horrified, searching from the blood-soaked hotel room he’d died in to the dingy alleyway he’d stumbled to, neck still torn wide open but working, working, as he gnawed the life out of an unfortunate cat. Which was fucked up, man. He’d always loved cats. 

It should’ve gone worse. But it didn’t. The band, they’d read their comic books growing up; they could tell a vampire when they saw one, and Matty sure looked the part. There was a certain amount of trial and error from there - but it wasn’t like Warhorse could just go on without him. They’d figure his bloodsucker shit out. They had to. Matty was one of them, no matter what. 

For a while, a good while, it seemed like they’d managed it. Actually! Sure, rocking with a vampire frontman took some tricks. But a band of their caliber could be eccentric, if they wanted. Just added to the mystique, right? Yeah, it might’ve been nice if he hadn’t got drained and dumped with no idea what might come next. He didn’t need some deadbeat old vampires hanging around, though, telling him how to live his life. Unlife? Whatever, man. Matty and the band, they had this covered. Seemed like. 

Seemed less that way, as the years ticked by. Or didn’t, for him. There were weddings, and divorces, and weddings, and kids. Laugh lines. Gray hairs. Reunions he couldn’t go to. And accidents. And addictions. And, almost, a death - too goddamn soon, way too soon. Cradling his best friend in his arms, Matty did the only thing he could think to do: what’d been done to him. At least, he tried to. Too bad he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. How hard could it be, though? His “sires” had just abandoned him, and he’d turned out… fine. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because he screwed it up, and - then what? Well, shit, he’d find a way to make it right. There had to be a way. If things like him, like them, could exist at all, then… was it so crazy to hope there was some sort of fix? Matty could believe, again. Was desperate to, in fact. How couldn’t he be? His best intentions had gone so goddamn bloody. The band, the band they’d built, was dead. Dead like his best friend could’ve been. They were both still here, though, even if it was all fucked. Which meant he could keep trying. Yeah? 

So he has. For months, then years. Then decades. Matty’s tried, and, man… the things he’s done, to keep that fucked-over friend as safe as spawn can be. He’d do it all again, too. He would. He will, in Wicked’s Rest, he’s sure - the rumours said this place was different, but how different can a place be? A vampire’s a vampire, no matter where you go. After so long spent cleaning up the ongoing, ugly consequences of his own stupid hopes, his own selfishness, his own reckless, thoughtless mistakes - whatever you want to distill it on down to - Matty’s starting to run out of all that believing he used to do so well. Now, on bad days, he wonders if his friend’s still somewhere inside the monster he made at all. And on bad nights? He’s petrified by the thought that they are, that they’ve been there, all this time, fully present, knowing, feeling, howling to escape the hell of an unlife he’s put them through. That even if he does manage to save this best friend to the end, and beyond… they’ll never really be themselves again. Never be able to survive this strange world of theirs, still shadowy and mysterious even after all the time Matty’s spent in it. Never, ever forgive him. Yeah, that - that’s unbelievable.

Character Facts:

Personality: Passionate, creative, quick-thinking, affectionate, loyal defensive, conflicted, guilty, reckless, fixated

So far as the old fans, managers, record labels, lawyers, and so on know, Matty Kincaid just… retired, back when things went wrong. Warhorse hasn’t performed since, but their music never really disappeared - like with Journey, REO Speedwagon, ELO, Fleetwood Mac, and other headliners of their time, everything that’s old is new again. There’s usually a song of theirs on your average radio mix of standard summer tunes, and since the band’s gone official on Spotify, they’ve popped up on plenty of those “Essential 80s” and “Roadtrip Classics”-style playlists. A few of their big tracks have even made their way into blockbuster soundtracks lately. One of those bands that you’ve definitely heard, even if you don’t really know them. 

Matty has mostly moved with the times, fashion-wise. But the rockstar hair has stayed, unchanged - obviously - and his sense of style absolutely skews retro. Some of it is even vintage. Like really, really vintage. He hates to throw things out, honestly. We could psychoanalyze that, but he’d rather we don’t. The only thing that’s saved him from becoming a real hoarder, frankly, is how often he’s had to move around to keep his friend as safe as feral vampire spawn can be. 

On that note. His best friend, that one, is currently hidden away in a crypt in Eluria Cemetery. Specially paid for, for the purpose. Seemed the safest spot, given the cemetery’s haunting legends; who’ll notice a few more vampiric roars? Hopefully no one. Matty would rather have his friend closer, and usually does - he’ll find somewhere they can hang. For a given definition. Honestly, they’re a hell of a roommate. Well, basementmate. But he owes them better than a mausoleum. He is well aware - maybe over-aware - of the psychic connection between him and his spawn; it does feel like a kind of closeness, even if he's not exactly sure how it works.

Matty’s acquiring his first vampiric “upgrade” - a second set of fangs, beyond the usual canine set. Gnarly. This, like much of his experience of vampirism, is not something he’s at all aware is coming or prepared for. Man, couldn’t those asshats have left a pamphlet?

Though he spent most of his time with Warhorse at the front, singing, Matty is also very capable on the piano and guitar. The rest of his artistic side shone through in the work he did designing the band’s album covers and show sets - so, for some viewers, his art has seriously nostalgic vibes. Even if they’re not sure why…

[doktordismemberment]

5ive

No, not the UK boy band, this 5ive were a monstrously hypnotic two piece sludge unit that happened to be local to where I grew up.

Still one of my absolute favorite bands (Right up there with Sam Black Church, Grief, Warhorse, and Nightstick as far as Massachusetts bands go) … The sound of continent drowning tidal waves rendered via crashing guitar chords, cascading sheets of amplifier howl, and dimension warping EFX overload.

[weaversweek]

#Uncool50 - Say you love me

Part of the #Uncool50 project, because pop singles evoke memories, and form the backbone to an autobiography. This one is from November 2010, when it was cold.

"Say you love me" by Voodoo Hussy. It’s a watershed moment. On one side, the 20th century top-down love-what-your-given style of music appreciation.On the other side, the 21st century bottom-up we-love-our-faves style.

Voodoo Hussy was a scuzzy underground punk band, who played to audiences of about 20 on a good night. They’d split up around 2009, but gave it another go after lead singer Shabby did some television work in the summer.

Voodoo Hussy fans were loud and emotional and in-yer-face, and loved their band with a passion. Being mostly late-teen girls, they could be an intimidating crowd – large in number, vocal in support of their passion, and didn’t give a toss about cultural norms. VH fans were all completely lovely and caring and wouldn’t actually hurt a fly, but any large group can appear intimidating.

We join the story in early November 2010. The fans are giddy with excitement, whipped into a frenzy because there’s a new single looming, and it's going to be premiered on the wireless. It’s the first time ver Hussy have been played on the radio anywhere. Ever. The premier is on Kerrang Radio, in a slot called "Rate It or Slate It".

In this feature, the presenter solicits listener feedback on two new releases. According to the announcements, the presenter - a no-nonsense chap called Luke Wilkins - takes feedback while the song is playing. Whichever song gets the better listener reaction is deemed the winner.

We think that Kerrang wanted listeners to hear the song, and then to make a judgement. We think that, but Wilkins didn’t actually say it. Voodoo Hussy fans respected no boundaries, and shared their love for the band right from the off.

The presenter noted before playing the track that he'd already received feedback on a song he hadn't played. His instinct is to be suspicious, and believe in a convenient conspiracy theory. Luke Wilkins said that Voodoo Hussy's record company had wheeled out astroturf, and that this was all part of a promotional campaign by some PR person.

Young and eager and highly-involved fans? Simply not possible. Not in the host's world, he's too deep in the major label scene to believe in grassroots rock 'n' roll. Maybe he’s forgotten what it was like to have the blood run hot, to have a passion for music.

Luke Wilkins eventually determined that he could not separate "real listeners" from "the label's fans" and deemed the record "disqualified". By default, listeners had preferred the prior track, a release by 1970s warhorses Motörhead.

Ouch. “Disqualified”, “not real listeners”? That's emotive language, setting himself up to be attacked. The fans rose to the obvious bait, and attacked both the presenter and the station. The presenter refused to back down, and decided not to air a pre-recorded interview with the band.

Luke Wilkins made the assumption that Voodoo Hussy's record label and/or public relations company was responsible for the flood of pre-emptive comments. His position was completely undermined by the facts: the group did not have a PR agent, and was not signed to any label.

There was a wider point - Kerrang Radio had always assumed that everyone operated in the narrow confines of the for-profit record industry, with all the hangers-on to suck from artists. (It’s one of the reasons why Kerrang Radio was always a disappointment and never as good as it really ought to have been.)

Mostly, it was a clash of styles. Wilkins and Motörhead came from the regimented world of formal singles and release dates. Voodoo Hussy were the modern anarchy of bottom-up songs. Mötorhead fans have other interests. Voodoo Hussy fans had their one passion.

At twelve years’ remove, we can see how Kerrang Radio was on the wrong side of history. The people won out with their anarchy. Listeners decided what would be a hit record – Justin Bieber's "Love yourself" became a huge hit after being the most-streamed track from his album. I'll come back to this meta-point in entry 50.

Because there was a premium-rate phone-in, regulators OFCOM got involved; because he hadn’t got the authority to “disqualify” the record, this incident cost Luke Wilkins his job. (Contrary to rumours in the fandom, not because they had played the rude version of "Say you love me" at 7.15pm, which begins with an MF-drop.) Last I heard, Wilkins was pottering about with motorbikes.

Voodoo Hussy played together for another year but split up as real-life careers intervened. The band's nucleus went on to form Legend in Japan, whose "Absent friends" was on this list - until I twigged it had never been promoted as a single.

[bluejaywriter]

Anyway, my second job officially starts next week, which means it will be difficult to write for even more reasons, so here is a excerpt from my new original story which at this rate will not be finished for about 10 more years :P

_____________________________________________________________

“Between the wagons and the animals, we move so slowly, I could easily ride back tonight. Ride back for the next several nights.”

Yun is standing with her back to her, hands clasped, a critical eye on the horizon, as if she is calculating the miles, the speed of the caravan and of her warhorse; but she says these things without hope, because they spent the entire night uprooting these last few months, uprooting all of these stolen moments, stolen kisses, borrowed time, and they have always understood that these things are temporary, as temporary as the makeshift tents that dot the horizon each winter.

“Yes, but on the first night, wolves would attack. And on the second night, fire. And on the third, a plague.”

Do not tempt fate, Xiaohe wants to say. There are many things she wants to say, to do, to step forward and wrap her arms around her armored lover, rest her cheek against the thick leather protecting her beating heart, bury her face in the soft pelt hanging over her broad shoulder. But she only stands a little ways away, admiring the striking figure before her, the fine silk leggings, the thick cloak trimmed with sable fur, the linen shirt that she made with her own hands, lovingly woven, dyed bright red to match the princess’ fiery spirit and her family emblem. She is the heir to an entire empire, and at this very moment in time, she may as well be a thousand miles away instead of three feet—untouchable, uncontainable, forbidden. She belongs to the world, her duty is to guide the them, make important decisions with all of the other important people in the royal Xiongnu court, in the Emperor’s inner chambers in Chang’an.

But Xiaohe’s duty is to stay, to release her, to let her move forward, unhampered, to her destiny. To let her become the powerful figurehead that she was born to be, as tangible a representation of the peace between their peoples as her parents’ marriage was.

The sheep are beginning to wander, bumping into one another in their eager search for better grass, baaing loudly as they nibble down on the new succulent tufts that have spread like wildfire when the snow finally melted away. But Yun has still not mounted her steed, a gift from a man who is riding across the Western plains to meet them. Yashi, she calls him, eyes gleaming equally with exasperation and affection: her twin brother, the King of the Right Day, future ruler of the entire empire that lays to the North. He leads his own band of warriors along the Western borderlands, just as his mother leads her own tribe along the East, and when they meet, there will be greetings and laughter and tears and wrestling and feasting and hunting, and all of these things will take place hundreds of miles from this tiny village that lays unmoving at the bottom of the hills. 

“Do not dawdle, Yun.”

The Queen has returned, and her gaze is stern as it sweeps over the wandering sheep and her daughter’s impassive face. A tense moment passes between them, then the Queen turns away, pausing for a moment as she catches a glimpse of Xiaohe’s lingering figure, her expression—if not as successfully closed as Yun’s, then at least attempting some show at strength and resolve.

“Farewell, weaver.” The Queen has urged her steed forward and reached out a graceful hand. Xiaohe stretches her own forward to grasp it, and the woman’s skin is cold, soft. “We shall meet again in a year’s time.”

It is a promise, perhaps more for her daughter’s ears than for hers, but the gesture is appreciated, and her eyes are not unkind as she pulls away once more, casting a final glance toward Yun’s deliberately turned back before riding away without another word. In a few hours, they will cease their march for the midday meal, and mother and daughter will find another on the field, and they will drink milk tea and cold rations together, and they will still be within eyesight of the village—if Xiaohe were to stand atop the Sleeping Dragon, she would still see them, their herds and wagons and bundled figures, all squatting down together, a massive eyesore not even touching the horizon yet.

“There are ways.”

Yun has turned at last to look back at her, and Xiaohe’s breath catches, because the woman’s eyes are glassy, despite the rueful smile on her lips, a childish attempt at being brave.

“I wish you weren’t so stubborn that you could see them, too, Xiaohe.”

She still says her name in that strange way, like a posh woman in the Han court, and for a moment, she could imagine it, imagine running back to her hut in the village and gathering up her loom and reeds and dyes and kissing her father goodbye and running, racing across the green steppes to her lover’s arms, and the Queen would be smiling and shaking her head, and there would be laughter, and they could walk together, ride together, shoulder to shoulder, watching as the big, fluffy clouds move across the sky, feasting on roasted meat every night, drinking hot milk tea and hearty clotted cheese and sweet barley cakes every morning...

“You know I want to.” More than anything, she adds to herself as Yun moves forward, arms outstretched to clasp her shoulders, strong hands gentle. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Yun.”

And for once in her life, the Xiongnu princess obeys, leaning in to meet her with a kiss, a sweet kiss, a simple kiss, and one of her hands lingers on her shoulder, but the other has crept up to cup her cheek, long fingers sliding back to sink into her hair, but she doesn’t pull, she doesn’t grasp at her, not even as Xiaohe reaches up and presses her hands against those strong shoulders, those powerful arms, caresses her fingertips over that soft pelt, and her lips are sweet, tasting still of the salty milk tea and sweetened barley cakes they’d shared this morning, a thousand years ago, a thousand lifetimes ago, and she can feel their hearts beating in unison, as if time itself has slowed down to allow them this moment of symmetry, as if the steppes themselves have ceased their waves, and the entire world is watching with frozen eyes, the bitter cold of winter descended once more, breathless, motionless, heartless—

And then Yun is pulling away, swinging herself up onto her warhorse with the grace of a woman who has lived amongst horses her entire life, and then she is riding away without a backward glance, the horse cantering in order to overtake the wandering sheep, to herd them back into formation, lead them forward with the rest of the caravan, lead them on their long trek across the steppes, their long trek away from the place that Xiaohe calls home.

[ataleofberwickstjames]

490 PART 1

A grim winter spent at Berwick St. James, the harvest was poor, the peasants restless and Saxon raiders made off with a great part of what little grain we managed to eke from the fields whilst I was away hunting. I didn’t even get the chance to test my blade against them.

The harsh conditions led to a minor dispute over payment for repairs to the village bridge, although calling the village court to order usually brings me great pleasure I couldn’t muster interest in much more than the most perfunctory of investigations.

What is worse is that my loyal squire Cochryd has left my side, knighted by Sir Rodercik. I know I should feel joy in his admission to the ranks of knighthood, but his absence leaves my heart sore. A young stripling named Kydifer has taken his place, he shares my love of hunting and administering the law of the land but is a little too fond of his drink for my tastes.

The poor harvest has meant I’ve had to dip into my treasury reserves to ensure Berwick St. James is kept as it should, so my plans for expanding my manor must wait until next year.

My melancholy mood led to me spending much time by my fire with the local bard, I wrote many ballads of passing glory and the ebbing splendour of the past.

A great feast at Warwick brought some joy to this pitiful year. My companion Tethan remained at Salisbury with his new twins and brave Sir Adaff has not been seen since the unfortunate incident with his brother-in-law so it was a smaller band, just Thondet, Lychas, Bar and Leo who road alongside the Earl.

Sir Dondas, who always [presented himself as a fine, Christian knight showed his true colours, revelling in Adaff’s troubles, Adaff may be a pagan, but I would rather stand beside him than this ruffian.

The feast began with such promise, we were seated near the salt, within earshot of the great Uther and his son, that blackguard Prince Madoc. I was sat next to Lychas and Sir Taran, but upon taking my seat a serving girl begged a favour. Sir Myrdin, Uther’s favourite strongman around who many dark rumours swirl was in his cups and disgracing the honour of the hall. I led him to a quiet place and calmed him with gentle talk, his mood changed for rancour to sentiment and when I sang him a song of lost loves he wept and swore eternal friendship.

The Duke of Conrwall Gorlois then took to his feet and pledged himself to Uther, Sir Thondet, whose love of his homeland in Cornwall is well known called out to the Duke, I think he may have found a patron there…

What followed this was one of the strangest times of my knighthood so far. Impassioned by the talk of Octa and Eorl, those fell Saxon kings, Sir Thondet sprang-up and flew into a rage; he paced the hall, all the way to the table of King Uther himself. He tore his shirt and beat his breast and at last, giving a great shout, fled the hall in a daze. Maddened, he fled the castle; I followed, given the charge by Roderick and Uther to bring this mighty warrior back to our sides before the armies mustered in Spring.

Many strange adventures followed. I came to a remote holding deep in the Forest Sauvage, a young firebrand of a knight would not listen to reason or offer the hospitality my position demands. Taking no heed of myself or his mother, he insisted we tilt. He was young and brave, but no match for my prowess and he was swiftly dispatched. I left him unconscious, tended by his mother and took his warhorse to atone for his lack of respect. If he wakes, I fear I may have made an enemy or Sir Hellidor del Montaigne.

After a series of skirmishes with the bandits of the deep woods and a knight spent warding off a pack of wolves inside a circle of torches, I came to a strange meadow clearing in the darkness of the woods. Sir Thondet lay on a bed of crabgrass in a grove of tall larch trees. He was naked and still raving of the Saxon blight. I approached with care and laid my hand upon his shoulder, at my touch his madness lifted, and we embraced. I feel as though we are now joined, brothers in God.

As we rode back to Salistbury he told me of his time in the woods, he remembered little other than the kind voice of a holy man who lived alone in the woods, whose kind words and healing touch kept him from harm during his time in the wilderness.

[metalshockfinland]

Paul Di'Anno's WARHORSE Release EP "Stop The War" in Advance of New Full Length Album

Photos: Violeta Juras and MarKo Alvarado Paul Di’Anno’s Warhorse released a EP entitled “Stop The War” on BraveWords Records. The EP “Stop The War” is in advance of the band’s upcoming full length debut album. Listen to “Stop The War”: https://smarturl.it/WarhorseEP Speaking about the Stop The War EP, Paul Di’Anno said, “I’m looking forward to the digital release of ‘Stop the War’, ‘Warhorse’…