#exercise training plan horse

[sandra-hippologic]

Motivate your Horse to Move: Exercising your Horse with R+

When you want to exercise your horse, it's all about motivation... When your horse is not motivated, internally or externally, he won't move. In other words: when movement has no function (benefit) he won't spent energy on it.

When you want to exercise your horse, it’s all about motivation… When your horse is not motivated, internally or externally, he won’t move. In other words: when movement has no function (benefit) he won’t spent energy on it. Internal Motivation to Move When you learn about internal motivation you can influence your horse to move in training, too. What horses experience in their body, I refer to…

[racefortheironthrone]

What differs a Bronze Age Monarchy from a Feudal or Modern State Monarchy? For whatever reson I have always been given the impression that Bronze Age Monarchy is the ancient version of either the former or the later, but that does not sound right.

Yeah, that would be a major misconception.

Bronze Age monarchies:

were far more centralized than medieval monarchies, with large, year-round palace complexes that functioned not just as fortresses but also as judicial centers, religious centers, storehouses, state planning apparati, and so on. To operate all these various functions, they employed a large bureaucracy that had, if not a monopoly, something of an oligopoly, on literacy, numeracy, and higher learning.

were highly involved in planning the economy, from organizing irrigation and other labor-intensive farming practices to keeping detailed records on production and taxation to coordinating the complex network of international trade that regulated the flow of both key commodities like tin but also luxury goods.

had more of a monopoly on military force, especially when it came to elite units like chariots. Training an archer and a driver to work in unison with a team of horses specifically bred to the task and custom chariots was a long and expensive process that only a monarch could provide the necessary surplus food and other resources for.

were not Christian. I can't stress enough how important this was as a structural force - Bronze Age monarchs did not have to deal with a large, European-wide, literate bureaucracy, with immense cultural power, that owned more land than they did. This isn't to say that there was no interaction between the temples and the state - I've talked recently about the tendency of Bronze Age monarchs to either be god-kings or priest-kings - but that the terms of interaction between the two much more heavily favored the state.

By contrast, medieval monarchies - and I'm aware that the term is something of a moving target, because what it meant to be a king in CE 600 is very different from what it means in CE 1100 or CE 1600 - were:

decentralized. They had small, peripatetic courts, and initially almost no bureaucracy. Governing power was much more broadly distributed down to the regional and local level through feudal contracts, and it was a long and very fraught process for the monarchs to gradually wrestle that power back.

much less engaged in the economy. Aside from tariffs and monetary policy, which is important, you don't really see medieval monarchs telling peasants when to plow and which fields (outside of the monarch's own personal fiefs), because that was an interference with the decentralized manorial system. You see fewer and smaller building projects, in no small part because the monarch usually couldn't afford to do them.

had less of a monopoly on violence. While the feudal exchange was supposed to give kings military service in exchange for land, in practice feudal levies could be slow to form, quick to disperse, and very fractious about their terms of service. This meant in practice that the nobility could exercise more hard power than their nominal overlords, which is why noble revolts were a common feature. Similarly, it took a long time for the monarchs to establish the necessary fiscal architecture for assembling professional armies and then eventually turning those professional armies into standing armies and then eventually turning those armies against the nobility - and by that point, we're not really talking about the Medieval period any more.

were Christian. And while there could certainly be exceptions of Emperors who picked Popes (instead of the other way around) or kings who could weirdly judo-flip their piety into Galician-style control of their national church, over time the pendulum definitely swung in favor of the Church having more power than any one monarch. They were wealthy, their wealth tended to grow over time because they were a corporate institution that invested their profits back into the company, they had huge amounts of cultural power, they had huge amounts of political power, and so on.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Olympics AU - Event Finals Part 1

Masterpost Now on AO3 - Sous Le Ciel de Paris

Part 11 I think?

Author's note: sorry for the delay on this guys, but I just couldn't get it to a place where I was happy with it for a while. And I don’t like putting things out when I’m not happy with them. Plus I wanted to wait until I watched event finals to make sure I felt relatively okay about the logistics. Plus I've been very busy with life 😬. But this part is a bit longer, so maybe that makes up for it?

Hope everyone is enjoying the Olympics! Here's Bucky's event finals, as promised.

---

The first day of individual event finals, Bucky is alone. Just him, his coaches, and seven of his new closest friends – the other athletes from around the world competing for a medal on men’s floor exercise. The only other men’s event today is pommel horse, and none of the U.S. athletes qualified. Croz damn near did, but he placed ninth after a form break, and only the top eight on each apparatus advance to finals.

So it’s just Bucky back here in the Bercy arena warm-up gym, and he feels oddly bereft. He doesn’t remember the last time he walked into a competition alone, without Curt at his side. It’s been the two of them at the top of men’s gymnastics for years. Even when they competed in college for different schools, they met up at competitions and became fast friends. Since then, they’ve trained together. They’ve competed together. They’ve faced the world and this crazy ass sport together. And now Bucky is alone. 

It’s nearing 9am in Paris, and he’s getting ready to do his fourth floor routine of this Olympics. His fourth floor routine in about a week, after qualifications, team, and all-around. 

We don’t think it’s a good idea for you to do floor yet, the doctors told him months ago. It’s too much of a risk. It’s too hard on your leg.

Bucky basically told them to fuck off because he planned to try for Paris. Once the idea was in his head – the idea that it could be possible – he couldn’t let it go. He needed to at least try. Honestly, not even he himself knows if he really expected to get this far. On one hand, yes he absolutely did. He’s John fucking Egan; as far as he’s concerned, this is what he was meant for, a destiny set forth by the gymnastics gods. On the other hand, did anyone really expect it after the year he’d had? Did anyone think it was possible? Did anyone think he could do it without hurting himself all over again?

And yet here he is. He wasn’t supposed to do floor exercise at all, and now he’s doing it four times in one week. And honestly, not even he’s sure that it’s a good idea. Not even he’s sure that he isn’t in over his head today. 

But that kind of mentality does not have a place on the gymnastics floor.

A wet nose presses against Bucky’s thigh as he sits on the floor, securing his brace once again as he prepares to head out into the arena for warmups. It’s his ever-dutiful good luck charm, getting Bucky through these Games just like he got him through trials. 

“Hey bud,” Bucky says, patting Beacon on the head. The golden smiles at him and wags his tail, as if he’s saying you’re not alone, you have me, and it makes Bucky smile, too. “Yeah, at least I have you,” he says. “Just you and me against the world, Bea.”

Beacon licks his hand in agreement.

The golden almost hadn’t made it to the Games, but Bucky and Curt had personally advocated to find a way to get him and his owner across the pond to Paris. USA Gymnastics wasn’t going to turn down their two stars, and they pulled some strings to make it happen. Since it’s an international event, the dog can’t be out on the competition floor, but USA Gym negotiated a way to have him back by the warm-up gym, and at this point just about everyone agrees it was the best decision anyone at the Olympics had ever made. He’s become not only the team USA therapy dog, but the therapy dog for every Olympic gymnast who needs a little extra comfort. Many of the athletes from other countries have made friends with him in the last week, taking photos with him and de-stressing by petting or playing with him. No one goes out onto the floor without petting Beacon for good luck.

Beacon, who started as a USA Gymnastics celebrity, is now an Olympic celebrity. Everyone knows who he is, especially at Bercy. After winning team silver, Curt laid his medal around Beacon’s neck for a picture, citing him as part of the team. He attends interviews with the boys, gets professionally photographed, and can be spotted from time to time around the Olympic Village. The dog even has his own custom “Beacon the Good Boy” pin for the Olympic pin exchange, and it’s quickly become a highly sought after souvenir for the athletes.

A Japanese gymnast, the favorite to win floor finals, walks by as he prepares to head out into the arena. He stops to lean down and scratch Beacon on the ears, and Beacon wags his tail and boops him on the arm. Bucky and the other gymnast exchange a smile and wish each other good luck, and then Bucky’s coach is grabbing his bag for him, letting him know it’s time to go. 

As Bucky gives Beacon a kiss on the head and walks away, he’s aware of every single athlete heading out to floor exercise – all eight of them, no matter what country they’re from – stopping to pet the dog. For good luck. 

As the announcer calls his name – “For the United States of America, John Egan!” – Bucky walks through the open doorway into Bercy Arena, the American flag projected on the wall behind him. He smiles and waves at the crowd packing the arena on all sides and heads over towards the tumbling floor with the other gymnasts. As he walks, he feels some nerves begin to return, and he runs a hand through his hair and bites his lip as he takes a deep breath. 

One more time, he tells himself. He’s hit every other floor routine this week. He can hit this one, too.

He’s leaning over his bag, which his coach had set on one of the chairs to the side of the tumbling floor, when he hears a familiar voice. “Egan, why don’t you give me a smile?”

Bucky whips around, and he can’t stop the grin that breaks out across his face. “What the fuck are you doing here!”

He pulls Curt into a hug and claps him on the back. The other gymnast, not competing today, is wearing one of the red USA Gymnastics coaching polo shirts. He has his Paris Olympics ID card and a floor pass strapped across his body on one of those pink and blue Paris lanyards. Hand-written on the pass in a messy scrawl are the words “MAG Coach 2” – Men’s Artistic Gymnastics coach 2. 

“Pulled some strings,” Curt says. “I’m your other coach for the day. Thought you could use some of my awesomeness down here.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but hugs Curt again. “Thanks, man.”

Curt grins at him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s rack ‘em up and knock ‘em down.”

When it’s Bucky’s turn on floor, he spares a glance up to the stands. When he was younger, cockier, he’d interact with the crowd constantly during meets. Sometimes his coaches would reprimand him for it, telling him to focus. He didn’t really listen.

He didn’t necessarily lose that cockiness, but a greater wariness has welled up within him during his recovery, dimming it. In the last week, he’s been finding a better balance again, but he’s been different since he returned to competition. During trials, he tried to block out the crowd, not wanting to let it get into his head. He didn’t have quite so much fun, didn’t want to think about anything other than the next apparatus, the next pass, the next skill.

But that was before he cared about who was watching. Here, in Paris, he’s made a point of knowing exactly where Gale is sitting, as if that alone can fight off his nightmare from before all-around. As if that alone can keep his leg together, keep his mind and body on the same page, ensure he can stick the landings on these tumbling passes that his doctors don’t think he should be doing. 

Gale Cleven. Bucky’s other good luck charm. 

Gale is exactly where he said he’d be, five rows up, right in front of the tumbling floor. Benny is beside him, and Marge, fresh from winning team silver in show jumping, is in the next seat over. She waves excitedly when he looks up, and he waves back. Gale notices him at the last second and breaks into a smile that takes away any last remnants of nerves that had been swarming around Bucky’s head. Any anxiety he feels starts to simply melt away, because Gale smiling at him like that is like basking in the glow of the sun.

On Gale’s other side is Croz, Alex, and Brady. The rest of Bucky’s team, here to hype him up and cheer him on. Brady has a tiny American flag stuck behind each ear, and all three of them are wearing quite obnoxious custom John Egan t-shirts. Bucky wonders how they got them without him noticing. 

He stops at the chalk box and kicks the slides off his feet before stepping into it, coating his feet in white chalk as he waits for the go-ahead. Then he leans over to the elevated chalk bowl and does the same to his hands. Over the quiet chatter as the audience waits, he can hear Brady yell “Yeah you get that chalk!” And it makes him laugh. 

The commentators on TV will note that John Egan has the second highest start value in this competition. Second by a mere tenth of a point. If he chose to compete the floor routine he wanted to – before he fought with his doctors and coaches over the integrity of his leg and the importance of not fucking it up – he’d have the highest start value by a mile. But as a compromise, he chose to omit one of his harder passes due to the danger of over-rotation and re-injury. The commentators still talk about how it’s incredible that he’s doing what he’s doing at all, that he qualified second on floor after the injury he had. 

Bucky knows that, injury or not, his gymnastics speaks for itself. His floor routine speaks for itself. His difficulty score speaks for itself. He knows that, injury or not, he is seen as one of the best gymnasts in the world right now, and that is why he’s here. But sometimes he wishes the commentators and the interviewers and the media would see it that way too, that they’d stop qualifying his accomplishments by saying he’s doing a great job “for being terribly injured just months ago.”

Injury or not, he’s John fucking Egan. And he’s going to make sure everyone in this stadium knows it. Sure he already has the all-around gold, but as long as he’s here, he needs to keep proving that he’s more than a comeback, more than a pity story.

He’s John fucking Egan. 

When the green light comes on and the announcer says his name, he swears he can hear his friends cheering for him over anyone else in the stadium, and he lets it fuel him. He salutes the judges, steps into the corner of the floor to set up his first pass, and he throws himself at it with every last bit of energy he has. 

Triple twisting double back layout. Perfect stick. Applause. Combination pass. Near perfect stick. Applause. Double salto forward. Stick. Applause. Cartwheel, somersault into the splits. Japanese handstand – his non-acrobatic element – arms straight out to the side, hands pressing into the floor holding himself up, head no more than a fist’s width distance from the floor, legs straight in the air. Hold. Roll out of it. Three more passes left. 

On the penultimate pass, he can feel it when he’s only midway through, still ten feet in the air. It’s a feeling no gymnast, no matter how well trained, likes to have: he’s going to under-rotate this. When he lands, in an attempt to save himself from falling on his face, his left foot hits the floor at a very strange angle in front of him and causes him to stumble back a step on his right. He grimaces when he feels a painful tug on his left knee, straining the joint. 

Not now, he thinks. Not fucking now.

The commentators on TV will comment on the disconcerting way he landed, the look of concern that flashes across his face before he schools his features once again and regains his balance. They’ll mention his knee, his injury, his comeback, the fact that his doctor’s didn’t think he should do floor but he wouldn’t be stopped. 

Curt watches with concern, wondering if his fears were right, that today was just too much. He tries to analyze the way Bucky landed and the look on his face and what it might mean. He’s playing coach today, and he’s trying to make heads or tails of what’s going through Bucky’s head right now. But like any coach, it’s not up to him. Out there on the floor, it’s up to John and John alone. All he can do is watch what happens next.

In the stands, Croz, Alex, and Brady all cringe at the same time, making Gale go “What? What’s wrong?” with his eyes wide in alarm.

“He landed a bit weird on his left,” Croz explains. “Looks like he’s gonna keep going, but…”

Shit.

He’s gonna keep going, but he’d keep going even if he shouldn’t. 

Bucky’s fine. Enough. He’s fine enough. He needs to be fine enough. He’s still standing, so there’s no other option. He can still move, so anything else he can work out later. Whether he’s actually fine or if the adrenaline coursing through his body is masking the pain, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t matter.

He cocks his head, shakes his arms out as he brings his feet together in the corner once again. Just gotta make it one more, he tells himself. It’s fine. We’re fine. He can hear Curt on the sidelines, yelling encouragement despite his own uncertainty. “You’ve got this! Get it done, Bucky! Get it done!”

Bucky takes a deep breath, looks across the floor at the opposite corner. He can see the judges, watching his every move, finding every possible little fault in his performance. He stares them down, like a dare. They all know he has to be perfect on this last pass. 

He thinks of Gale. Find your line. 

“Find your line,” Gale whispers in the stands. Benny puts a hand on his knee and squeezes in anticipation. 

Ignoring the slight stinging pain in his leg, Bucky runs, flips his way into his dismount, and launches himself up into the air to complete the triple full. When he hits the floor, that spike of pain shoots through him again, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to stay in control. He landed with one of his heels just barely out of bounds, and he knows that one-tenth deduction will probably cost him the gold, but he stuck the landing perfectly otherwise. He gets too much power on that pass; he always has, and he’s quite frankly surprised this is the only time he’s landed out of bounds the entire routine. He laughs a little bit anyways, because even if it’s not gold, even if that Japanese gymnast beats him out, he fucking got it done. 

He will be only the second American male gymnast to ever win an Olympic medal on floor exercise, and the first since 1976.

Deafening chants of “USA! USA! USA!” go up around the arena, and he salutes before pumping his fist in the air and jumping across the floor, leg be damned. He waves his arms to pump up the crowd, and they cheer for him. Because they know, no matter what country they’re from, what it means for him to be here right now. 

“LET’S GOOOO!” He yells out, and he can hear Curt doing the same as he goes absolutely crazy on the sidelines. When Bucky haphazardly shoves his slides back on his feet and hops down, he jumps right into Curt’s arms as the other gymnast lifts him off his feet, jumping up and down in celebration.

“That’s how it’s done!” Curt exclaims.

If Bucky’s in any pain, as the commentators, his coaches, his friends feared he would be, when he steps up onto the podium for the medal ceremony, no one notices. He hides his slight limp. He waves to the crowd. He can’t stop smiling as he bows his head to receive a silver medal. His third medal of the Paris Olympics. 

He shakes hands, he poses for photos with the other medalists. He blows a kiss to Gale in the stands. He waves to the crowd. He talks to a reporter about what this means to him.

He has one event left. 

—

Bucky sits on the uncomfortable mattress, leaning back against Gale’s warm chest. He’s polishing off one of the infamous chocolate muffins from the dining hall, which he’s been looking forward to all day. Curt snagged it for him earlier that afternoon after Bucky complained about not being able to get to the dining hall to get one himself, and Bucky could have kissed the guy for it. Sure, maybe he still has one more event to go bright and early tomorrow morning, but he’s earned himself a damn muffin and then some. Gale bumps the side of Bucky’s head with his nose, and Bucky raises the muffin up so Gale can have a bite before it’s gone.

Curt and Bucky’s small bedroom is full the night of his floor exercise silver. Tomorrow, he and Curt have rings and vault finals, so it’s a chill night in for them. No drinking or painting the town red or even mingling with the other athletes in the USA House. Bucky and Gale sit together on Bucky’s bed. Curt sits on his own bed, Croz beside him and Brady half laying across them both. Alex sits on the floor in the small space in between, leaning back against Curt’s bed, with Benny also on the floor, leaning against Bucky’s. Marge sat out their little gathering in favor of meeting up with her jumping team, which benny gave her shit for.

Ice is wrapped around Bucky’s knee, which is still sore but doesn’t seem to be seriously damaged. He’s been able to walk fine unless he stays still too long, and Gale took it upon himself to massage his leg earlier in the afternoon (which Bucky totally did not try – and succeed – to turn into a makeout session). Either way, he thinks the soreness might be worth it, because he has three Olympic medals hanging around his neck. And they’re heavy. 

“Maybe you should compete with those weighing you down,” Alex jokes. “Give the rest of us a fighting chance.”

Bucky laughs and holds up his second silver medal, bites down on it like he did for the photos on the podium. “Jealous, much?” 

“Of Olympic all-around gold medalist, comeback kid of the year, John Clarence Egan?” Alex says dramatically. “No. He’s an ass.”

“Oh fuck off!” Bucky laughs and throws his pillow at Alex, who doesn’t have time to dodge and lets it smack him in the chest. Then he takes it for himself and shoves it behind his back. 

“Wait! Bite down on the medal like that again,” Croz orders, motioning to Bucky as he pulls out his phone. 

“Aren’t there enough pictures of me biting an Olympic medal?” Bucky asks. There’s at least several from each event so far this week, and if everyone in this room is being honest, they fully expect him to add another medal to his collection tomorrow morning.

Gale makes to unwind his arm from around Bucky to get out of the frame, but Croz says “No, Buck, you stay there.” Gale arches an eyebrow but slowly wraps his arm securely around Bucky once again, pulling him close.

“Oh! Hold on,” Bucky says. He tells Curt to grab his silver medal, and Curt understands. He pushes himself off the bed, nearly knocking Brady to the floor, and grabs his medal from his bedside table, because that’s obviously the perfect place to store an Olympic medal. Reaching across Bucky’s bed, he motions for Gale to bow his head, and he places the medal around the blonde’s neck. A stand-in for his own eventing silver medal. 

“There,” Bucky says, pressing his fingers to the medal now resting on Gale’s chest. “Très beau.”

“Très beau,” Gale agrees with a soft smile.

“Okay, look over here,” Croz tells them. And he takes their picture.

Bucky decides not to even be shy about it. He posts the photo on Instagram immediately, with the caption “silver medalists ❤️” at the bottom. Bucky biting down on his silver medal with a smile as he leans back against Gale’s chest. His other two medals hanging around his neck. Gale’s arm wrapped around him as he holds up his own silver medal with his other hand, smiling shyly. Both of them in comfy team USA t-shirts. The ice on Bucky’s knee is barely visible at the bottom of the frame.

“Aren’t you two cute,” Benny teases, reaching up to pat Gale on the leg. 

Gale rolls his eyes as Bucky kisses him on the cheek. “We sure are,” Bucky agrees. Then he looks at his teammates on the other side of the room, as if he just remembered something very important. “Did you guys see the adorable pictures of Buck and Whiskey after the medal ceremony?”

The other gymnasts shake their heads, and Bucky insists that they look. Gale blushes, trying to hide his face in Bucky’s hair, but Bucky won’t let him. He pulls out his phone and forces Gale to look at his own post with him for about the hundredth time. Gale may be the one who posted it, but Bucky is the one in love with it, as is the rest of America. It’s been re-posted by the US Equestrian, US Eventing, and Team USA accounts, so millions of people have seen the pictures at this point. Between that, opening ceremonies, and the media tracking his and Bucky’s “love story,” he’s gained hundreds of thousands of followers during the past week alone.

After Gale won his individual silver medal, the first thing he did when he saw Bucky again was shove his phone in his face and say “look at my girl!” It wasn’t even himself he was proud of; it was his horse. As usual. 

Aside from the professional photos that came out later that day – photographs of Gale on the podium, Gale on Whiskey with a pretty second place ribbon attached to her bridle, Gale and Whiskey together as he held up the medal around his neck – there’s also countless non-professional photos, mostly taken by his groom, Kenny, after he got back to the stables that day. 

Bucky’s favorite, though, is a selfie that Gale took, still looking sweaty with his cheeks flushed, hair sticking up in all directions, as he held up the medal. The picture was taken from below, so you can also see Whiskey’s face. Her forelock, which had just been released from a braid, is also sweaty and sticking up in all directions, but she looks like she knows exactly what she just accomplished. Her ears are perked forward and she’s sticking her tongue out at the camera. Bucky’s favorite part is the ecstatic smile on Gale’s face. Him and his mare and nothing but pure exhilaration. 

Bucky wasn’t the only one who liked the picture either. It’s tucked in the middle of the photo set Gale posted that night, but it’s the most shared photo from the entire set, circulating across social media platforms and even on the news. The eventing team had been invited to the Today show to talk about their Olympic success, and they displayed that very picture for everyone tuning in to see. 

Now Bucky looks around, satisfied, as the other guys find the post and instantly like it and comment on how awesome Gale and Whiskey look, because apparently he’s that kind of boyfriend now. The kind that wants anyone and everyone to know how awesome and adorable and successful and sweet his boyfriend is.  

And… boyfriend. Wow. Okay. That’s the first time he’s thought of it that way…

It makes him feel funny. A little scared and uncomfortable and unfamiliar, but also warm. It makes him… happy? Proud.

Before he can really panic too much about it, though, Croz is holding up his hand and saying “Wait wait wait, is it true that the horses fly on a plane called Air Horse One?”

Gale chokes on a laugh, blowing warm breath into Bucky’s hair where he’s still hiding his face. It makes Bucky feel fuzzy. He’s been sitting here, wrapped safe and warm in Gale’s arms as he ices his leg for quite a while already, but he’s suddenly very very aware of it. 

“Yes and no,” Gale says.

“Air Horse One exists,” Benny explains. “But our horses didn’t fly to Paris on it this year.”

“Well what’s the fuckin’ point then?” Curt exclaims.

Gale shrugs. “Just kinda depends what company is available to fly ‘em. It’s pretty much the same treatment no matter what.”

“Didn’t you say the horses have passports?” Bucky asks. Almost experimentally, he leans forward, out of Gale’s hold, under the guise of taking the ice off his leg. He quickly realizes, though, that he really misses the warmth and security of Gale’s embrace, and that information assaults his brain with all the subtlety of a freight train. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why he can’t just admit that he loves this guy and be okay with that and let himself be happy and not question it anymore. But every single time he feels himself coming to a new realization about it, it throws him off guard.

Just let yourself be fuckin’ happy, you idiot, he thinks. 

He realizes Gale is answering his question. “Yeah, they all have to have a passport to travel internationally. Just like us. Whiskey’s technically been to more countries than I have.” Benny scoffs from the floor below them.

Curt gets up and takes the ice pack from Bucky. “You good?” he whispers, no doubt seeing the startled look on his face. He also accepts the medal that Gale hands back to him. 

Bucky nods as he leans forward, basically folding in half as he stretches his leg out, then rubs at the joint.

Gale, who, of course, noticed the concerned exchange between Bucky and Curt, puts a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You need heat next?” he asks.

Bucky’s heart stutters because yes he does need heat, and of course Gale thought about that and wants to make sure Bucky has what he needs because he’s thoughtful and sweet and it’s not like anything Bucky has ever had before. And why does Bucky feel emotional about that?

And Gale and the others were having a totally different conversation but now everyone is looking at Bucky instead because he got freaked out and pulled away and Gale got concerned because of course he did and now Bucky’s face feels hot.

So he just nods and looks at Gale and sees those beautiful blue eyes looking back at him, wide and sweet and concerned. “Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Yeah, heat would be good.”

Curt gives him a knowing look, flicking his eyes from Bucky to Gale and back, that says almost exactly what Bucky just told himself: stop overthinking this and just be fuckin’ happy that this amazing guy likes you. Curt knows everything Bucky has been through in the last several years. He knows how stupid Bucky can be. And he knows that Gale is one of the best things that could ever happen to him. If Bucky would just accept that.

“I’ll get the heating pad,” Curt tells him, with another look that says now lean back into his arms and quit bein’ stupid.

So Bucky does. He sighs, and he lets himself lean back, and Gale’s arm immediately wraps back around him like it belongs there, and then gentle lips are being pressed to the top of Bucky’s head. And Bucky lets himself smile again.

“Wait what country has Whiskey been to that you haven’t?” Croz asks, now that the attention is off Bucky again.

“Austria,” Gale replies. “That’s where she was born.”

Benny pops his head up and looks, surprised, at Gale. “She was born in Austria?! I thought she was born in Germany.”

“What?” Gale laughs. “Just ‘cause she’s a Hanoverian?”

“Well, yeah,” Benny nods.

Gale shakes his head. “No. Austria. I’ve been to Germany.”

“You imported your horse from fuckin’ Austria?” Brady asks, incredulous. This makes Bucky snort, because clearly Brady knows nothing about these ridiculous equestrian folk. Not that Bucky does. But he’s learning a lot.

Gale nods, and Benny adds, “My gelding came from France. Just about an hour from here.”

Curt returns with the heating pad and helps Bucky wrap it around his leg. “15 minutes, okay? No more.” Bucky nods and Curt returns to his own bed, manhandling Brady so he can sit back down. Brady promptly flops back across his lap.

“Fuckin’ equestrians,” Alex mutters, shaking his head. “Buying horses from Europe and then full sending themselves over shit at break-neck speeds.”

“Yes, that is the motto of FEI eventing,” Gale deadpans, and that makes Bucky laugh, too.

“And he’s funny,” Brady exclaims, nearly smacking Curt in the face as he throws his hand up dramatically. “Damn, Bucky. You gotta tell me where you found this guy so I can find one just like him.”

“On a plane,” Bucky says through a yawn. He grabs onto Gale’s hand, which is resting against his side, and pulls it up close to his chest, interlacing their fingers. “A very special plane.”

This somehow leads into a weird conversation about dating horror stories that Bucky doesn’t much feel like contributing to. The whole world already knows his biggest dating horror story, after all. How much worse can it get after a crazy ex forces your coming out on a global scale?

He’s started letting himself drift off instead, his eyes blinking tiredly closed as his breathing slows, and he settles even more fully into Gale’s arms.  

“How’s your leg?” Gale asks him eventually. Bucky blinks his eyes open again when he feels Gale shift, leaning forward to carefully unwrap the heating pad from his leg. The caring gesture makes Bucky feel as warm as the heat did. “It’s been 20 minutes,” Gale whispers. “Don’t tell Curt, but I understand wanting that heat just a little longer.”

Bucky smiles sleepily. “It’s alright,” he says. “A little sore. Somethin’ fuckin’ weird happened when I landed the second to last pass.”

“I know,” Gale says soothingly. “You gonna be alright for tomorrow?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be alright.”

—

Bucky has always liked rings. Any other event, the slightest inkling of nerves can have a domino effect on your entire body, and one second you’re doing fine, but the next, a bit of tension in your neck can cause you to land all wrong or smack your foot on the apparatus. Next to no one, for example, ever wants to start all-around on pommel horse, because if you are anything other than completely relaxed and perfectly focused, the odds are high that you fuck it up.

Many of the other events are not much better, in that way. There’s no room for nerves or fear on the competition floor, because no matter how good you think you are at hiding them, your body will betray you. It’s Bucky’s biggest concern this season, in his first handful of competitions back after near-certain career death. He’s used to being the cockiest bastard on the floor, for better or for worse. He’s used to having next to no doubt about his capabilities. In the past few months, though, he’s found himself still battling the remnants of the anxiety and the fear that nearly kept him from returning. He fears the pain that he felt when he flew off that high bar. He fears another set back. 

After nearly having his career ripped away, after crawling his way back, he fears losing it again. For good.

Still rings are the most forgiving for people like Bucky, who have the brute strength to pour their entire being into that routine. That’s what still rings are about – pure strength. It’s about holding your body as still as can be in positions that other people think look impossible. It creates an illusion of sorts, making people wonder how it can be real. It can be almost meditative, despite the burning in his muscles. All he has to do is hang on and channel the wayward energy in his mind and body into staying still. No matter what Bucky is feeling, he can pour it all into rings and it’ll hardly cost him a thing.

In Tokyo, it was anger. He became known for “angry gymnastics” after his sister died. Between that and the pandemic, he was mad at the whole world, and he shoved all of that emotion into his gymnastics. He limited his focus to one event, and then another, making sure every single move was perfect, crisp, strong out of pure spite and adrenaline. He pushed his way through all of it, straight-faced and with a sheer determination to keep going. Don’t look around, don’t look back, don’t look forward, just do.

The rings are served well by that kind of emotion, and that’s what got him his first silver medal on this apparatus three years ago.

He’s not angry anymore, though. That’s another thing the commentators have caught on to. He’s not angry. He looks like his normal, cocky, carefree self, just having fun out there. The angry, rough gymnastics he was doing three years ago has refined itself into something elegant, strong, unbreakable. He came out the other side somehow better than before, they say. 

He’s not angry anymore. But he isn’t always carefree either.

He’s relieved all he has left is rings. Because he’s worried anything else would betray the anxiety slowly creeping over him, the exhaustion weighing him down, the pain crawling up his leg like a vine. He can try to push it away, convince even himself that he doesn’t feel it. But the apparatus always knows. The body always knows. Even if your mind doesn’t. If Bucky’s learned a single lesson through the process of returning to the gym, it’s that.

In the hall outside the warm-up gym, Beacon keeps gently booping John’s bad leg like he knows something is wrong with it before staring up into John’s eyes and wagging his tail. Don’t be dumb, he seems to be saying. Don’t hurt yourself.

“I know, bud,” Bucky says, reaching down to pat Beacon on the head with an encouraging smile. “I’ll be alright, though.”

“The dog’s tryin’ to tell you something,” Curt points out as he sits on the ground beside Bucky, stretching out his hamstrings. Rings and vault finals are on the same day, so Bucky and Curt arrived at Bercy arena together, bright and early this morning. “You sure you’re alright?” 

Curt is still worried about the way Bucky landed on that pass yesterday. It was just the right kind of slightly off that it could easily have screwed up something in Bucky’s knee, and he’s concerned that it was something more than some ice and heat last night could fix.

Bucky just shrugs as he straps on his brace. He’d been debating over whether or not he should wear it for rings, since the entire routine relies on upper body strength alone aside from the dismount. But after yesterday, even he can admit that the brace is probably a good call right now.

“It’s a little sore,” he admits. “I mean, I’ve done three all-arounds and an extra floor routine in less than a week. I think that’s to be expected.”

Curt frowns and pauses his stretching to sit up and look Bucky in the eye. “Would you tell me if it was bad?” He knows what it is to push through pain to hit that one more routine. Just one more vault. One more pass. It’s the nature of the sport, always has been. That toxicity of gymnastics might be getting better now, but every athlete is the same. Every gymnast. Just one more. I can do one more.

Bucky shrugs again. “I’m fine, Curt. Just one more event. And it’s my best.”

He smirks before kneeling down in front of Beacon and giving the dog a good scratch and a kiss on the head. “Got my good luck charm and everything. What can go wrong?”

He pats Curt on the shoulder, and he hopes to God he’s right.

Today is Bucky’s fifth day walking through that doorway to thunderous applause in Bercy arena, and no matter what, it always feels surreal. Today is his last day in this stadium, and Bucky takes a deep breath as he walks out, smiling brightly and taking it all in one last time. He knows better than anyone that the career of a gymnast is uncertain. He hopes this isn’t his last Olympics; he thinks, if he plays his cards right, he could make it to LA. But there are no guarantees in this sport, or in any sport, especially after the injury he’s had. So he looks around him at the Olympic rings on the walls and the packed stadium cheering “USA! USA! USA!” as he walks out. And he actually lets himself think, for a moment, about how goddamn lucky he is to be here.

The Tokyo Olympics were a mess for him, between COVID and the death of his sister looming over him. Paris has been the exact opposite, with team and individual success, good times with his friends, meeting Gale, getting to actually be with other people. He has loved every single moment.

Despite having to prepare for vault finals, taking place in just a couple of hours, Curt manages to leave the back gym and get to the competition floor for Bucky’s turn on rings. He stands to the side of the rings podium with the coaching staff, calling out things like “You got this!” and “Show them what’s what” and “Just remember, you’re a fuckin’ Greek God! Buck said so!”

Bucky chokes as he takes a drink from his water bottle, looking over at Curt and mouthing what the fuck?

“It’s true! He did!” Curt yells back.

Bucky laughs and shakes his head. Somewhere inside, he knows Curt said that on purpose to get him to relax, but hey, if it works it works. His eyes scan the crowd as he adjusts the ring grips on his hands and rubs chalk over them. He quickly finds the rest of his team, and right beside them are Gale and Benny, who have taken the time to be here this morning before rushing to Versailles to watch equestrian in the afternoon. 

Bucky waves, as has become custom this week. As if he can’t start his routine without waving. Gale smiles at him and waves back. 

“Go John!!!!” Benny yells. He’s quickly joined by the other gymnasts, who get to their feet and jump up and down obnoxiously, yelling his name. Bucky shakes his head and re-focuses on preparing for his last event of the Paris Olympics. He checks his brace one last time.

When the green light finally comes on by the judges’ table and the announcer calls his name, he salutes, and then he jumps up to grab the rings. His coach grabs his legs from behind and lifts him higher while he adjusts his hold, then eases him down so he’s hanging from the rings, arms straight. Bucky’s on his own. 

He rotates himself upwards, keeping his whole body perfectly straight, so his legs swing up over his head and then back down again in a full 360, leading into his first strength hold, a cross. “The iron cross,” they call it, because the gymnast is meant to look immobile, still as a statue, a pillar of strength. Bucky has spent years perfecting it. He spreads his fingers out, letting go of the rings so his hands rest flat on them, just to show off a little. It’ll make the commentators laugh, because even though it’s such a small gesture, it’s so characteristically John – a little bit of a show-off.

He lets himself drop down, feeling that familiar pull straining his shoulder muscles before he pulls his hips upward, folding himself in half with his upper body upside down, legs straight, toes pointed towards the ground. He holds himself like that for just a moment, gathering his strength, before launching himself upwards, flipping his legs up towards the ceiling so he’s upside down again, landing in an inverted cross. His muscles ache as he holds himself up, arms out to the sides as straight as possible.

Don’t wobble, he thinks, trying to keep his legs still and straight, toes pointed towards the ceiling. 2 seconds. Each strength hold must be held for 2 seconds, but sometimes those 2 seconds feel like forever.

Letting himself drop out of the hold with a quick exhale of relief, he throws himself into a couple of swing elements, flipping around first in a tucked position and then in a piked position until he stops stock still in a perfect maltese. His body is perfectly parallel to the floor, his arms extended below him, holding him steady. One. Two. 

From there he sinks down until his body is level with his arms, his arms out to the sides. A maltese cross. One. Two. 

Relax. Drop, hang upside down. Flip up into a handstand. Hold. Drop. Up into another handstand. 

And then the kicker. The skill that, if he can hit, will indisputably secure him another medal in this event. It’s the reason his difficulty score is the highest of anyone here. The reason he qualified first in the world for rings. 

He used to flip himself up into another maltese cross, impressive and highly valued in itself. But before his accident, he’d been working on another skill that he’s wanted to achieve for years. When he came back to gymnastics after months of being told he never would, with his leg giving him grief but his upper body strong as ever, he threw himself into perfecting this skill because, if absolutely nothing else, he still had rings.

First he does another swing element, flipping himself up until he stops, perfectly immobile, in another cross. One. Two.

Then ever so slowly, he tilts himself back, his legs extending out in front of him until he’s parallel to the ground again but facing upward. His arms are extended out to the side, level with the rest of his body. An inverted maltese cross.

His shoulders burn. His core. His back. His everything. But this skill has been attempted by so few, and done well by almost none, that of course John Egan took one look at it and went “I can do that.” 

So he did it. He’s doing it.

He competed the skill in qualifying, but chose to omit it from all around in an attempt to save his upper body. He made the decision to bring it back today, because he can’t resist a little showing off. And, he won’t lie, he wants that damn gold medal. It’s only the third time he’s ever performed this skill in competition – once at Trials, and twice in Paris, and he grits his teeth and forces himself to breathe through it as the two requisite seconds seem to pass in slow motion. One… Two…

But finally, they do pass. Fighting the urge to gasp in relief, he lowers himself out of the strength hold and flips up to one final handstand. A couple flips on the rings to build momentum, and then he’s launching himself up into his dismount, flipping and twisting through the air until his feet hit the ground and he sticks the landing perfectly.

The moment his feet hit the mat, the entire arena is cheering and applauding for what he just accomplished. Even in a foreign country, an unmistakable chant of “USA! USA! USA!” goes up around the stadium for John Egan. He forces a smile, feeling a sense of pride wash over him for a fraction of a second. It’s just too bad that it can’t last, because the moment his feet hit the mat, no matter how perfect of a landing it was, he felt the pain.

Pain shooting up through his left leg, filling him with some instant, vague sense of dread and nausea that he knows he has to push through right now.

He keeps that damn smile on his face. And why not, he just gave the best rings performance of his life. He hit the skill he’s dreamed of hitting for years. He’s in Paris, and a French stadium is blaring with a chant for the United States, for him.

He salutes the judges, because he isn’t officially done with the routine until he does. He pumps a tired fist in the air. It’s uncharacteristic, not like his typical scream of “LET’S GO” as he hypes up the crowd, much like he did after floor. But he just… can’t. He can’t right now.

“Fuck,” he mutters instead. 

He needs…

He needs…

He lowers himself slowly to the ground with a grimace, pulling his left knee up close to his chest as he leans back on his left hand. Then even that is too much, and he lets himself fall onto his back so he’s staring up at the ceiling, staring up at the bright lights that blind him.

“Bucky!” Curt yells from the side. “John?”

The USA chant disintegrates into nothing as the stadium goes silent.

...

...

Please don't be mad.

Much of Bucky's rings routine comes from Asher Hong's in 2023 (right through the first maltese cross)

After the maltese cross, I have Bucky doing an inverted maltese cross (or inverted swallow), which is kinda insane

Side note: I would die for Stephen Nedoroscik ❤️❤️

[destielomegaversebigbang]

Into the Fire

Posting September 16, 2024

Fic by Crematosis

Art by spn-fanfic-reblog-writes

Rating: Explicit

Summary: As an omega, Dean has always had to work harder than anyone else to be taken seriously as dragon slayer. Castiel might be a bigger dragon than most, but Dean's still confident he can take him down and prove his worth. The whole plan falls apart when Dean discovers Castiel isn't actually interested in fighting him.

Tags: Omega Dean, Alpha Castiel, Top Castiel, Bottom Dean, Dragon Castiel, Shifter Castiel, Horse Impala, Alternate Universe-Medieval Fantasy, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Heat Sex, Handjobs, Mentioned Past Sex Work, One-Sided Enemies to Lovers, Castiel Loves Dean, Canon Typical Violence, Injured Dean, John’s A+ Parenting

Excerpt below the cut

Dean took a step back. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“Draw your sword, Dean.”

Dean’s heart pounded. While Castiel was human, it was easy to forget he was still a dragon and still a threat to him. He quickly drew his sword.

Castiel twisted Dean’s arm behind his back.

With a yelp of surprise, Dean’s hand spasmed and the sword clattered to the ground.

“For starters, we should discuss your reaction times. I disarmed you very easily.”

Dean huffed as he cradled his injured hand to his chest. “I fight dragons, not people.”

“And humans are much weaker opponents than dragons. If you really want to take out a dragon, you should ensure you can handle a human first.”

“Well, that would be where you’re wrong. I can handle dragons just fine.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’re having difficulty fighting me.”

“Yeah, so what? You’re a big-ass dragon that nobody can kill. And even though you look like a normal human now, you’re still all dragoned up so it doesn’t count. I could handle anybody else.”

“So does that mean you’re going to give up on fighting me?”

“Hell no,” Dean scoffed. “Dragonslayers never give up.”

“Very well. If you want to continue fighting me, I can help you with some training exercises.”

“What? You’re going to teach me how to fight you?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve seen the way you fight. And you’re very likely to get yourself killed at some point. Another dragon won’t be kind enough to bring you home to care for your injuries.”

[alvivaarts]

oi i’m like two weeks late but 6 from the artist ask game??????

Ay no worries you're the first person who's asked anything from it! (insert confetti here).

6. Anything that might inspire you subconsciously (i.e. this horse wasn't supposed to look like the Last Unicorn but I see it)

Tbh I focus on a lot of theoretical biology for my mer stuff, for those I'd have to say either the 'ology' books and/or the Spiderwick Chronicles. I just love to break down the creatures in a practical or scientific way, but add into it like. More based in reality biology and anatomy and stuff.

Above are some of my favorite 'ology' books, and below are some of my favorite Spiderwick monsters! (Not to mention, the entirety of the SCP wiki. I live there some nights)

Oh yeah, and not to mention I also loved the How to Train Your Dragon and Neverland Fairies books as a kid.

Otherwise, I really enjoy werewolf movies. Like super really enjoy werewolf movies, my personal fav being An American Werewolf in London. I've found myself writing a lot of essays about the psychoanalysis of lycanthropy and werewolf transformation in film, as well as trying to subvert traditional lycanthropic themes in my academic art. But! I will always love werewolves. Here's a link to my favorite part of the movie, the transformation! (Warning for nudity (David Naughton's butt) and a lot of screaming and agony and some AWESOME practical effects. No CGI here!)

Second to last, I super love tarot symbolism such as seen in Dragon Age Inquisition. I used to run an Etsy (before I realized Etsy was stealing 2k a month from me) where I made custom handpainted tarot decks, my pride and joy being my Attack on Titan deck, though I had plans to expand to other fandoms including Critical Role, my own take on the Dragon Age tarot, SCP, etc. And a lot of others people requested.

Finally, I grew up non-denominational (and still am), so I find religious symbolism to be really prevalent, especially in my more recent works. Such as but not limited to sacrifice, lambs, the innocent, community, undeath, etc etc. Probably because of the severe lack of genuinely beautiful places to worship in my home country. Tbh, that's probably why I always end up playing an aasimar bard or monk in D&D.

I think those would be my subconscious inspirations, at least those that I could think of after sitting here for a bit. Other than that, I love dark fantasy and medieval style fantasy games like D&D, Dragon Age, and so forth. And media like the X-Men, Stranger Things, Lord of the Rings, Ghibli films, and a handful of anime that I find really fun! (FALIN ART INCOMING hOLY SHI-) Other than that I really aspire to reach the lever of artwork of Alphonse Mucha and traditional early renaissance artists like the classic greats. Aka the namesakes of the Ninja Turtles. I know I won't ever get there, but it's still very fun to try and emulate!

(Funnily enough I was never allowed to watch stuff like H2O, Winx Club, or much else along those veins) Sorry for the long ass answer, but this's been a fun exercise to figure out some stuff and to share!

Here's the Weirdly Specific Artist Ask Game for anyone else who wants to join the fun!

[sun-lit-roses]

A Non-Exhaustive List of Twenty-First Century Concepts

That Chris would be genuinely enthusiastic about and Una would go along with because she likes being an agent of chaos and suffering:

Abbreviations (i.e., text speak)

(Chris: What a fun way people used to chat with each other by comms! I'll send this to the comm team so they can reference it in the weekly ship's bulletin for their 'Fun Notes.'

Una provides orders only in abbreviations for a solid month until the entire crew has memorized the article in self-defense. Then she switches to disdain and asks everyone to 'Speak in Standard, please. You're on duty.' She submits the results to Starfleet as a report on recommendations for conducting routine exercises in Handling Psychological Warfare.

This does come in handy the next time aliens try to take over the ship and the crew uses Text Speak to blatantly organize their secret rebellion out loud and frustrate their captors to no end.

Chris: I didn't realize the Fun Notes section was so popular!)

Camping rough

(Chris: Hey, you can ride horses out to the site. And there's fishing - Joseph will be happy.

Una, planning on how to sabotage their gear so this also qualifies as the required Annual Survival Training exercise everyone keeps avoiding: Excellent idea, Captain. I'll handle the supplies.)

Festive ugly sweaters

(Not sure what Federation holidays exist - Founders Day Ugly Sweater Party in the Captain's quarters? Attendance and ugly sweaters made mandatory through the XO's subtle threats. If you show up without a sweater, one will be provided. You do not want the one provided.)

Halloween

(Chris: ...and then people go through a haunted maze! Or house. Or field? I think there were variations on the theme. Unless it's a very long maze. Oh! And then everyone gathers around to eat themed snacks and watch scary visual entertainment.

Una, mentally making a list of their crews biggest fears and how to terrify the living daylights out of them via decor: That seems like a lot to plan on your own. Why don't you organize the snacks while I take care of this 'haunted experience?')

*Matching* festive ugly sweaters

(Chris: Team bonding! After all, last year's Founders Day Party went very well.

Una, with eyes already on the prize of forcing their entire senior staff into matching hideous knit monstrosities with emblems of all the Federation planets in neon colors and a row of Vulcan hand salutes around the hem: Absolutely. That will definitely build camaraderie.)

[rea-grimm]

Dragon of Masyaf 2

warnings: blood and injury

Your training and various exercises sometimes took place outside the fortress and outside the city itself. Together with Altair, you went to the desert, where a small enemy camp was supposed to be located.

The plan was to stay the night in the desert, reconnoitre the enemy's territory and get the flag from there, which was located in the very centre on high ground. After that, you were scheduled to go to Jerusalem, where the Grandmaster was supposed to have a meeting with the Rafiq there.

You had travelled some distance from Masyaf when the enemy camp that Altair spoke of appeared in front of you. You camped not far from it and it was up to you to get the necessary information. 

Altair often taught you about the mistakes of his past, so he made sure that you used your intuition, but that you found out the necessary and correct information.

When evening came it was up to you to prepare the fire. You got wood and everything, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get the fire going. You've probably tried all possible methods. Using sticks, stones... Nothing. You were slowly running out of patience.

“I'll do it,” Altair said after a while of you competing with the flintlocks. You nodded in agreement and handed him the rocks. Altair slammed them together a few times and you thought you didn't see any spark.

But he crouched down to the hearth and began to blow into it. You watched curiously as you noticed what seemed to be a flame coming out of his mouth. Suddenly, smoke appeared from the hearth and the fire was on. You couldn't believe your eyes.

“Thank you, Master,” you finally said, swallowing your other questions. How? What it was? Etc. He taught you to question, but right now you were questioning your eyesight.

"You're welcome. And Y/N? Just call me Altair," he said and you felt like his eyes were shining gold. But you attributed that to the illusion created by the flames.

You wanted to execute the infiltration plan at dawn when the guards were changing. You got in without any problems without anyone seeing you. You got to the flag and you had the impression that it was suspiciously easy.

Your suspicions were justified because as soon as you touched the flag, an arrow pierced your shoulder. You immediately pulled back and focused on the direction the arrow had come from. You noticed the archers. Looking around you found yourself surrounded. So they waited for you. It was a trap and you fell into it.

You broke the arrow so it wouldn't get in your way and even with the flag in hand you ran away. Now that you've had it, you're not going to leave it there. You jumped off the lookout tower and ran away. 

You ran around the tents so they wouldn't see you, but when you got to the gate they were already waiting for you. They've completely blocked your path.

You drew your sword in your good hand and were thankful that you were learning to fight with both hands, just in case. Enemies rushed at you and you were clearly at a disadvantage.

Although you always tried to focus on the one closest to you, spotting who would attack and the like, despite that you knew that this was a problem. Fortunately for you, Altair was watching the whole situation and as soon as you were hit in the hand, help was on the way.

Just when you were starting to feel like you couldn't handle another attack, an assassin swooped in. He deflected one attack with his sword and blocked the other one aimed at you with his hand. You saw the sword go through his uniform, but you didn't see the blood. However, you had to focus on your opponents.

Together, you finally managed to kill the bandits and get to safety. At a sufficient distance, when you reached your camp and horses, you wanted to look at his hand. After all, you saw how the sword hit him. Altair showed her to you, but there was no injury on her. You looked at his hand in confusion.

"A lot was going on at once. Maybe someone else got hurt like that," he said, focusing his amber eyes on your shoulder, which was still bleeding and had a piece of arrows sticking out of it. "I'm more concerned about your injury," he said, inspecting it.

He carefully tried to help you out of your uniform, but it only got worse. A sharp pain shot through your shoulder and you looked unusually pale and exhausted. He didn't like this at all. This injury required proper treatment.

"We'll head straight for Jerusalem," Altair ordered. "Can you stay in the saddle?" he asked you worriedly. You nodded in agreement. After all, this little injury won't put you out of the game, right?

Unfortunately, you couldn't have been more wrong. After some time in the saddle, fatigue began to overtake you and the pain began to spread like a contagion throughout your body. 

At one point you had the impression that your eyelids were made of stone and that you couldn't keep them open any longer. You blinked and then blinked again. 

Then you could no longer open your eyelids and the peace of darkness enveloped you like a pleasant blanket. It wasn't until too late that you realized you fell asleep. It only dawned on you when a pair of hands grabbed you.

"You'd better ride with me," Altair said firmly. You nodded your head in agreement. He helped you onto his horse and settled behind you. He tied the reins of your horse to the saddle, held you around the waist with one hand so you wouldn't fall, and held the reins of his horse with the other. You leaned comfortably against his body, which warmed you pleasantly. Before you knew it, you fell asleep again.

You only woke up to the noise of people who were also heading to town. You stopped away from the main gate which was guarded by guards on each side.

"Can you get in?" Altair asked you as you regained your senses and surveyed your surroundings. Your shoulder still hurt, but you had already stopped bleeding.

"I'll make it. I'll blend in with those monks over there and sneak in with them undetected," you replied. Altair nodded his head in agreement. He helped you off the horse and onto the ground, putting his cloak over your shoulders. He didn't want your injury to attract unnecessary attention.

You did as you said and got through the guards to the city unnoticed. There you sat down on the bench and waited for the master, who joined you after a while. Together you walked through the alleys to the district where the base was located.

Normally you would have gotten there via the roof using parkour, but now you didn't want to risk making your injuries worse. Plus, you didn't want to risk running into the archers patrolling the rooftops.

When you finally reached the base here, you sat down on a bench in front of the building while the master made his way there via the roof. There was also a secret entrance, but only the local Rafiq knew about it. When you finally got inside, your injury was the priority.

Malik, the local Rafiq, with Altair's help, got rid of the rest of the arrow and tended to your wound, which began to bleed again. You were given the day off and rather your task was to rest. That wasn't a problem for you.

You lay down on the soft carpet that was littered with pillows and closed your eyes. You thought you were going to fall asleep again, but you probably weren't that tired again. 

You still had your eyes closed and were listening to your surroundings. Nothing very interesting. That is until you heard the voice of the master and Rafiq. They were talking about something.

"…It was supposed to be a simple mission. I went to check it out myself. I have no idea where they turned up. If I wasn't sure myself, I wouldn't have sent her there," you recognized your master's voice.

"I see. I'll try to find out more in the city," Malik replied. There was silence for a moment.

“Now tell me since when have you personally been training the novices?” Malik asked in a different tone. Altair didn't answer.

"Does she know about it?" was Rafiq's next question.

"No. I didn't tell her the real reason. Besides, she indeed has potential," finally replied the Grandmaster.

"Just be careful," Rafiq said finally.

"I know. But sometimes I have this urge..." you didn't hear the end of that sentence. Overall, the conversation was weird and didn't make any sense to you. 

Sure Altair acted strange at times, but what other reason could he have chosen to keep an eye on you? But now you had the impression that you wouldn't find out much. You'll have to go about it differently.

You left Jerusalem as soon as your shoulder healed. You surveyed the surrounding situation, Malik, who you found out was Altair's best friend, was overseeing your training for a while. Even so, they kept nudging each other. Malik kept calling him a novice, even in front of you, and it annoyed Altair.

Unlike the Grandmaster, Malik taught you in maps, documents, and generally in that direction. A proper assassin should develop both body and mind.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Assassin's Creed Masterlist

[ridiasfangirlings]

Once, during the era while sarumi are both still in Homra, Yata's leg gets injured during a mission and he can't walk. Saruhiko tries helping him up, but he doesn't really have the strength to do so. They're on a time crunch because the strains are after them or something, and it ends up being Mikoto who helps carrying Yata to safety. Of course, Yata is all heart eyed and "Mikoto-san is so cool!!" About the situation, not noticing how disheartened Saruhiko feels about it all. What he does notice is how, a day after that, Saruhiko starts putting in work to... eat healthy??? And exercise ???? Yata is so, so confused with what's going on, but he won't complain.

(Oh, and maybe years later after they've fought and then reconciled, Yata brings up that one period of life where Saru seemed willing to exercise. Like wow what was that about, and saruhiko has no idea how to break it to him that he just wanted to be strong enough to carry misaki like mikoto could.)

Fushimi has never seriously wanted to be toned in his life, until this very moment XD Imagine Fushimi and Yata are on some Homra mission, working as the vanguard. Yata’s all hyped up as usual and just barrels right into the bad guys’ hideout, yelling that Homra is here to teach them a lesson and all that. Fushimi just clicks his tongue irritably and follows, grumbling that they were supposed to have a plan. Yata laughs and says this is fine, they can take these guys — and then is promptly knocked over a railing and falls like one story down. Fushimi quickly makes his way down the stairs to Yata’s side and Yata’s insisting that he’s fine, except his ankle doesn’t seem to want to hold him. They’re about to be surrounded when the rest of Homra makes an appearance, Mikoto burning everything around them. 

The bad guys start to scatter but then they can hear like police sirens in the distance. Kusnaagi suggests they get out of here before things become inconvenient and starts to round up the rest of the guys. Yata tries to get to his feet but he can’t, Fushimi throws Yata’s arm around his shoulder while complaining about what a pain Yata’s being. The problem is that even like this Fushimi can barely pull Yata forward, struggling under his weight. Kusanagi spots them struggling and says ‘Mikoto,’ Mikoto takes one look and just grabs Yata bodily and carries him. If anyone else had done this Yata would have been mortified but of course since it’s Mikoto Yata is so happy, all ‘Mikoto-san is so cool’ and completely unaware of Fushimi quietly glowering behind him.

So Yata has to be off his feet for a while and imagine that puts Fushimi in charge of cooking for them, Yata’s like it’s okay you can order takeout. But instead Fushimi pulls up some recipes on his PDA and brings Yata some really healthy looking vegetable dish. Yata is amazed and also maybe a little worried, like do you feel okay Saruhiko do you need to lie down. Fushimi looks away and mutters that he just felt like eating right, Yata figures don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and decides to be thankful that Fushimi is eating vegetables (and then he takes a bite of his meal and almost chokes because it’s so bland, like Saruhiko please can we talk about the existence of spices). Afterward Fushimi leaves for a while saying he needs to ‘train,’ Yata can’t believe Saruhiko is being so proactive. Fushimi returns looking all sweaty and miserable and even paler than normal and Yata asks if he’s okay, Fushimi snaps that he’s fine. Later he’s sitting on his bunk looking at his skinny twig arms with an unsatisfied expression, clicking his tongue quietly. 

This probably lasts all of a few days before Fushimi can’t take it anymore, he can’t handle all this healthy shit he wants meat and chips and cola. Yata kinda forgets about the whole thing but then imagine post-ROK Yata is trying to cajole Fushimi into eating vegetables and mentions weren’t you trying to eat healthy that one time anyway. Fushimi evades, saying he doesn’t know what Yata’s talking about and Yata wonders if Fushimi had a super high fever at the time and that’s why. Fushimi shrugs and says maybe, looking at Yata for a moment before grabbing him by the collar and picking him up. Yata’s all what the fuck put me down and Fushimi just gives this little ‘heh’ as he sets Yata back down. Yata’s all what was that about and Fushimi says nothing, scraping the vegetables off his plate and onto Yata’s.

[turtle-to-dragon]

a return to goal-setting and logging and blogging

I figured it's time to start using this space more like I did before. A lot has happened in my life since I last posted personal stuff; I've changed my profession, moved back to my hometown, returned to my first and most beloved martial arts school, started Chinese sword training, had a few pleasant encounters with HEMA practicioners, started teaching kung fu again...

I haven't trained as consistently as I'd have liked, and I had some months where I didn't exercise or move or do much of anything, at all. Fortunately, that's behind me now, and I'm back at a state of mind where I feel comfortable setting martial arts related goals again.

Now I know it's important to keep it as specific and measurable and actionable as possible, and I *also* know that it's probably important to not plan too much at once... but ehhhh. I'll just try to be kind to myself and keep the daily actions small and short enough to not overwhelm myself. At the same time I know I need consistency and a plan to achieve those things.

My goals;

(re)learn the Sword Hand Form, so I can perform it fluidly, with intent, in a way that I would be able to teach it to others, by September.

optimize the Leopard Form, so that I can perform it fluidly, with intent and appropriate depth and the character of the animal, by mid August.

get good at deep stances so I can maintain them comfortably for a minute (horse stance, reversed bow stance, empty stance) on each side.

get better with the leopard kick (which is a sneaky one, pretending to go all straight and then at the very last moment turning inward or outward)

get better with the leopard strikes (the circular in the straight, the straight in the circular, as my teacher said)

learn the 3 Principles Sword Form (san cai jian) so that I can perform it correctly, with intent, with body-sword-movement, with a partner, by December.

establish a sword training routine so that it becomes part of my daily life. start with maybe ten minutes a day, keep a checklist with drills to practice nearby, and re-evaluate after two weeks if this actually helps with anything.

pain-free, strong right shoulder, so I can go through 2 x 1.5 hours of sword training or regular kung fu training per week, or so I can get into push-up position, or hold a focus mitt against serious punches and kicks without pain... By stability and mobility exercises on every second day (alternating with leg work)

pain-free, stable left ankle, so I can go through 2 x 1.5 hours of kung fu training on mats per week, including jumping and standing on one leg without falling over or being in pain for days... by stability and mobility exercises on every second day (alternating with shoulder stuff)

improve endurance so I can sprint up one or two flights of stairs without feeling like I might die. I'll probably start with a C25K training program again, and training with stairs would probably help as well. What doesn't help is that I abhor starting this kind of training because it feels so miserable. (That's probably me wanting too much, too soon...)

Yeah. Like I said.. maybe a bit much, but I'll try and figure it out.

.oO(goals for July and beyond...)

Other things, apart from the goals:

On Friday my new sword will be delivered, yay! Getting the shipping notification today made my Monday significantly better. More swords for everyone!

Looking forward to a HEMA introductory workshop on longsword in less than three weeks, with a kung fu sister and two other good friends <3

very much enjoying having a very motivated kung fu sister that matches me in thirst for knowledge and enthusiasm for this art.

My first kung fu teacher and my mom both said that they would like to be present during my next kung fu exam. I don't know yet when that will be, but I feel honored that they want to be there. And it feels kinda fitting, since they were both present at my very first training at this school, 22 years ago. ^_^

After tidying up my room, I now have (hopefully) enough space in my bedroom/living room to practice sword techniques. (Looking at you, ceiling lamp... Stay where you are!)

Okay, that's it for now. Off to actually train now :D

[wutheringmights]

Has anyone asked for the writer's commentary yet for the latest CTB chapter? I love those 😭

Both of these asks came in today, so I guess we'll have to do director's commentary now.

As I mentioned in the author's notes, the entire flashback was written the day of posting. If I was in a better state, I would have taken the time to sit on the draft before going in to expand on some of the scenes, but I was at the end of my rope with the chapter and wanted the whole thing over with

All that to say that I don't really remember writing the flashback. My brain was pretty hazy

When I wrote that Mask's hair was cut, I felt like it was important but I really didn't know why. It wasn't until like a day later that I realized that Link was so bugged by the child's hair being cut because it was a loss of autonomy-- not for the child, but for Link. In Link's mind, he has final say on what the child does with his body, not anyone else

I would like to thank me for rehearsing the dialogue for Link and the engineer's argument in my car during my commute. If I didn't have that shit memorized, there would be no way that I would have been able to write that in, like, an hour

Onto the present day, which was 30k of the 35k chapter

I originally wrote Legend's story from his point of view before remembering my rule about limiting the POV to Warriors/Link exclusively; I might post that draft some day

In my draft, I was going to have everyone insist that Sky, Warriors, and Linkle couldn't come along to the rescue due to their injuries/being too young. About five minutes after they all left, Sky and Linkle were immediately going to start gearing up, with Sky turning to Warriors like "Well? You're coming or not?" This idea was cut as a space-saving measure

I felt like there are a lot of characters I wanted to put a spotlight on before the action got heavy, including Sky, Four, Lana, and Proxi. But I only had enough space for one. I ended up giving that space to Sky since he had the more pressing trauma, while also splicing in some Proxi for good measure.

Lincoln's departure desperately needed a rewrite. I had a note in bold at the bottom of the WIP constantly reminding me to go back to it, but I ran out of fucks. I apologize to any and all Lincoln stans out there

Another space-saving method was summarizing how they stole the horses and uniforms. I could have written more, but again. Space.

I desperately wanted part of Warriors's infiltration plan to involve Hyrule entering the camp on his own to befriend a bunch of soldiers, but it didn't make logical sense

If Sky, Linkle, and Warriors had gone off on their own, there would have been a scene where they snuck through the medical tent and saw the gas burn victims there

Originally, Twilight was going to be with the troops heading out but I moved him to be with Midna to save space

Impa and the generals were also going to be physically there and active characters in the tent scene, but their presence would have made the scene 10 times longer, so I had to find a way to put them in a box

(Are you noticing a trend here?)

I used to exclusively write ensemble stories with 20 different POV characters because I felt like I couldn't let characters do significant things off screen without it feeling shoehorned in. CTB has been a good exercise for me in regards to forcing me to embrace a single perspective. But, boy did everything with Midna and Twilight made me wish this was an ensemble story

The "battlefield run" plot point where Warriors and co need to run across an active battlefield to rescue someone was directly inspired by the movie 1917

When I was reading "The Dragon Republic" by RF Kuang, I fell in love with this description of a river filled with dead bodies that I knew I wanted to include somewhere in CTB, though I was worried it was too dark

The decapitated dead in the river is meant to be Uri, Warriors's friend from training who died in the first battle

I always meant for Uri to be this shrouded figure in Warriors's past where the reader can tell how deeply affected Warriors was by his death by how little he had to say about it; it took until this chapter for me to realize what exactly Warriors was trying to not remember

The fingering joke made it to the final cut exclusively because I did not have any energy to think of a new bit

My justification for Faovarians having white freckles is that Hylians are just humans with pointed ears, which highly suggests to me that there are other human cultural groups in the LOZ universe with their own fantastical physical features

The muskets were originally going to be muzzle loading muskets circa 1770s, but I upgraded them solely because I did not want to have to describe the process of reloading one

If I had stuck to the muzzle-loading muskets, Warriors's inference that Faovarians just had gunpowder lying around would be more plausible, as the gunpowder is not in the musket balls; with the change, his plan for Arlo is a bit more far-fetched

The ganons got named exclusively because I got sick of having to refer to them as "the giant machines" or other vague terms

This didn't come up in story, but the reason why there's so many dead animals around is because they were killed by poisonous gas

The Faovarians have this giant magical wall because I needed to make it really hard to infiltrate Faovarian territory, and you will find out eventually why I needed to do that

While writing this chapter, I realized that I could have cut out Whitestone and given his speech about lambs and stuff to Impa, which would help to give her more pull in the narrative

That being said, I really hoped that by name dropping Whitestone, I could quickly paint a picture of what the past few weeks had been like for Wind

Deepest apologies to Wind, but it had to be done rip

So I always knew that Twilight was going to be captured, which makes his re-entering only to get carried off again REALLY funny

There is a very specific plan I have for the trio of characters I refer to in my notes as the House of Nephus, though you aren't going to realize what it is until Nephus himself finally comes into the story

Speaking of which, I was going to provide his little brother's name but it never came up (mostly because the only one who knew it was Icarius, who can't talk)

So as a reward for reading this far into my commentary, I will tell you that the little brother's name is Philo

I would like to take a moment to thank Lincoln for being so killable that no one noticed that I explicitly outlined last chapter everything needed to kill Proxi

Which is also the reason why I was so pressed about making the audience care about her last chapter

As someone who knows her full history with Warriors, her death is significant to me, but when I planned the story, it didn't occur to me that the flashback would not have gotten to Proxi by the time she dies in the present

To help make up for the audience not caring about her as deeply as I do, I tried to linger as long as possible in Warriors's misery so that the reader can at least feel her death through him

I did have to cut an idea I was in love with: while waiting for help, a group of soldiers come upon Warriors, and when they find out that someone is stuck under the rubble, they ignore orders to dig Wind out because they're good people

I cut it because I needed Warriors to feel no amount of hope as he crashed into rock bottom

This is rock bottom because his fears of his friends going through terrible things because of him had finally come true. From the start, he had promised to put them over himself. Losing his arm put that to the test, and he mostly passed. But in the end, nothing he did actually protected Twilight or Wind

This chapter contains a reference to something that is also a final bit of foreshadowing for the scene I wrote this whole story for. I wonder if anyone can find it and if they know what it means...

[fbwzoo]

Cats & dogs!

I already made one big change for the cats - got them back on a 2/3 wet food diet. I had switched to kibble only again for a while due to being overwhelmed and needing things to be simpler. But they both gained weight, especially Shilo, so I got us back on the horse. It's been a couple months now I think? And they've already both lost weight & look much better, so I'm pleased.

They get dry food in the mornings for ease before work, then wet food when I get home & again before bed. It seems to be working well! Though they're still picky assholes and won't eat pate food. They're currently getting Friskies, Fancy Feast, American Journey, and Nulo, and get Purina One for kibble. Seems to be working!

I do want to try adding some hanging planters to the run for them as well, for different edible plants. I'll probably just start with a couple and see if it'll work - I think there's a heavy risk of Spring peeing on them, sigh. I still want to add shelves to the run for them as well, but that may wait for now - the next major run renovation I want to do is switching to solid plastic roof panels instead of the mesh fencing we have now.

I'm forever trying to get myself into a better routine for training & exercise with the dogs. It's a constant struggle tbh, but I keep working on it, making plans, making different plans, and trying again.

One big thing I want to work on this year, is make a platform or something to use as a cooperative care station. It'll be slow going, but I want to start giving them the option to work with me on it in the evenings. I'm hoping to increase the range of handling I can do with Emma, with a bonus of less stressful handling to check body parts, do nails, etc, for the other two as well. I'd really like to do more with Spring's poor teeth, so this would really help towards that.

I'm also considering making a more permanent potty station, similar to a litter box, for the chihuahuas to use in the garage. But that's still very much just an idea & needs more planning to see if I can make what I have in mind, if it'll fit, how easy it will be to maintain, if they'll even use it, and how much it'll cost. So we'll see!

[sandra-hippologic]

Exercise Training Plan for the Recovering Laminitic Horse

When your horse foundered and is recovering you've probably got advice from your vet: exercise your horse more, get him fit and put him on a (restrictive) diet. Where to find an Exercise plan? Can you make one? Yes, you can!

When your horse foundered and is recovering you’ve probably got advice from your vet: exercise your horse more, get him fit and put him on a (restrictive) diet. When you’re a clicker trainer you might not want to lunge or round pen your horse and riding isn’t yet an option. Or, you have a non ridden horse, that you need to get in shape. The first step is to create a tailored exercise plan for…

[ceescedasticity]

Unforsaken, 8c

(Probably 8 final, unless I decide I want to add something more.)

(All sections on tumblr)

(AO3, lagging behind but more polished)

Khitwê and Risyind get a small boat from the Beornings and take that down the river to meet the others.

(Khitwê judges the rapids ahead to be probably not as bad as the Fordless River. Best not to test it just now, though.)

Introductions are made. Logistics and ox-harnesses are discussed some more.

(Later, Dyn asks, "Why are— If they have two orc parents, why are they so… normal?)

(If she'd asked Khitwê or Risyind, they would have said they weren't normal, and as far as they appeared to be normal they worked at it, and they'd had a long time and many opportunities to polish the act — they were children of the early Third Age, after all, and after leaving Varm they'd never truly been isolated. All of which is true, but not at all getting at the point.)

(If she'd asked Elrohir, he would have said they weren't sure, but it probably had to do with how from before Risyind was even born, Khitwê and Risyind were always told they were elves, and they were free, and the Shadow had no claim on them — while no one ever told the goblin-men of Dunland they were anything but abominations, and they didn't know anything to lead them to dispute it. This is also probably true, and something the children of Elrond have been periodically kicking themselves about for the last decade.)

(But she asked Zena, who says she thinks it probably has to do with how Khitwê and Risyind's orc-family were clearly a different kind of creature than the Fair Orc — actually from everything she's heard most orcs are a different kind of creature than the Fair Orc, but the Varm orcs were different again. And besides that the children of the Fair Orc were likely marked by the cruelty of their begetting. Which is also probably true.)

(There's a reason Khitwê and Risyind haven't been asked to come work with the Hirnedhrim before — their existence and nature raises a lot of uncomfortable questions for those who grew up thinking a single orcish parent inevitably set all-the-world-against-them.)

It's winter, now. It's snowing in the Misty Mountains, but the river's sides are free of snow as far north as the Carrock and will hopefully stay that way.

They set out.

*****

Turgon returns to Imladris.

Elrohir, Celeborn, Khitwê and Risyind have all gone south. The plan is to rendezvous with the boat party at the Carrock after the High Pass clears enough for horses.

Celegorm has given up on and/or gotten bored of butting heads with Maglor and gone to the Trollshaws to look for trolls.

Maglor is actually training harder with Celegorm gone, because… reasons. Good reasons. Really.

He has a proper battle-harp to work with, now. Elladan handed it over with strict instructions to just not talk about whose it is, please, I know you can probably tell but just — don't bring it up.

(Maglor can definitely tell.)

—Turgon can tell he maybe should be able to tell something about the harp, but there's still too much interference. Glorfindel has to explain about Galadriel leaving the harp behind and Celeborn forcing himself to — indirectly — hand it over.

Since there's nothing else for them to do until spring Glorfindel sets everyone up with exercises to practice fighting together. It wouldn't do to accidentally treat allies as enemies in the heat of battle. …They should get Celegorm back for this, too, but they can start without him.

Turgon fights differently as an orc than he did as an elf — less grace, more force, and he used plenty of force before. And he's better than he was, little as Glorfindel would like to admit it. Turgon in the First Age trained diligently and managed well enough in the few battles he was in. Turgon as an orc is in pain, has somewhat impaired senses, can't think as clearly — but he has thousands of years of practice fighting under those conditions.

Sharlinnu's combat ability is more of a surprise to Glorfindel, though it shouldn't be. Again: thousands of years of practice.

Maglor of course is thousands of years out of practice, but when persuaded to pick up a sword, he can still keep up with Elladan without apparent difficulty and may be holding back.

(Elladan has little experience fighting alongside so many people who can keep up with him, but he isn't complaining.)

*****

Traveling up the Anduin with four barges and many oxen leaves much less time and energy for practice fighting, but they still make an effort.

—Mainly they're working on getting the Hirnedhrim up to speed.

Both Zuste and Zena have used swords before, and not ineffectively — before Saruman no one taught the goblin-men of Dunland anything, but they had a long time to figure out things that worked for them. The issue is getting them used to a higher quality of weapon — lighter, not at all brittle, much better at holding an edge. The balance is different. Please don't use these swords like machetes even though they'll hold their edge it's the principle.

Zena's actual preferred tool of war is a spear, plus knives if it comes to that, so Khitwê and Risyind eagerly share polearm techniques.

Zuste's actual preferred tools of war are hand axes, either in hand or thrown. Gimli feels she has good technique but is trying to convince her she wants something bigger as a primary weapon.

Dyn has no preexisting preferred tool of war, she's young enough she was able to prefer to hide in the hill-fort, so she'll just learn swords if that's simplest. …Or she'll just learn polearms if they think that's a better idea. Whichever.

There's also some attempt to prep the Hirnedhrim for possible small, non-fire-breathing dragons.

Also Khitwê and Risyind for that matter, though they aren't quite starting from nothing; Pelndoru has never had a dragon problem, nor have the Stonefoot Dwarves, but the People of the Pearls have — or at least once had — dragons beyond their own southern border, and many stories about fighting them. Pelndoru had the very occasional dragon drill. But it's not much, and wasn't based on any experience at all.

Elrohir doesn't want to be too cavalier about it, but feels Legolas, Gimli, and Celeborn may be overdoing the ominousness.

*****

Celegorm returns to Imladris and discovers he missed all the sword-practice Maglor is willing to do.

(Glorfindel is not touching this.)

They practice more as a group, including Celegorm this time.

Besides that, well…

Glorfindel and Elladan spend a lot of time picking and re-picking the horses they're going to bring, and trying to accustom them to orcs. It's a process.

It's going to be a long winter.

(Not as long as it would be if Celeborn were still here, but still, very long.)

*****

Winter does not look nearly so long when that's how long you have to get four barges, eight wagons, dozens of oxen, and an estimated five thousand five hundred and fifty sticks of Wizard's Clay hundreds of miles upriver.

[mazeanempire]

Amaz & Amazeanism

She Who Scorches, Empress of Heaven, Brightest One, The Winged Sun, the Solar Creatrix, Lightbringer

Amaz is one member of the Ziratriad, and the chief deity of South Mazea. She is the goddess who appeared to Solana Rayhelia, the first Queen of New Mazea, and told her to found a new Empire in Her name. Amazeans claim Amaz first emerged from the primordial darkness of the universe, and gave it light, order and purpose. She then birthed her two eldest children, Zoza and Nyra, to help her carry out her vision. She is the goddess of the sun, warfare, discipline, law and order, strength.

As a sun goddess, Amaz is both a loving Divine Mother who brings light and warmth to the world with Her rays, and also a vengeful warrior who scorches deserts and sets forests ablaze.

Out of the three goddesses of the Ziratriad, Amaz looks down upon men the most, as her son, Solandros, tried to usurp her and told men how to dominate and rule over women, which was never Amaz's plan. Solandros's plan was thwarted and he was not able to usurp the Solar Throne, but much damage had already been done as the world became extremely patriarchal. Therefore, the Amazeans of South Mazea treat men with the most scorn out of all of the four corners of the Empire.

Amazeanism is also the most conservative out of the three religions. Female worshippers are banned from copulating with men for reasons other than procreation, which must be approved by the Queen. Women may take one female lover, but must be devoted to her and her alone. However, this doesn't mean this is always exercised as not all women of South Mazea are as devout as others. Priestesses are banned from romantic and sexual relationships all together as they must be wholly focused on the Ziratriad, and besmirching this rule will result in exile if its with another female, or execution if it's with a male.

Amazeanism greatly values discipline, physical strength and prowess, and all worshippers are expected to remain as physically fit as possible. Amaz is often worshipped through music, and so priestesses of Amaz are expected to be proficient in the the musical arts. Moreso than the other two religions, Amazeans record writings in holy books a great deal, and so priestesses are expected to be compelling writers. They are also expected to train in wellness so they can provide soothing to other members of the queendom and so they can quiet their minds to focus only on Amaz and the other Goddesses.

Her holy colours are orange, gold and yellow, like the rays of the sun. She is depicted as a woman haloed by or clothed with the sun, and huge white wings. Her holy animals are eagles, horses and lions. Her holy metal is gold.

[space-blue]

Trick or treat!

Poor anon... Let me beam you 90% of the first chapter of an original story I worked on years ago and never finished.

Phobia

Did you ever wonder if you could spend a day without drinking? Even if you were thirsty, to just stay locked in your room, and hope that "thirty days without food, three days without water" weren't an urban myth?

I have, of course, as a sort of intellectual exercise. Like wondering whether you'd rather die of thirst or hunger; such merry thoughts usually triggered by some piece of sensational news about people surviving against all odds, trapped under buildings, licking wet concrete for weeks.

Never had I considered it as seriously as that morning, sitting on the edge of my bed, head bobbing on the knees I'd gathered in my arms. My bare feet drummed a matching rhythm, following the erratic patterns of my anguished thoughts. I had already given up on the morning's plans of course. Why worry about jogging or work when I wasn't sure I'd get a glass to drink. Or a thing to eat. Or an access to the toilet, either.

I cursed myself for keeping my room so tidy. I rolled back across my bed, tumbling in my duvet like this was some slumber party. But there were no half eaten meals, no bags of chips or popcorn, no bottles or glasses laying around, half full or half empty. No one either, to hit me with a pillow—let alone open the door for me.

I sat back up, starring at this hideous obstacle in the wall, this repulsive thing I could barely stand to look at. The idea of touching it, opening it and being confronted with what may lay behind made my stomach lurch and my body break in a sweat.

A fucking door.

How did I not see it coming? The endless question. As if I could plan for everything. I reached for my phone, checking for messages. Answers to my desperate cries for help.

Nothing yet. I'm no sexy princess to be delivered out of my dungeon, for sure, but at least Virgil would help. He'd come for me—not on a white horse but in a white sedan. And if he found my desiccated corpse, I knew he'd get some epic line carved on my tombstone. Something witty like "Finally got a phobia of living".

I laughed at the ceiling and, for lack of a better thing to do, started reviewing the series of events that had led me here, trapped in my own bedroom by a paralysing fear of its door.

It all started two years ago. I'd scored a great job, working a management desk in a brand new animation studio based in London. I loved what we did there, but work was slowly turning into hell because of commute. I simply couldn't afford rent anywhere near my work—could barely afford to breathe and eat, actually; fuck London.

And you see, I had a crippling phobia of trains and cars... and buses, subways, trams—basically anything that had me inside a metal box travelling at great speeds. I insisted on riding my bicycle everywhere. You can imagine how things got, between the woeful weather, the waste of a time I didn't have, the lack of sleep snowballing into absences, sick days and increasingly sloppy work... Within a year it was a toss up as to what would get me first, between my boss waving a P45 or a car clipping my wheel.

I needed to act, and fast. That wrote off drawn out therapy, so I got an appointment with a hypnotist. I didn't really know what to expect. I'd heard about them from a concerned friend who'd seen some tv show about them. Third hand information at best, yet my GP confirmed hypnosis was an option and gave me a reference to a private hypnotherapist in Whitechapel who'd only set me back one third of my rent a pop.

I went in with low expectations and high hopes. I can't stress enough how pleased I was to walk out of that first session entirely cured. My fear, the entire gut reaction, the physical distress at the very idea of being trapped in a car, was gone. The poor hypnotherapist was so taken aback, she scheduled a second appointment later in the same week and asked me to try and sit in an unmoving car before then and report how that felt.

I went home in a taxi, crying my eyes out in happiness, thinking there would never be another session.

It lasted for a few days. Retrospectively, I think I just failed to find the proper triggers.

My first fright, I was getting to the subway entrance and froze. I found myself taken by nausea, feet glued to the steps. An all too familiar cocktail of feelings. I could not bring myself to go underground. It was like it would swallow me. Like it was a hole, not a tunnel. An anthill, swarming with sweaty hordes of people who didn't seem to notice how close the walls were, how dense the air... Everything screamed danger at me, every sense on high alert, except for my knees, ready to go to sleep.

Do you know someone who has a phobia of planes? People always talk those poor folk down.

"Hey, planes are safe!"

"One in a million chances!"

"It's more dangerous to take the bus across town, or to cross the street!"

Does it make a difference to them? Of course not. You can be perfectly reasonable about the object of your phobia. You can know for certain that it is safe, and yet remain utterly terrified of it. It's a gut feeling, a horror without sense or reason. Of course a frog can't eat you. Of course a house spider as large as a finger nail is more scared of you than you of her, and she couldn't even pierce your skin if she tried to bite you. As harmless as a mayfly, yet you climb up the curtains and wail.

It's really insulting, to have someone laugh at you as if your logic were what's at fault. It's not, it's some deep, poorly wired connection in your brain, wherever it breeds mortal fear.

And if people try to cure plane-phobia folks with hard Facts and Logic, just imagine how they react to a grown man shreaking in the supermarket aisle, suddenly discovering himself a phobia of tuna cans?

Yes, that happened too. The day after the underground fear. And yes, I knew that cans—of tuna or otherwise—wouldn't hurt me. But it was terrifying. I didn't see it coming, I had grabbed it while fumbling with my shopping list. When I saw it and the fear locked into place...

Yet the next day I could open my kitchen cupboard and grab any can I wanted.

The phobia, I slowly came to realise, was jumping to some new, unknown objects every day. It left me wondering where I'd be, next time something caught me off guard. I woke up stressed, tensed for the day ahead. I went to bed fighting sleep, my dreams often plagued by whatever thing or concept had scared me all day.

Fear and anguish and tuna cans.

Now featuring doorknobs as well.

The hypnotherapist had been eager to believe me. It was easier for her to accept something was wrong with my head than to believe she could cure me my phobia in a single session. Her recommendations sent me down a string of doctors, all more academic than the next. I quit my job when it became clear I couldn't hold it. My girlfriend left me the day after I woke up screaming at the sight of her in my bed and ran to lock myself in the bathroom.

Phobia of women is a thing. It's called gynophobia and it's stupid.

Eventually, I moved to Edinburgh, Scotland. I got a flat and a stipend for working with the University there. With Virgil and his team at the neuroscience department. Malcolm Evans became M. E. in all papers on my rather... unique condition.

The man whose deep sleep cycles resets his phobia! The man with gremlins for brains. That was me. That had become my life. To be prodded and tested and written about. Paraded at talks and flown about the world, put under and medicated and cat-scanned and ultra-sounded and punctured and dressed up in more electrodes wires than a Christmas tree with fairylights.

[ahiddenpath]

For the ask the fic writer meme!

3, 4, 24, and 26!

Hi Sloane, thanks for the ask <3 Answered beneath the cut :D

3.) Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

I have a neat writing process post here! It basically goes like this:

-Idea dump, mostly focusing on themes, where characters are now vs where I want them to be, what everyone is feeling/struggling with, etc

-Several drafts

Check the post out if you're interested, I included the entire process for a chapter of PdA with PDFs of the idea dump and drafts.

4.) Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

I hope this doesn't sound too weird, but I'm not a big... Fan of? Believer in??? Inspiration. Ideas are a dime a dozen, and everything has been done before. What matters is the execution, which requires showing up and doing the work reliably- and never waiting for lightning to strike with ideas or a certain mood/desire to create.

Yes, I'm painfully aware that I'm the least exciting human ever, lol!

Generally, my issue is deciding which of an endless pile of concepts to work on. Once I've done that, the concern is effective project management. How do I see this new concept to its completion in a (hopefully) reasonable amount of time?

Allocating finite time is probably the most challenging part of life in general!

24.) Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

Ohhh man, this one is really fun!

My blissfully naïve fourteen-year-old self made the mistake of printing the first few chapters of my novel in progress and taking them to high school, where I showed them to my friends. I received an absolute cacophony of feedback that ranged from strange to mean, but most of it was simply... People projecting the story they wanted onto the story I was writing for myself.

The bit I remember today concerned my main character. She was young and had lived a physically pampered but emotionally neglected life. Circumstances sent her on a journey, and she chose a calm, sensible horse as her mount. And though she had only ridden in leisurely group settings, a friend insisted that... Um, well, if I didn't plonk her onto a stallion that no one else could control, I was bowing to the patriarchy. Yes, my friend wanted a horse girl story, lmao!!!

Joking aside, exploring strength in women and girls is the most resounding theme of my writing. I'm not looking down on the badass woman character type, but I am keen to show that there are so many kinds of strength. Obviously this is true for everyone, but women are so often neglected in entertainment, and their stories are the ones I most want to tell.

What I'm getting at here is that you should never mistake someone else's preferences for meaningful criticism/advice. The ability to deliver meaningful writing criticism is learned, and not many people are trained in it. Most audiences regurgitate their own preferences when asked, and that has nothing to do with your story.

If that sort of dialogue interests you, pursue it! But I'm generally wary of seeking criticism unless I have some sense of the person's literary background and how they engage with media.

26.) Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Hahaha, in terms of writing it? Probably Voices. Voices was a year-long exercise in developing character voice. I followed the six oldest Chosen and Eimi through a Japanese school year, writing a journal entry from one of the kids every day. EVERY DAY. FOR A YEAR. A JOURNAL ENTRY.

I leaned heavily on tropes because there was no time to plan, lol! I flew by the seat of my pants for a whole danged year!!!! In a lot of ways, it's my least favorite fic, because there was just no time! But it was a huge challenge, and frankly, audiences love tropes. It was popular with a lot of my readers. It's also probably one of my more shippy offerings?

Seeking Resonance is a stand out for me in the sense that it took me three years to nail the climax and decide how I wanted the last 20% of the story to wind down. THREE YEARS of thinking and exploring and simmering! But I genuinely could not have made a product I was happy with without quietly tending to it. Honestly, sometimes I think we need to... I don't know, grow or learn something or experience something??? Before we can be where the story needs us to be, as a person.

Oh, but that doesn't mean we should wait to start the story! The three years of thinking on it were definitely work and part of the process.

So You Were Alive was an interesting one in that I sat down and wrote the whole dang thing in under two hours. Like, within two hours of starting, it was published, with all the images and everything. At the time, the Kizuna feels were strong. The imagery and some of the dialogue from the first reboot episodes fed right into the Kizuna feels, and before I knew it, I was clicking the publish button!

Note that none of these are my favorite or best fics, in my opinion. But they are standouts in regards to the process.

Thank you so much, this was fun!