#grazing pastures for sheep

[henk-heijmans]

Sheep and lambs graze in a pasture near Mont-Saint-Michel, during a countrywide lockdown, northwestern France, 2020 - by Sameer Al-Doumy (1998), Syrian

[vox-anglosphere]

Sheep grazing peacefully in the lush green pastures of rural England

England

[probablyasocialecologist]

Maintaining the biodiversity of sheep is not just important for knitters and spinners, but for the health of the environment. Essentially, a sheep functions like a carbon sequestration system. Atmospheric carbon makes up 50 percent of wool's weight, and, unlike synthetic fabrics, wool is naturally biodegradable. When disposed of, wool acts like a fertilizer, slowly releasing valuable nutrients and carbon back into the soil. Wool fixed carbon in the topsoil rather than releasing it into the atmosphere. This process can help regenerate pastures, which sheep will graze. And sheep can help answer the problem of how to avoid far-flung fiber supply chains. Because sheep do well in such an extraordinary range of terrains, wool is a natural choice for people interested in rebuilding local systems of cloth manufacture. Certain breeds are more suited to certain atmospheric and geologic conditions than others, so preserving diversity also means preserving the geographic range in which sheep can flourish.

Sofi Thanhauser, Worn: A People’s History of Clothing

[liyawritesss]

ʀᴀɴᴄʜᴇʀ!ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

-> synopsis: in which arthur was able to set aside his criminal ways and leave the Van der Linde gang and live a life of relative normalcy, and perhaps meet a nice little lady to make it all worth it

         -> pairing: rancher!arthur morgan + black!fem!reader

-> from: red dead redemption 2

         -> contains: age-gap (reader is 27, arthur is 37), 2nd person ('you', 'your', 'yours'), references to canon-violence and crimes

-> a/n: my knowledge of Red Dead Redemption is limited, only really coming from watching gameplays and from beta-reading a friends fic, but arthur morgan the man that you are! I really just want him to have a good life outside the gang so i played with the whole rancher idea a little bit here, with a little bit of gen. store clerk!reader, so i hope you guys enjoy!

         -> join my taglist!

-> tags: @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @niyahwrites @marsfunzon22 @briology @asensitivecookie @moon-bo-young @flo-milli-shit-hoe

ARTHUR MORGAN who eventually turns in his weapons and hangs in the towel of his criminal days, feigning for something more out of life than the thrill of a hunt, Though the decision wasn’t an easy one (mainly because Dutch never made things easy), the man took one last job and took the earnings from it to buy a good 10-acre stretch of land in the southern midwest territories where he knew trouble wouldn’t find him if it came looking. Within the next year he settles down into the life of a rancher, and he couldn’t have asked for anything better.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who has taken forever to nail down a routine that actually sticks when it comes to waking up and rousing the animals for the day. He does the chickens first, cuz he hates those little fuckers and how they always like to peck at his feet even though he knows he tosses the corn and feed pellets far away from him. Then the hogs start squealing whenever he even nears the pen, and Arthur always mutters about how they just ate the night before, how can they be this hungry already? After throwing their slop into the feeder, he opens the barn doors to let the cows know it’s morning and that they’ll be milked soon, but he learned not the milk them just as they wake up because they in fact do not like to be fondled so early in the morning. Instead, he grabs his horse and rounds up the few sheep and goats he’s got  and leads them to nearby pasture to graze. Here, Arthur gets the chance to rest a little, maybe snack on some dried meat and journal about his dreams if he’s had any, his aspirations for the day, or maybe even sketch the view.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who learns to like making the honest living he’s got going. It may not be as thrill seeking as robbing trains or starting saloon fights or gunslinging like the old days, but he’s comfortable. Content, even. Sometimes he’ll sell one of the hogs for a pretty penny and can afford to buy himself something he likes. The people in the nearest town say his milk from his cows is the best they’ve had in a long time! He’s not a star or anything, but he’s got something good going for himself and he’ll be damned if he lets it wither and die like the dreams he had in his youth.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who won’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t miss his old life. At the start, he feigned for it so bad; he’d try to rationalize it and say that it wouldn’t hurt no one, but he knew better. Sometimes he’d lie awake in the modest little house that was on the property when he bought it, reminiscing about the good times in the gang before the cracks started showing. When they could make a quick scheme and walk away feeling like the richest men in the world. He missed his brothers and their asshole behavior; he missed the girls sometimes, too, even if they got on his nerves. But they were behind him, and he knew he couldn’t go back. For his sake, and for theirs.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who rides into town one day to drop off some milk at the general store to see someone new behind the counter; someone younger and prettier than the stuffy old lad who talks to proper and irritates Arthur with his poshness. He’s so taken off guard that he almost drops the crate of milk he’s carrying in. He learns that you’re the store owner’s daughter and that you’ve taken over for him because he got into a wild riding accident, and that he’d be out for the next couple of months. You try not to make it so awkward on Arthur, as it seems like seeing you behind the counter instead of your father has already thrown him for a loop. When the cowboy promptly drops off the milk and bids a quick farewell, you fear you’ve made a horrible first impression.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who comes back a week later with a much more level head and a little less awkward now that he expects you behind the counter. This time he brings with him some seeds to sell that he’d gotten from a farmer a couple miles down the road that he didn’t want. He thought he’d be able to sell or exchange them for something he’d actually use. He was quiet, yet polite, and had an air of mystery around him that intrigued her. It wasn’t every day a handsome rancher came into the general store, and you wanted to know everything you could about this Arthur Morgan, who kept his cards close to his chest and was a man of few words.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who made his visits slightly longer every time he’d come into the general store, whether to sell his goods or to buy some tools or necessities from himself. After a handful of encounters, he finally blessed you with more of his voice and words - they had a roughness to them from years of hard work, but was still warm and inviting. The way he called you ‘miss’ and way he tipped his cowboy hat to you as a farewell made you giddy like a little schoolgirl. You found yourself looking forward to opening the general store every day, hoping to have a conversation with Arthur Morgan if he’d come in.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who says to you “I ain’t so good with the ladies” when you ask him why he always seems so shy talking to you, and it actually makes you giggle a little. Arthur Morgan, the unit of a man that he is, admitting his timidity of a woman? What God in Heaven made this be so? Oh, but you have no intention of letting it be just that. No, you tell Arthur Morgan, “I can teach you, if you’d like”, and you swear you see the lightest dust of pink cross his cheeks. He’s got half a mind to walk out of there like a puppy with it’s tail between it’s legs; how could you make him so embarrassed like that! Though, if it’s you than plans on teach him how to be a little less dense and awkward around women, he probably wouldn’t mind it. Maybe he could even return the favor and have you writhing in bashfulness…

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[naturistgirl]

FORAGING FOR HOLLY AS WINTER BEGINS.

Today is the 13th and last new moon of the Celtic year; the Elder (tree) Moon. You may know it as December 1st 2024 but next year the new moon and the first of December may not coincide. The vagaries of the secular Roman calendar mean that it does not follow the moon's female cycle.

It was mild.  We set out for the Wild Wood on a Holly Forage. I love going out to cut holly for the house. Most of you know by now that I do everything naked. This day was no exception.  It was good to be outside with the soft winter light bathing my skin.  I grabbed my Minnie Mouse shopping bag then we headed up the track to the wood.  It lies part way up a hill and the brisk climb warmed us. I kept on my beanie and my pink wellies. Black over the knee socks kept my legs and feet warm.

In Celtic mythology, Holly carries great importance. I have spoken of the Derwen (Oak tree) before.  The Oak King reigns the bright half of the year. Celynen, the Holly tree, is an emblem of Winter. Its shiny dark green leaves and scarlet berries shine out in an otherwise leafless woodland.  The Holly King now reigns supreme in the darker portion of the year.

For thousands of years, people have gathered sprays from this Winter tree to garland and beautify homes in the darker days.  The berries are poisonous to humans but the tree and leaves are known for their wonderful, magical properties. Holly wood, ivory white and hard, makes well balanced spear shafts for hunting.  Babies were bathed in holly leaf water to safeguard them from ills. The Holly, like the Elder, was known to protect homes from evil spirits and to guard against lightning. The Holly symbolises peace and goodwill. An entwined wreath of holly brings good luck and faeries are thought to use it for shelter in the winter months; bringing good fortune on those who keep some of the boughs in their home.

We threaded the muddy paths of the Wild Wood and saw few other folk.  Out on the pasture close by, a mixed flock of sheep were grazing, brought down here from the winter fells. There are many holly bushes here, dotted about among the taller trees.  Most of them are male.  You can tell them by the yellow flowers they sport in the warmer months. The female trees bear pure white flowers, and later, abundant scarlet berries. One male tree can fertilise up to about eight females (as long as they are no more than 300 feet apart)!

The Holly has a life of around 100 years, sometimes a little more. Like most trees, they embody a wisdom all their own. Look at a mature holly tree, particularly the taller ones (they can grow at least to 30 feet).  Lower down, the leaves are spiny; a great defence against being eaten by cattle.  Up above, the leaves lack spines and are gently smooth around the edges.

Once home, we will use the holly boughs to adorn our home as the Winter Solstice approaches. We decorate the fireplace, dresser, door frames and mantles to cheer the house as the light fails.  Naked, you have to take care not to get pricked by the spines; ouch! We'll place holly above the old Welsh Dresser too.  On its shelves, alongside the plates and crockery, stand two bottles of wild raspberry schnapps made from fruit foraged in late summer. Here's raising a glass to the turning of the year, the lengthening days and the returning power of the northern sun. Only then will we be able to spend long warm, naked days outdoors again.

If you are a naturist like us and you enjoyed this post, please like, share and re-blog with our blessing.  All photographs were provided by my professional photographer husband (also pictured below).

Thank you Mart for taking such great images. All photos remain our copyright. We welcome messages of support and chats with other genuine naturists or the 'naturally inclined'.

If you simply enjoy looking at pictures of naked girls like me and don't want to read the blog, that's okay too.  We won't block you, even if you have one of those creepily empty blogs. If you send messages or images of a sexual nature however, don't expect me to respond. They will generally be deleted and occasionally blocked. Finally, since you clearly appreciate nakedness, why not do us a favour and try it yourself? That weirdly vacant blog of yours could do with at least one naked, naturist photograph of you!

My blog depicts non-sexual nudity. This time I won't be posting solo pics separately as I have done previously.  Too many of those shots have been re-blogged onto sexually themed sites, sorry. I love sex and intimacy but you won't find it on this blog. My blog is flagged as 'adult' because of its naturist content, not because there is anything sexual in its pages.

Enjoy your Winter naturism.

Jane xx

[dailyoverview]

This Overview shows colorful patterns of farmland in northwestern Iran, close to the Azerbaijan border. This area is located within the Moḡān Plain, a large fertile steppe along the bank of the Aras River. It provides important pasture and grazing land for sheep, goats and other livestock.

39.396246°, 48.240372°

Source imagery: Maxar

[materassassino]

Green Pastures, Still Waters

This is a little birthday present for @non-un-topo, who is very lovely and deserves to have a wonderful birthday. I hope you like it!

(I did try to draw Nicolò with sheep for you, but I have completely forgotten how to draw, it seems. I'm sorry.)

---

In truth, Nicolò loves Yusuf more than he could ever say. More than his own limbs, his own breath. With every beat of his heart, in time with Yusuf’s. It is a certainty, a steadfast and immovable foundation of his being, by now.

That does not mean, of course, that there is not… friction. They are two very different men, sometimes.

“I tire of this place!”

Yusuf announces it, loudly, to the pasture around them. The sheep are unbothered by this, and continue grazing. They have become completely inured to Yusuf’s histrionics, and he scowls at them, hands on his hips.

“Philistines,” he says, and throws himself on the grass. He then springs up again, yelping, because the grass is sparse and brown, and the ground is baked hard and it is very, very hot. The Sardinian sun is fickle at best and merciless at worst.

Nicolò, much more wisely, has chosen a rock in the shade. He sits with his crook across his lap, chin propped on his hand, and watches Yusuf scoot back into the shade beside him, where the ground is less fiery.

Yusuf draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, pouting fiercely. Nicolò lets him stew a moment longer.

“Why do you tire?” he asks.

Yusuf turns to him with a look of complete and utter outrage on his face.

“Why? Why?” he demands, his voice almost shrill with indignation. “Nicolò, what kind of question is that?”

Nicolò thinks it a perfectly legitimate question. He likes this place. He loves the gentle but rugged mountains, the rocks and the cliffs and the stiff, scrubby pines, the scent of the myrtle and the laurel bushes. He loves the olives and figs and carobs. He loves the animals, the mouflons and deer, the lizards and crawling insects, and the birds, from the smallest to the great vultures that soar above. He loves the silence broken only by birdsong and the symphony of grasshoppers and the quiet rustle of the trees. He loves tending the sheep, hearing their bleating, feeding and watering and herding them, and in the spring, helping the ewes give birth, bringing new little lives into this world, soft and white. He loves the sun on his skin and the cool of the shade and the caress of the mountain breeze on his face.

This place, he thinks, is its own sort of paradise.

Yet while he flourishes, Yusuf seems to wither.

“Do you not like it here?” Nicolò asks. Yusuf lets his head fall back with a long-suffering sigh.

“I grow weary, Nicolò,” he says. “I am bored!”

Nicolò blinks. “Bored?” he repeats, surprised. He would have deemed this place perfect for art to bloom, inspiration in every hillside. Yusuf raises a rather condescending eyebrow at him.

“Yes. Bored. It is the same, day after day! The sheep, the mountains, the vast, never-ending blue sky! I miss…” He huffs, folding his arms. “I miss being in a city. I miss gossip and debate and the vibrancy of human life! I miss markets and varied foods and music and festivities! I miss libraries and art! I miss people!”

Nicolò grip on his crook tightens, twisting nervously. In truth, despite the knowledge of Yusuf’s unwavering love, there is always some fear. Little, dark thoughts, ink in water, that Yusuf might one day want more. Want better.

“Do you tire of my company, Yusuf?” he asks, very quietly.

Yusuf whips around, his eyes wide and horrified.

“What? No!” He springs up, crowding close to Nicolò on his rock, and takes his face between his palms. “Never!” He kisses every part of Nicolò’s face, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his lips. “Never, not in a thousand lifetimes!”

He sits back, taking one of Nicolò’s hands. “No, I merely… miss other people. This place is beautiful but so quiet. My thoughts chase themselves, tangle themselves in knots until I can barely think. My head is so loud it aches, sometimes.” He sighs. “We have boundless time, and yet I fear that here there is too much of it.”

Nicolò reaches out, stroking Yusuf’s cheek. “I think I understand.”

What is for Nicolò quiet contemplation, for Yusuf is, after too long, maddening emptiness. They truly are two very different men. He kisses Yusuf’s wrist, the heel of his hand, the pad of his thumb.

“I would say we could leave, but…” He gestures helplessly to the sheep. “We promised.”

Yusuf hums. “We did, we did.”

Nicolò knows Yusuf is a man of his word. They promised the old widow Agnese to mind her flock for the spring and the summer, and Yusuf would never renege on such a thing unless there was, truly, no other choice, but wanderlust flaps desperate wings against the cage of his ribs.

“My desire is frivolous,” Yusuf admits. “I feel quite selfish, now that I think about it.”

“Do not be foolish,” Nicolò chides gently. “You have wishes, and I would see you happy, Yusuf. That is my desire.” He gets to his feet, crook discarded, pulling Yusuf with him. “When the summer ends, we will find a city, a huge, wonderful, loud city, and you will discuss your philosophy and write your poetry and make your art again!”

Yusuf laughs, tugging him closer. “In truth, Nicolò, wherever you take me, I am happy. Forgive my grumbling.”

Nicolò could never paint with words like Yusuf does. He could never voice the beauty he sees in that beloved face, the glory of Yusuf’s bright smile, the melody of his laughter, the softness of his joyful eyes. So he kisses him, attempting to pour all his love, his devotion, the boundless depth and lofty heights of it into where their lips meet. And when Yusuf kisses back with the same passion, perhaps that is proof he can feel it.

They must be very distracted, because all of a sudden Yusuf sqawks into the kiss. The earth disappears from beneath their feet, and Nicolò’s back makes hard, painful contact with the ground. Their teeth smash into each other, cracking, cutting Nicolò’s lip and his tongue, and Yusuf’s entire weight on top of him knocks the wind from his lungs.

Dazed, he stares up at the sky, feeling new teeth grow back in, an itching, sharp ache. It is a deeply unpleasant sensation.

“You beast! Demon of a sheep!” Yusuf cries. He scrambles up to his knees, pointing accusingly.

The sheep – the one Nicolò has called Alfreda, because he cannot help but name them, and name them after saints at that – bleats mockingly back, and turns away, content in her petty vengeance.

“She charged right into me,” Yusuf grumbles, shifting so he can massage his behind. Nicolò laughs at that, wiping away the blood from his mouth.

“Alfreda is very opinionated,” he says, sitting up. “God’s punishment for shirking our duties to mind them, no doubt.”

Yusuf snorts, and sits back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“I shall remember her for my entire long life,” he vows. “I shall remember and curse Alfreda the sheep, until death finally comes for me. Do you hear me?!” he yells after her. She takes absolutely no notice, going back to grazing.

Nicolò laughs again, falling to the side into Yusuf’s shoulder, and when the laughter dies away, he stays there. Yusuf holds out his hand, and Nicolò takes it, threading their fingers together, and Nicolò can never cease to marvel at how perfectly they fit, despite looking so very different.

[dogfennel]

Introducing my WBN OC! This is Roving and her familiar Sol. Roving is a spirit who became The Witch of the Marketplace. She travels between city markets, selling potions, poultices, and crafts from other witches, and wool from her parents.

I was immensely inspired by @rebe-draws own Worlds Beyond Number OC, Scrap!

[Here's a little lore if ya feel like reading!]

Her parents found her as an infant spirit while they were grazing their flock high in the mountains. They raised her as their own, and she spent most of her childhood playing in the pastures with her sheep. Because her fur was as soft as wool ready to be spun, her parents named her Roving. 

Roving learned witchcraft from two witches. The first taught her how to control her growing magic, and it was at her cottage that Roving found Sol. He had fallen from his nest while his siblings fledged, and so they became Witch and Familiar. Roving made her glamor after him. 

Her first witch already had an apprentice, so when Roving had learned all she could, she left the mountains and traveled to a city to find the second witch. There Roving learned new witchcraft and the ways of people beyond her little village. When people began to murmur of a strange coyote which could only be seen when lantern light caught the iridescence of its fur, Roving departed once more. 

She traveled to many witches, and offered to sell their crafts beyond the reach of their sanctums. When the road carried her back to them, she brought them their earnings and crafting components they could not get from their own homes. In marketplaces Roving became a welcome sight, offering tokens woven with witches’ magic to people with no witch of their own. 

People speak with excitement of The Witch of The Marketplace’s approach wherever she now goes. 

Perhaps, by lantern light, those same people whisper of another omen of the marketplace. It roams the streets like a coyote, they say, but from the corner of an eye, its legs stretch a little too long and its face holds a little too still. Some say the omen heralds a bountiful day of trade; others say it is a warning for sharp-tongued vendors. Many have done a dirty trade and found their wares gone in the morning.

Roving returns sometimes to her two witches and to her parents, to exchange the treasures from the cities for treasures they have made. At the witch's cottage the swallows still nest every spring. And in the mountain pastures, no sheep has ever fallen prey to a predator, just as they hadn't when Roving walked among them many years ago.  

[starscatteredsky]

Any tips/fashion ideas for sheep? ^^

tips and fashion for sheep!

pt: tips and fashion for sheep! end pt

wear plenty of ethically sourced wool!

wear thick black or brown boots/gloves/mittens to feel like hooves!

collect some sheep plushes or decor to fill your living space with other sheep and comfort that safety in numbers instinct!

go enjoy some time in a field or pasture!

visit a farm!

practice vocals!

get some greens or salads to graze on!

speak softly!

make friends with other sheep therians online or in person to be your herd!

[ID in alt!]

image creds:

x x x

x x x

x x x

hope you enjoy!! -mono

[ID in alt!]

[moonybelgug]

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Countryboy!Diluc x City girl!reader Part 1

Part 2

warnings: !MDNI! this is sfw but this series won’t stay that way, afab!reader, reader has she/her pronouns, city girl moves to a small town, sassy diluc, wc: 1950

ᨒ ོ ☼.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆ᨒ ོ ☼.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆ᨒ ོ ☼

It had been a good six months of sobbing over your now, ex-boyfriend. You knew deep down it had gone on for too long, but what else is there to do in a city that won’t stop raining? The fact you even landed a boyfriend in the first place baffled you, seeing how awkward you were with regular friendly interaction. You were basically doomed to loneliness for the rest of your life, now. You blew your only chance of living with someone for the rest of your life.

You had no family to check on you, nor did you have any real friends who cared. That left you with yourself. You had to take care of yourself. If that means moving out of the city and into a tiny town that hasn’t heard of the word “wi-if” before, so be it. Self care comes first and you needed to get out of this tiny apartment that no doubt has mold from all the rain.

It wasn’t your first choice, moving to the small town of Mondstadt. You saw on an article in your newspaper about a job opening in the countryside. A local wealthy farm owner looking for a new housekeeper to replace his previous one that had gotten too old.

It had felt as though the stars were aligning, you were just thinking about how badly you wanted to leave this city of rain! The job detailed full housing, so you would quite literally be starting a new life if you were to take this job. Good thing you held no attachments to this place.

Packing up was easy, seeing how you owned hardly anything. With all your bags by the door, you looked around your empty apartment. One last deep breath and you spun around, leaving it behind.

The train ride was a few hours long and while you would usually try to sleep through a ride this long, the scenery was too beautiful to tear your eyes away for even a second. As you exited the city, it seemed as if you entered a new world. The gray drab of the city faded into bright green and bright blue. Flowers sprung out of the grass of all shapes and colors. Birds flew above you, chirping happily as they enjoyed the fresh, smog-free air.

You were the only one to get off at the Little Mondstadt stop. With your luggage in tow, you scanned the area for any sign of the escort that you were promised over the phone.

Your eyes landed on a tall woman in a casual uniform with your name written incorrectly on a piece of paper. She waved when you met her eyes, a wide, pretty, smile on her face.

“This you?” She asked, waving the piece of paper as you made your way over.

“I believe so.” Upon further inspection, you realize the uniform she’s wearing is that of a sheriff’s as well as the tell-tale badge that decorates the left side of her chest. “A police escort? How generous.”

The woman laughed. “Common courtesy down here. Since you’re a new member of the community, it only makes sense that you gets proper welcome in! My name is Jean, by the way.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.” Jean sent you one more sweet smile before picking up one of your two bags and lugging it into the back seat of her car.

Jean allowed you to sit in the front seat on the drive through town, using that as an opportunity to show you around and briefly familiarize you with the town.

It wasn’t long before she was driving down a long gravel driveway.

The driveway was lined with fences that seemingly held nothing until they got further up and you saw the cows and sheep that grazed peacefully among the fields. In the pasture a pickup was parked beside the herd of sheep, a little girl sitting in the bed watching as Jean’s car made it way up the gravel road.

The house was big. Bigger than you’d ever seen before- in fact, it was something straight out of a movie. White clay with a red pointed roof and vines crawling up the sides. Bushes of beautiful flowers gathered around the wooden porch that held a sitting area.

On the porch stood two men. Both very tall, but one had blue hair and one had red. They seemed to be in the middle of a heated discussion when Jean put the car in park. With one final glare, the red head stalked away from the other and over to the two of you.

“Good afternoon, Mister Diluc!” Jean said as shut the backseat door to her car. You blinked rapidly at the man before you. This was the foreman of the farm? This beautiful young man was the head of this farm? He couldn’t have been much older than you and yet, quite contrary to you, his aura was one that demanded respect. His brown and stained with mud boots hit the porch heavily as he crossed it over to you. It seemed that he was expecting someone else as well.

“Have you ever done housework before?” Diluc asked you.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise at the topic of your first conversation. Of course he would want someone competent to be cleaning his home, but his tone indicated a certain snark behind it. “I’ve lived in a house before, yes.”

It was his turn to be surprised.

In fact, both of you were expecting to see someone much older, more experienced and weather worn. Diluc did not expect some.. city girl to show up at his homestead but alas, you know what they say about assumptions.

Diluc sneered at your smart remark. “I see. Well follow me, then.”

He picked up your bags before you could and walked up the porch and into the his house. Jean walked with you until you reached the other man who was still leaning on the railing of the porch.

“This is Deputy Kaeya and Diluc’s adopted brother.” Jean said with a hand gesturing towards the deputy. Upon further inspection, you were able to identify he was in fact wearing a uniform like Jean’s but unlike hers, it was unbuttoned at the top and loosely tucked into his pants. Kaeya took the tooth pick that was clenched between his teeth out and smiled charmingly, offering a hand to shake. Awkwardly taking his hand, you gave him as firm of a shake as you could, causing him to chuckle.

“My, what a grip! Seems Diluc’s got a tough new maid.” You laughed nervously, and quickly walked inside.

If you thought the outside was extravagant, the inside was even more so. It was filled with paintings, vases, and bookshelves lined with books of many colors. Two young women in maids outfits stood by the window, and started whispering to each other when they saw you come in. Diluc took you downstairs and into what you assumed was where the maids stayed.

“That’s Hillie and Moco.” Said Diluc. “They will be apart of your staff.”

“Why didn’t you want to promote one of them?” You asked while you admired the beautiful lounge room. It was small but cozy.

The foreman looked at you as if he’d never been questioned before and replied exasperatedly. “Because if one of those two were in charge, the house would go up in flames.”

You decided not to say anything to that. He lead you to your room which was filled with various bird decorations, purple being the overall theme. A full sized bed covered in pillows with a maid’s uniform placed upon it was slid against the wall and a dresser that also worked as a vanity was on the other side. At the foot of your bed was a bookshelf that held books that all had pictures of birds on them. You were baffled by the amount of birds in such a small area. You wanted to ask why but you were afraid of making him even more irritated.

Diluc set your bags beside the dresser and stepped through your doorway, no longer lingering in your new room. “If you need anything else, let me know. Adelinde will be waiting on you in the kitchen.”

You gave him a single nod, and with that he left. Sighing, you shut the door and leaned against it. Then you began changing out of your clothes and into the uniform that was laid on your bed.

Just as Diluc said, an older woman in a maid’s uniform was sitting at a small kitchen table. You stood as politely as you could next to her and waited until she looked your way. And she did after a few seconds.

“So you’re the one Mister Diluc hired to replace me?” She smiled. “Not bad. I can work with you.” Adelinde stood and gave you another once over. “Maybe you’ll last longer than the first six.”

You choked. “First six? As in six people started and got fired?”

“As in six people started and quit.” She tapped her cheek. “I’ll give you about three months.”

“With all due respect, ma’am; You don’t even know me.” You manage to stutter out.

Adelinde smiled at you and crossed her arms. “I’ll make it six months, then.”

And it turns out she was entirely wrong. Three months in, and you were already happier than you had been in years Every morning you were up at five a.m. sharp to start preparing a large breakfast for Diluc and the farm staff who would be waking up at six. The foreman only ever ate the same thing. Two eggs over easy, one slice of bacon and grits with blackberry jam stirred in. After the first two complaints, you had gotten the hang of it and it became second nature to cook for him. After they ate, you would do the dishes with Adelinde while Hillie and Moco cleaned the kitchen and began their daily dusting, leaving you to do some of the more difficult chores. Such as shopping, laundry, and even feeding some of the smaller farm animals.

Feeding the animals was a.. fun new experience for you. Being in the city, the closest thing to a chicken you had were sad looking pigeons. And it turns out that chicken are a lot bigger than you expected. Frightening, even! The first time Adelinde took you into the main chicken pen, you were chased out by a very angry rooster.

Adelinde caught him by the legs before he escaped and tossed him back inside the pen. “Sorry, should’ve warned you about Rocky. He’s quite aggressive to strangers.”

“You don’t say!” You stood on the other side of the fence, practically shaking in your mud shoes. Your working overalls were covered in dirt from Rocky’s brutal attack. “I don’t remember chicken wrangling being in the job description!”

Adelinde laughed. “Come back inside, he won’t get used to you if he doesn’t see you.”

“There is no way you’re getting me back in there. I’ll be pecked to death!”

“You’ll be what now?” A deep voice asked from behind you. Turning around, you met eyes with Diluc who was on his way over from milking the cows. He too had chores, but they were much more heavy duty than yours. You were thankful you didn’t have to milk anything.

“Rocky, he attacked me.” You answered. “I can’t go in.”

Diluc scoffed as he opened the gate and walked inside. “Adelinde, you can go. I’ll help her out with the chickens.”

“Yes sir,” she patted your shoulder as she passed you on the way out, leaving you alone with your boss.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

[mistressorinoco]

So, I’ve wanted to do this for a looong time. :)

For this weeks maniculum bestiaryposting, I’ve finally had the time to design a…

…Yagstong. :D

I took the description and ran with it. :D

The main points of the maniculum bestiaryposting entry:

- lives in the mountains, on high altitudes

- grazing

- sharp eyes (also side-eyed)

- acidic blood

- “wanton” behaviour, as a medieval onlooker would define it

I’ve decided to build on a hare/capybara foundation. Since high altitude, I reduced the ear size (to retain heat) and added some fluff padding in there. Since it’s implied that their range is quite desolate of good pastures, I’ve added a fatty tail as means to store energy (some sheep have this feature, similar to the hump of camels). I’ve also added small hoves to the toes, as the sharp and hard hoof with a soft toepad behind it works like a suction cup on rocky surfaces, enhancing their climbing ability.

On high altitudes, the air is thin and extremely cold, so I also added volume to the nasal cavity, and decided to go with a saiga antelope-nose, so big quantities of air can be heated before inhalation.

I’ve moved the eyes even further up and away, going with the horizontal slit pupil as the option that gives the widest field of view.

I went and changed the highly acidic blood to poisonous (you can re-contextualise the original text as the blood not dissolving, but rather discoloring gold and iron surfaces), and that made me think about the color-warnings of poisonous/venomous insects, reptiles, etc. Mammals can’t produce the color green or light blue on their coating, and I didn’t want to make my creation a walking lamp with yellow either, so I’ve dropped the idea.

But as I looked for a way to solve showing physical traits of the ‘wanton and frisky’ nature of the animal, it occurred to me that I CAN make them produce red, by dilating the blood vessels on a patch of skin, halfway between a frigatebird and a gelada monkey. And if they can inflate their throat into a big red balloon to impress mates, they can also use it to deter predators, so I’ve added a white and black collar. When deflated, the white fur covers the bald patch (again, it’s cold up there). When inflated, the white fur is raised, flashing like the butt of deers and rabbits, and the black collar makes the red-white display even more pronounced.

—-

And I’m quite sure that most of this wouldn’t work as I’ve planned, but still, I’ve had a really good time looking up adaptations. :3 And drawing.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Tears In His Ferrari || Chp 5 - B.Barnes

Character: Bucky Barnes x Farmer!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes, used to a life of luxury, takes on farm challenges in a bet with his father. Mud-stained Ferraris and a rustic farmhouse lead to unexpected personal growth, guided by the stern mentorship of Y/N, a farmer making his city-boy life difficult.

Theme: Fluff, Slice of Life, Heart-Warming.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on : Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7 ,Chp 8 , Chp 9 , Chp 10 , Chp 11 , Chp 12.

Y/N explained with a matter-of-fact tone, "Sheep are excellent for fertilizing the soil, and you can also sell the lambs for additional profit."

Still processing the unexpected arrival of livestock, Bucky couldn't help but wonder why his father had sent him these animals.

Y/N continued, "Your father wants you to produce milk from the lamb and the cow, and gather eggs from the chickens." She handed a sealed letter to Bucky, her expression unreadable.

As Bucky broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his eyes scanned the contents. The shock on his face became evident as he murmured, "I'm sorry?" The weight of the responsibilities and financial obligations slowly sank in.

Bucky's eyes narrowed as he read the words from his father. "You always spend too much money and never have any debts. With this, I want you to learn to generate profit and clear your debts. And most importantly, take good care of the livestock."

The realization hit him that this wasn't just a casual farm experience but a lesson in responsibility, financial management, and the art of farming. Bucky sighed, feeling the weight of the newfound duties with the animals on his farm.

Y/N chuckled, "Farm life isn't as easy as it looks, huh?"

Still recovering from the shock, Bucky smirked, "Yeah, well, at least I'm learning something new daily." He works on the fence for the sheep.

Bucky revved up the tractor with a newfound sense of triumph and rolled the electric fence around the plot. He felt like a farming genius, confident in his quick and efficient solution. “I’m a genius.”

However, when it came time to activate the electric fence, a minor technical glitch caused a sudden surge, giving Bucky a shock that jolted him back. He yelped out a mix of surprise and expletives, clutching the affected hand. "Ooucch!"

Bucky, recovering from the shock, managed a wry smile, "Well, that wasn't in the manual. Note to self: farming comes with a real 'shock' factor."

Y/N and Toby burst into laughter, finding the scene both comical and entertaining. Despite the shock, Bucky couldn't help but join in the laughter, realizing that his grand farming schemes might not always go as smoothly as planned.

Amid Bucky's electric fence escapade, he had forgotten that his phone was still rolling for the live stream. As he grappled with the electric shock, his audience witnessed the unexpected turn of events and erupted into laughter in the comments section.

Still wincing from the electric shock, Bucky composed himself and quipped, "Well, folks, farming just got electrifying. Who knew becoming a farmer would come with a live-action comedy show?"

The comment section of the livestream was flooded with laughing emojis and playful banter from the viewers. Bucky, though initially embarrassed, decided to play along.

Still nursing the lingering tingle from the electric shock, Bucky followed Y/N towards the barn. Seeing the sheep freely grazing on the green pasture brought a serene expression to Bucky's face. The bucolic scene seemed to momentarily erase the hustle and bustle of city life from his mind.

As they approached the barn, Y/N swung open the creaky door, revealing the content cows comfortably settled inside. Bucky's eyes widened, and a genuine smile played on his lips as he observed the calm demeanor of the livestock.

Y/N remarked, "They seem to be settling in well. Remember, the more comfortable they are, the better their produce."

Y/N observed Bucky's expression and could sense his struggle. She reassured him, "Don't worry, Bucky. Farming can be overwhelming at first, but the community here is supportive. Some locals will lend a hand until you get the hang of it."

Bucky, visibly relieved, responded, "That's really helpful. I appreciate the support."

Meanwhile, Toby diligently counts the sheep, showcasing his responsibility.

Curious about Toby's situation, Bucky turned to Y/N and inquired, "Do you know Toby's story?"

Y/N crossed her arms, her expression turning solemn. "He's a good kid with loving grandparents. Unfortunately, he has a shitty father who's always gambling, drunk, and getting them into debt."

Bucky's heart clenched at the stark contrast between Toby's struggles and his privileged life. He had never lacked money and never experienced the burden of debt.

Y/N continued, "His grandfather even had to sell their truck to survive. For a while, it was Toby who carried their honey produce to the nearby market."

The weight of the situation settled on Bucky, but Y/N's following words brought a glimmer of hope. "The neighbors soon found out about it and took turns helping Toby."

Relieved about the supportive community, Bucky nodded, "That's good. It's nice that people are looking out for each other."

Y/N sighed, "Don't worry too much about him, he'll make it through. Focus on your own challenges."

Feeling a mix of emotions, Bucky retorted with a half-smile, "Hey, I'm trying to handle my newfound farmer responsibilities, aren't I?"

Y/N approached Bucky, carrying a food container. She placed it in Bucky's hand, her expression stern. "Listen carefully to their instructions, and good luck." With those words, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Bucky with a determined yet somewhat irritated look.

Bucky clicked his tongue in response, muttering, "I'll show you." The challenge Y/N presented only fueled his determination to prove himself in the world of farming.

But he talked to soon when he listened intently as the locals provided instructions on caring for the sheep, cows, and chickens. The details overwhelmed him, from feeding schedules to health check-ups. Bucky felt like his head was going to explode with information.

Local Farmer 1: "Remember, the sheep love a good pasture rotation!"

Bucky nodded, trying to absorb the advice.

Local Farmer 2: "Cows need proper bedding in the barn to stay comfortable."

Bucky furrowed his brow, realizing there was more to it than he initially thought.

Local Farmer 3: "And for the chickens, a well-ventilated coop is key to prevent diseases."

Bucky sighed, feeling the weight of his newfound responsibilities. The intricate details of farm life unfolded before him, and he could only nod in response.

Once the locals left, Bucky collapsed on the floor, utterly exhausted. "Hufft… farming is no joke."

******

Exhausted and drained, Bucky realized that his previous ignorance about farming had blinded him to the labor and dedication farmers put into their work.

His newfound appreciation for the entire process, from planting seeds to harvesting crops, made him reflect on the hard work and sacrifices of farmers everywhere.

“Woof.” Sensing his owner's fatigue, Archie appeared and offered canine comfort by enthusiastically licking Bucky's face. Feeling ticklish, Bucky giggled and hugged his little friend, "Hey, buddy," grateful for the simple joy Archie brought into his hectic day.

As if on cue, a 'PING' echoed from his phone. Bucky's eyes widened as he checked his email for a sponsorship offer. A brand had stumbled upon Bucky's farming videos and believed he would be an excellent fit for their product.

Subject: Exclusive Sponsorship Offer for Your Farming Journey!

Hi Bucky,

Hope you're doing great! We've been following your inspiring farming videos and love your genuine approach. We at SolarGuard are impressed by your dedication to farming.

We'd like to offer you a sponsorship opportunity. SolarGuard is a leading brand in skincare, and we believe our sunscreen is a perfect match for your outdoor work, providing optimal protection under the sun.

If you're interested, reply to this email, and we can discuss the details of this exciting collaboration. Looking forward to the possibility of working together!

Best, The SolarGuard Team

Ecstatic reading the e-mail, Bucky exclaimed, "Yes!!! My first money." This unexpected sponsorship was his first step to prove his worth to his father and demonstrate his ability to be independent.

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7 ,-

Author Note:

Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account. Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating. Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

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If you've got any cool ideas or prompts, whether for this fluff series or any other series, feel free to share them with me!

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[probablyasocialecologist]

The marsh acts as a natural and hugely effective bulwark against flooding, absorbing and slowing tides before they can encroach inland. Even last winter — the wettest anyone in the area could remember — the village at one edge of the peninsula did not flood. Paths through the marsh remained passable. A steep bank, covered with grass and significantly higher than the old flood wall, now borders the river. The area is also a haven for wildlife. Bird-watching blinds with giant windows offer glimpses of godwits, plovers, oystercatchers, egrets and herons. A growing population of avocets — black-and-white wading birds with distinctive, curling beaks — has gathered around the pools of brackish water. And the marsh has, over time, become a source of pride to the local population. Mr. Darch, who spent much of his career as a poultry farmer, started grazing cattle there in 2019, at the invitation of the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust. It is not without complications: This year, Mr. Darch found himself watching the sky nervously, wondering when the weather would be dry enough to move his cattle back onto their pastures. If the ground is too damp, he explained, it might create health problems in the cows’ hooves. “They like to have nice dry feet,” he said. But the rewards are plentiful. On the marsh, the cattle are not corralled by fences; instead, their movements are governed by digital collars, which play music to discourage them from drifting into certain areas. Their diets are varied and organic, meaning they provide high-quality, free-range meat. The meat’s traceable origin strengthens the bond between farmers and consumers, Mr. Darch said. Often, he noted, “there is a disconnect there, between our food and where it comes from.” He and two colleagues set up a company, Blue Carbon Farming, in an attempt to bridge that divide. The cows provide other benefits, too. “Cows are natural eco-engineers,” Mr. Darch said. “They eat the grass but don’t take it right down, as sheep would. That means the grass grows longer, which provides more cover for wildlife.”

22 October 2024

[yorksnapshots]

The Black Tower.

No, It is really called The Black Mill but tower seems more dramatic! Westwood Pasture, Beverley, East Riding of Yorkshire.

This area of 'common land' was granted to locals by the Lord of the Manor in 1380, and today residents still hold rights to graze cattle and sheep in a practice overseen by so-called pasture makers.

A windmill has stood here since 1650. This structure rebuilt in 1803 but it's working gear was removed after a fire in 1868. It was then used as a dwelling until 1934 and now stands as a Grade 2 listed monument.

[yoshi1517]

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM MESMERTOWN

"HAPPY NEW YEAR, thank you for the support in these months with your subscriptions. I hope you liked the stories and I hope you'll like the next ones."

As usual, I was running late. Jack’s car horn blared impatiently from the driveway as I fumbled with the zipper of my bag. “Hold on!” I yelled, though I doubted he could hear me through the window. I grabbed my coat, threw it over my arm, and bolted downstairs, nearly tripping on the last step.

Jack had the window rolled down when I burst out the door, and he gave me an exaggerated shake of his head. “You’re always late. You know that, right?” he teased, a smirk playing on his lips.

“At least this time, we’re not late for work,” I shot back as I climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me.

“Yeah, but I still need to get there before everyone else. If I don’t, who’s going to open the house?” he retorted, putting the car into gear and pulling onto the street.

Jack and I had been friends since we both joined the company fresh out of college. We were the youngest hires in our department, and we’d bonded over late-night deadlines, coffee runs, and mutual grumbling about office politics. Every year, it was tradition for someone from the office to host the New Year’s party, and this year, the short straw had landed squarely on Jack.

He’d decided to hold it at his family’s mountain house, a place I’d heard about in passing but had never visited. According to Jack, it was a cozy getaway that his family had used for years, though it had fallen mostly to him in recent times.

“What’s the name of the town again? People are asking in the group chat,” I said, pulling out my phone and glancing at the flurry of messages.

“Mesmertown,” Jack replied, his eyes on the road.

“Mesmertown? Sounds like the setting of a mystery novel,” I joked.

He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s got a weird vibe. Not many people live there full-time, but it gets a decent number of tourists during the holidays. My family used to come here for Christmas sometimes. I remember the decorations, lights everywhere, wreaths on every door. It was magical.”

I glanced out the window as the car turned off the highway, the sprawling fields of the countryside stretching out before us. “Okay, you need to take this exit,” I said, pointing at the GPS.

We drove through fields that looked like they’d been plucked from a postcard, green pastures dotted with grazing cows, sheep, and the occasional horse. As we climbed higher, the landscape shifted. The air grew crisper, and patches of snow lined the roadside, glinting in the warm glow of the setting sun.

“Look at this,” I said, unable to resist snapping a photo of the sunbeams streaming through the trees.

“It gets even better,” Jack promised, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

The trees thinned as we rounded a bend, and suddenly, the town came into view. A weathered wooden sign greeted us: Welcome to Mesmertown.

Below us, the village sprawled like something out of a snow globe. String lights crisscrossed the streets, and wreaths adorned every lamppost. In the center of town, a towering Christmas tree glittered with ornaments, its star glowing faintly against the twilight. Beyond the town, the lake shimmered, its frozen surface reflecting the first hints of starlight.

“Wow,” I breathed, taking it all in.

“See that up there?” Jack said, pointing to a large building perched high on the mountainside. “That’s the Grand Hotel. Fancy place. It’s mostly for rich tourists, but the bar’s not bad. They make an amazing hot chocolate.”

“Noted,” I said, still marveling at the scene as we descended into the town.

The streets were alive with charm. Shops with frosted windows displayed handmade crafts and holiday treats, and families bustled about, their laughter and chatter carrying through the air. We passed the central square, where the tree stood proudly beside a small stage.

“Looks like they’ve been having some serious holiday celebrations,” I said, noticing footprints in the snow and the remnants of decorations.

“They take Christmas seriously here,” Jack replied, grinning as he maneuvered the car through the winding streets.

We drove past the town and along the edge of the lake until we reached Jack’s family home. I gasped when I saw it.

“Wow. Why don’t you host every New Year’s party here? This place is incredible,” I said, stepping out of the car and craning my neck to take it all in.

The house was massive, a modern cabin that managed to feel both rustic and luxurious. Large windows reflected the lake’s icy surface, and the porch was strung with soft white lights that gave the place a welcoming glow.

“Yeah, it felt like a palace when I was a kid,” Jack said with a laugh. “Come on, help me with the bags. We’ve got a lot to set up before everyone gets here.”

Inside, the house was just as impressive. Wooden beams framed the high ceilings, and a stone fireplace dominated the living room, its mantle already adorned with garlands. The kitchen was sleek and modern, with just enough wear to show it had been well-loved over the years.

We spent the next couple of hours transforming the space. Jack strung up more lights while I arranged the furniture and set up the bar area. By the time the first guests arrived, the house was warm, inviting, and ready for a party.

The evening was in full swing. I found myself chatting with colleagues, a drink in hand, while Jack tinkered with the music playlist. We were all comfortably settled into the warm, cozy house, waiting for the pizzas to arrive. The scent of pine logs burning in the fireplace mixed with the laughter and the faint hum of conversation around the room.

The doorbell rang, jolting me from my conversation. “I’ll get it!” I called out, weaving my way past a group gathered near the kitchen. I opened the door, expecting to see the delivery driver, but instead, a man stood there, pizzas in hand, a casual grin on his face.

“Hey,” he said, holding out the boxes. “I grabbed these for you.”

“Oh, thanks,” I replied, slightly puzzled. “Wait, who are you?”

“Connor,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “I just joined your team last week. Figured this would be a good way to break the ice.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mike,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm against the cold air seeping in from outside. As our eyes met, something shifted, an instant connection, like the spark of a match in the dark. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was an energy about him that drew me in.

“Come on in,” I said, stepping aside.

Connor blended seamlessly into the group, chatting and laughing as if he’d always been part of our circle. Over pizza, I learned more about him. He was fresh from university, having completed his thesis with our company, and was already making a name for himself in the team. He was three years younger than me but carried himself with an easy confidence that belied his age. He’d been a volleyball player during his uni days and now kept up with running, which explained his athletic build.

As the night wore on, we moved to the living room and gathered around the fireplace for games. Connor and I ended up on the same team for Taboo, and to my surprise, we worked incredibly well together. It was like we were on the same wavelength, anticipating each other’s moves and guessing clues with uncanny precision.

At some point, the conversation took a turn toward local legends. Someone joked about taking a midnight dip in the lake.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jack said, laughing as he turned down the music. “That lake’s practically frozen solid. Besides, everyone knows it’s bad luck to swim there at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Someone asked why.

“It’s just an old story,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “They used to say that if you swam in the lake at midnight, you might free… something trapped under the ice.”

“Something?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jack shrugged, a playful grin on his face. “Relax, Mike. It’s just superstition. Nothing to worry about.”

But as he spoke, a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, flinging the window open with a loud bang. The room fell silent, and a few people let out startled laughs. I got up to close it, glancing toward the lake as I did. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a faint light glimmering on the frozen surface. But when I blinked, it was gone.

The atmosphere quickly shifted back to lightheartedness. Someone set up a disco ball that pulsed colorful lights to the beat of the music, and the living room transformed into a makeshift dance floor. With the lights dimmed and the music pumping, we all let loose. The drinks flowed freely, and by the time midnight approached, the energy was electric.

Connor and I ended up dancing together, laughing and spinning in the middle of the room. He leaned in close, his voice just loud enough to cut through the music.

“Hey, want to step outside for a bit?”

“Where to?” I asked, curious.

“Let’s check out the lake,” he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Jack’s story has me curious. Let’s see it for ourselves before the clock strikes twelve.”

I hesitated but found myself nodding. “Alright. Let’s go.”

We grabbed our coats, gloves, and scarves and slipped out into the crisp night air. The world outside was silent except for the crunch of snow beneath our boots. A narrow path led us toward the lake, its edges lined with frost-covered trees. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale silver glow over the frozen landscape.

When we reached the lake, the view took my breath away. The entire surface was a perfect sheet of ice, shimmering under the moonlight. The stars above were reflected on its surface, creating the illusion of a second sky beneath our feet.

“Wow,” Connor said softly, his voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” I replied, my breath visible in the frigid air.

We stood there for a moment, side by side, taking it all in. The world felt still, as if holding its breath. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of laughter and music drifted from the house.

Connor turned to me, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Ever wonder what’s really under the ice?”

I chuckled nervously. “Let’s not find out tonight.”

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and we stayed there a little longer, the lake stretching out before us, silent and mysterious under the midnight sky.

On one side, the town shimmered with festive lights, the faint sounds of distant laughter and celebration carried on the wind. On the other side, the forest stood in hushed stillness, its dark shadows blending into the silvery glow of the frozen lake.

Connor nudged my arm, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey, look over there,” he said, pointing to a narrow path that hugged the shoreline. “Want to see where it leads?”

“Why not?” I grinned, breaking into a run before he could react.

“Hey!” he called out, laughing as he chased after me.

The cold air burned my lungs as I sprinted, the sound of Connor’s footsteps crunching in the snow behind me. My heart pounded, not just from the exertion but from the thrill of being alone with him in this secluded, dreamlike world.

We finally stopped when we reached a small, hidden cove. The beach was quiet, framed by snow-dusted trees, and the frozen lake stretched endlessly before us, glistening under the stars.

“Looks like I win,” I teased, breathless. “You owe me coffee when we’re back at the office.”

Connor smirked, leaning forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Don’t get too cocky. The race back is what counts.”

I laughed, the sound echoing softly in the stillness. “Fair enough. But seriously, this place is incredible.”

Connor’s gaze drifted to the lake, his expression turning thoughtful. “Hey…” he said slowly, pointing to a patch of water near the shore. “What’s going on there?”

I followed his gesture and noticed a section of the lake that wasn’t frozen. Steam curled lazily from the surface, as if the water was warm.

“How is that possible?” I asked, stepping closer. “Why would it be warm?”

“Does it matter?” Connor said, his playful grin returning. “Come on, let’s do it. A midnight swim to ring in the New Year, it’ll be unforgettable.”

I blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? It’s freezing out here.”

“Exactly,” he said, already unzipping his jacket. “That’s what makes it epic. Plus, we’ll have bragging rights. Imagine telling everyone back home we swam in a lake in December.”

I hesitated, but his enthusiasm was infectious. Before I knew it, I was shrugging off my coat and kicking off my boots. The icy night air bit at my skin, but Connor’s laughter and excitement pulled me forward.

By the time I waded into the water, shivering and breathless, I couldn’t help but laugh. The warmth of the lake was unexpected and surreal, wrapping around me like an embrace.

“See?” Connor said, floating effortlessly on his back. “Not so bad, huh?”

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” I said, splashing water at him. “This is… amazing. Strange, but amazing.”

We swam closer to each other, our laughter mingling with the faint sounds of fireworks in the distance. The world beyond the lake seemed to blur, leaving just the two of us in this surreal, glowing oasis.

As we floated side by side, the celebration in the town reached its peak. Bursts of color lit up the sky, their reflections dancing on the water’s surface.

“Midnight,” Connor said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “Happy New Year, Mike.”

“Happy New Year,” I replied, my words barely audible over the distant cheers.

In that moment, the world felt impossibly still. The warmth of the water, the glow of the fireworks, the faint chill of the air, it all faded into the background as Connor turned toward me.

His eyes met mine, and the look in them was unlike anything I’d seen before. It wasn’t just the moonlight reflecting in their depths, it was something deeper, something that made my chest tighten and my breath catch.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine under the water. The touch sent a shiver through me, not from the cold, but from the undeniable electricity between us. Slowly, instinctively, we moved closer.

My heart raced as his hand slid up to cup my face, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek. The air between us felt charged, heavy with anticipation. His gaze dropped to my lips, and I could feel the warmth of his breath as he leaned in.

The rest of the world disappeared. The distant fireworks, the cold night, the lake, all of it faded until there was only him.

Our lips were just a breath apart when, suddenly, a golden light erupted from beneath us, illuminating the water around us in a radiant glow.

“Mike,” Connor whispered, his voice trembling. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking as I stared into the blinding light.

What happened next was unlike anything I had ever experienced, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. As Connor and I floated in the strange, warm water, a glow began to rise from beneath the surface, faint at first but quickly intensifying until it bathed us in shimmering gold. The liquid itself seemed to transform, wrapping around our bodies like silk spun from sunlight.

“Mike, what is this?” Connor asked, his voice trembling as he reached out, his hand trailing through the glowing water.

“I don’t know…” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away from the golden light. It wasn’t just light, it felt alive, as though it were watching us, testing us.

The water clung to our skin, warm and almost weightless, as if the lake itself were embracing us. Then, without warning, a sudden force pulled us under.

The world turned to chaos and beauty all at once. I was surrounded by swirling currents of light and shadow, my body suspended in a golden haze. I tried to struggle, but my limbs wouldn’t respond. And yet, I wasn’t drowning. I was breathing, no, more than breathing. It felt as though the golden liquid itself had seeped into me, filling my lungs with something richer, purer than air.

Connor was beside me, his eyes wide with the same mix of fear and awe that I felt. Around us, shimmering tendrils of golden light began to weave together, forming shapes, olive branches, their delicate leaves glowing with an otherworldly radiance. They wrapped around us gently but firmly.

“Connor!” I tried to call out, but my voice was swallowed by the light. He looked at me, his gaze steady, and I could see that he had stopped resisting. Slowly, I let go too, surrendering to whatever force had claimed us.

Then, as if in a dream, a figure emerged from the light. It was radiant, almost blinding, with hair like liquid fire cascading in waves of gold. The figure’s features were indistinct yet breathtaking, as though sculpted from pure light and warmth.

Before I could speak, or even think, the figure leaned down, its face inches from mine. Its lips brushed against mine in a kiss that felt like the essence of the sun itself, warm, consuming, and impossibly gentle.

I barely had time to process the sensation before the vision dissolved, and the next thing I knew, Connor and I were lying on the shore, both of us soaking wet and stripped down to our underwear.

Mike and Connor found themselves on the beach, and despite being dressed only in their underwear, they didn’t feel the cold of the night. They looked at each other and noticed a symbol of two olive leaves on their skin, as if it were a golden tattoo. As they dressed, their eyes slowly turned golden, and a small smile appeared on their faces as they locked eyes. They both knew what they had to do.

They put on only their pants and shirts, leaving behind their jackets and other belongings, and began walking back toward the village. Meanwhile, the villagers were witnessing something extraordinary. The lake, which had been frozen just moments ago, was now thawing. Everyone had seen a golden light emerge from the water, heading straight for the town hall, and watched as the ice melted away. Some had filmed the event, others claimed it was an omen of misfortune, while a few recalled the old legend of the lake.

"Would you like to discover what happened next in Mesmertown? Starting today, I’m opening the official Mesmertown server on Discord. If you’re curious about the secrets of the lake, the golden light, and the mysterious bond between Mike and Connor, come join us. The inhabitants of Mesmertown are waiting for you. (Available exclusively for VIP subscribers.) "

[merinsedai]

For @dreamlingbingo

Square/Prompt: A1: Sticks and Stones

Title: The Shepherd and the Stones

Rating: G

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: n/a

Additional Tags: fairy tale, shepherd Hob, faerie Dream, inspired by folklore, standing stones and treasure 

Summary: This is the tale of a lonely shepherd and a cunning sorcerer; of a stone circle and a faerie treasure.

One Midsummer Eve, the giant stones of the high plain will rise from their pits and leave their treasure unguarded, ripe for the taking .

But for a faerie's treasure to exist in the mortal world, it requires a human sacrifice...

Link: Read on ao3 here or below the cut :)

Once upon a time, on the high fells of England, there lived a lonely shepherd. Once, he had had a family and there had been love and laughter in his home, but a great sickness had come to the land and stolen his joy. Now there was just him.

Alone and sad, the shepherd had left his village and journeyed to the North, away from the memories and any who knew him. He settled in a small village, nestled amid the wild hills and the wilder weather.  He moved amongst the villagers like a ghost, quiet and unnoticed, taking his small flock up to pasture every day on a high and windy plain and every evening returning to his sad and silent home.

Upon the plain, one could see for miles in every direction: there was the village to the south, the far off mountains to the west, and in the north- a distant, winding river. And right in the middle of the plain there stood a circle of 7 giant stones. No one knew how they had gotten there: the villagers were afraid to approach as there were tales that the stones had once been giants, turned to rock and moss as a punishment; and that the fairies who dwelt amongst them, and whose duty it was to care for them, would curse or trick any mortal who dared approach. 

But the shepherd was not afraid of the stones, nor the stories of the fair folk. Each day he took his sheep to graze on the high plain and there the weather was often harsh. The stones were the only shelter when the freezing winds blew in from the East bringing the rain and snow in winter; they were the only shade in summer when the sun beat ceaselessly down upon him; and moveover they were familiar, comforting, and constant. The shepherd began to regard them as friends, and whilst he rested his back against their craggy sides to eat his meagre fare, he talked to them and told them tales of adventure and romance.  And though he was lonely still, there was a happiness of sorts to be had there, alone amongst the stones.

Then there came a day, in the fading warmth of autumn, where the shepherd found he was no longer alone. For whilst he was preparing to take his midday meal, settling in against the biggest of the stones, he sensed a presence above him and looked up. 

Before him stood a strange and ethereal creature, shaped much like a man but quite evidently not one, not if the large and delicate wings at his back were any measure. They were beautiful, waving slightly in the wind, and he stared openly. At first they looked black, but as the sunlight caught upon them, they shimmered in shades of purple and green. And the creature they belonged to was himself a sight to behold: his skin gleamed palely-perfect, like moonlight on new fallen snow, his hair was long and black as night, and his eyes… his eyes were piercing and blue as a clear midwinter sky, and glowed as if lit from within. He was barefoot and wore a flowing robe that gleamed with the same iridescence as his wings. 

“Hallo,” said the shepherd, surprised but not frightened. He babbled on a bit when the stranger merely stared at him. “I’m Hob. The shepherd. Bring my sheep up here a lot. Though I’m guessing you already know that. You’re one of the fair folk, right?  Lovely spot you have here. What’s your name?”

“I have been listening to you,” the stranger replied, not answering Hob’s question. “You like to talk. You tell… interesting stories.”

“Well, I’m glad someone’s been appreciating them.” Hob said. “Not sure what Old Mighty here thinks, but he’s a good audience.”

The stranger's eyes flicked to the giant stone, then back to Hob.

“You are bold, to linger here.”

“Am I?” Hob said unconcernedly, paring his apple carefully.  

“Yes. Most mortals fear to tread lands touched by fae magic. And yet, you are here every day and you are not afraid. Instead you treat our stones with reverence and bring us gifts of stories and song. Why is this so?”

Hob shrugged. “Never found anything to be afraid of. Not yet anyway.” he added with a chuckle. “And I love it here. It fills me with peace. Would you like some apple?” 

The stranger was wary at first, recoiling slightly from Hob’s outstretched hand. But Hob merely placed the slice of apple upon his kerchief and put them on a rock to his side, then continued talking. Gradually he drew the faerie man in to him as he spun another wild tale while continuing with his meal. He spoke to the rocks, the sky, the grass, eyes occasionally darting to his companion, who eventually settled on the ground a few feet away, listening intently.

When Hob eventually wound his story down, he found the faerie suddenly closer than he expected. Eye to eye, they stared at each other.

“A fine tale, Hob,” the stranger said softly. “I thank you for sharing.”

“Anytime, stranger.”

The stranger smiled, a small secretive thing. “My name is Dream.” he said softly, and between one blink and the next, he was gone. 

And when Hob gathered the wits to look round, so was the apple. 

From that day on, Hob would often find Dream awaiting him amongst the stones. And while Hob would share his stories and food, Dream would weave him crowns of moorland flowers (whatever the season, he had flowers of white and purple and yellow; of mouse ears, tormentil and willowherb) and teach him faerie songs. When they were together, the time passed more happily and Hob wasn’t lonely anymore.

For he had found he had a friend.

***

Living in the same village as Hob was an old sorcerer who could understand the language of the animals and birds. The sorcerer’s name was Burgess and he was a cold and cruel man, though that was well hidden beneath a veneer of charm and amiability. The people of the village were in awe of the sorcerer, but they did not fear him. He had dwelled amongst them many years, studying the ways of magic, and they came to him for healing and advice when their crops failed. In return they gave him what they could, and he lived a life of some comfort, though as with many men he desired much more: wealth, acclaim and power. 

One day in early summer, the sorcerer was busy with his arcane workings when he happened to overhear the excited chatter of two sparrows who were sitting on his windowsill. Burgess made a habit of leaving tidbits for the animals to eat so he could eavesdrop on all their tales.

“Did you hear?” said one of the little birds to the other. “The stones are stirring! This Midsummer Eve, at midnight, they will rise from their pits and go to the river to drink!”

“I know!” answered the second, fluttering its tiny wings madly. “The whole flock is atwitter about it. The stones have not risen  for many turns around the sun! And did you hear that there is treasure in the pits where the stones stand?”

“Everyone knows that, silly,” tutted the first bird. “It is the faeries’ treasure! The stones guard the treasure and the faeries tend the stones. The magpies were very excited, they would love to steal it. But of course, they will be fast asleep come midnight.”

“They would be very foolish if they did, but that’s magpies all over.” The second bird hopped along the sill, searching for the last of the scattered crumbs. “The faeries’ treasure will turn to dust come morning unless the stones are given a human sacrifice in return. No hope of that happening! Come on, we’ve finished here… I heard the miller’s wife has been baking again…-”

And with that, the two little birds flew off. 

Burgess snapped his book shut and rubbed his hands, a gleeful smile spreading on his face. Faerie treasure, as he had long suspected! And it was his for the taking… but what to do about the human sacrifice…? The sorcerer sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought. Well, there was only one choice, really. Only one person in the village who had no family or friends to ask awkward questions when they disappeared. It would have to be the shepherd.

***

That evening, Burgess went in search of Hob and found him finishing shutting his flock away for the night. 

“Robert,” purred the sorcerer, lacing his voice with just enough magic to make the other man suggestible and not suspicious. “I have the most wonderful proposition for you. Let us talk.”

Spellbound, Hob invited Burgess into his home and, over a cup of braggot ale, the sorcerer told the shepherd all that he had overheard. All, that is, except for one small detail. He made no mention of the human sacrifice.

“It is agreed then?” said Burgess with his wicked smile. “We shall meet on the plain at midnight and when the stones go to drink we will have treasure beyond our wildest imaginings.”

With another flick of his power, he swore Hob to secrecy- “We must tell no one; this is our little secret, Robert.”- and then he left, chuckling to himself at his own brilliance.

***

At first, Hob was excited at the idea of the treasure, imagining all the things he could do with it- all the places he could go. But later the next day, as he sat in the shade of Old Mighty waiting and hoping for a visit from his friend, he began to feel bad about it instead.

It would be very unfair to steal the stones’ treasure whilst they are drinking and unable to protect it. They are guarding it for the fae folk, and Dream is my friend… I could never steal from him, he thought, beginning to feel angry at himself for even considering it. It was just that the sorcerer had been so friendly, so convincing…. He pressed his palm into Old Mighty’s sun-warmed side and sighed. I will not do it. I don’t care if I stay poor my whole life. I will not do it.

A rustling in the brambles announced the arrival of the faerie, and Hob looked up at him, chewing his bottom lip.

“You look very thoughtful today, my friend,” said Dream, eyeing him closely with his head tilted to the side.

“I..-” Hob wanted to tell Dream of Burgess’s plan, but the sorcerer’s magic kept the words locked in his throat. “I was just thinking it was a most marvellous day! And I found some wild strawberries on my walk up here today. I was hoping you would share them with me.”

Dream favoured him with one of his small, secret smiles, folding his legs to sit neatly beside him, both of them resting with their backs against Old Mighty. They shared strawberries and stories, and Dream taught Hob a counting game with dandelion clocks. It was a beautiful day, peaceful and still. As always, Hob delighted in his fae friend’s company. He wished he could tell him of Burgess’s plan but he could not, and so that evening he departed with the words unsaid and an unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

***

A few days later, Hob was awoken from a restless sleep in the deep watches of the night by a touch to his dreaming mind that brought him gasping back to awareness. Dream was there before him, bending over the bed and drawing his hand back from Hob’s forehead.  Hob had never before seen his friend outside the vicinity of the stones, and never at night. Dream was more otherworldly here, his features sharper, his hair wilder. The moonlight painted his pale skin with an ethereal glow and his eyes- so blue in the day- were washed to full black. Hob had never been afraid of Dream but now he felt a thrill of fear to know that fae magic had been at work upon him.

“You are correct in what you think,” Dream said without preamble or explanation.  “It would be wrong to steal from us and from the stones.”

“I...I know,” Hob said, trembling slightly. He did not question how Dream knew of his conversation with the sorcerer: the ways of the fair folk were mysterious and always surprising. He could not read Dream’s expression and he wondered if even his brief consideration of helping Burgess was enough to condemn him in the faerie’s eyes. “I wasn’t-”

“But you are our friend,” Dream interrupted calmly, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “And we give you leave to take some of our treasure.”

“What-”

“But first,” Dream holds up a finger, forestalling Hob yet again. “You must cut a long trail of honeysuckle and lay it beside Old Mighty, and you must only take treasure from Old Mighty’s pit. For he is the stone that I tend, and it is by my invitation that you may enter.”

Hob struggled to sit up in the bed. “ Dream, I am not going to do it. I swear I am not! I admit I thought about it but I- I can’t do it. I’m going to tell Burgess tomorrow; try to persuade him of the wrongness of this deed.”

“I know you would try to refuse the sorcerer, my friend, because I know your heart,” said Dream.  “But Burgess’s magic sits deep within you still, and he will compel you whether you will it or no. To steal from a faerie treasure is the riskiest of ventures, and without the grace I now grant you, your death would be almost assured.”

Hob gaped at him. Dream sat down next to him on the bed, unexpectedly close. He pressed his hand to Hob’s chest and looked upon him with an unreadable expression.

“For the friendship you have offered me, I would give you a reward,” he said.

“I don’t need a reward-!”

“A gift then. One friend to another. Take it, please,” Dream said, pressing closer, his hand moving up from Hob’s chest to cup his cheek. Hob’s breath caught in his throat at the gesture, and the serious look in his friend’s eyes. 

“Yet one word of warning,” Dream continued quietly. “Do not let greed drive you, Hob. Be mindful of what you take. A faerie’s favour is hard won, and easily lost.”

Hob nodded shakily. He had no desire to lose this faerie’s favour. 

“But what about Burgess?” he asked after a moment.

Dream’s smile was back, only  grimmer now. Hob shivered.

“Leave the sorcerer to me.”

***

Late at night on Midsummer Eve, the sorcerer and the shepherd met on the plain to await the moving of the stones. Burgess performed some magic- a simple bending of the light- to make them invisible to any watching eyes, and in silence, they waited. As the church bells in the village began to chime out the midnight hour, clouds scudded over the moon and the earth began to tremble.  Hob watched in awe as the seven massive stones stepped from their pits and began to move across the plain, rocking gently from side to side as though walking on invisible feet. Peering closely, Hob could just make out some smaller, darker shapes flitting about amongst the stones: the faeries were escorting their charges to the distant river. Soon, only he and Burgess remained on the plain and all was silent once again. 

“Quickly,” hissed the sorcerer, pushing Hob onwards. “We haven’t much time.” They ran to the empty pits and Hob stopped dead- they were much, much deeper than he had anticipated.

“How will we get out?” he breathed, turning anxious eyes on Burgess who waved his worries away impatiently.

“Do not concern yourself with that,” he snapped. “Do you believe I came here so unprepared? I will lift you out with my magic, just as I will do with myself. Now go!” A sudden force propelled Hob forward and he stumbled, dropping down into the pit with a startled oath. The hard landing knocked the breath out of him, and he lay there gasping for a moment, listening to the sound of Burgess entering his own pit and the clang of metal as the sorcerer clearly began gathering his booty. 

The clouds cleared from the sky as Hob sat up and looked around. The sudden bright moonlight illuminated a hoard of treasure beyond Hob’s wildest imaginings. Gold and silver in every form: ingots and jewellery and goblets; gem encrusted scabbards and armour and torques; strings of diamonds and pearls; jewels in every cut and hue; and coins of every weight and denomination under the sun. Hob stared in amazement, picking things up and marvelling at their beauty. Then, mindful of Dream’s words, he gathered enough treasure to fill his pockets, whispering his thanks as he did, and settled down to wait for the sorcerer’s aid in escaping.  

Meanwhile, in a nearby pit, Burgess was shovelling treasure into sacks as fast as he could, heedless of what he stole. And all the time he was shovelling, he was smiling to himself and thinking that no one would miss that lonesome shepherd.

Time passed and Hob was growing nervous. He paced the pit, constantly looking up. He tried shouting for Burgess but heard nothing in response. What was the sorcerer up to?! Presently, there came the sound of a distant rumble which began growing louder and louder… the giant stones were returning from the river. 

Hob’s heart was beating triple time in his chest. I must get out of this pit, or I’ll be squashed by Old Mighty! he thought frantically. He began trying to climb out but the sides of the pit were steep and slippery, and he couldn’t gain a foothold anywhere. His fingernails were bleeding from his desperate scrabbling at the walls and over his own panting breaths Hob could hear Burgess screaming with fear, clearly unable to use his magic to escape his own pit.

Sighing, Hob resigned himself to his fate and sat down amid the treasure. It had been a decent life all told. His family had been a bright spot, and Dream… Dream was a bright spot still. Hob wasn’t ready to go, he wasn’t done with living yet. Blinking back frightened and angry tears, he looked up at the sky one last time…

… and leapt to his feet when he saw Dream peering over the edge of the pit.

“Dream!” he shouted, shock and elation both clamouring for dominance within him. “What-”

“Take hold of this,” Dream interrupted brusquely, and lowered the trail of honeysuckle which Hob had cut and laid beside Old Mighty earlier in the day into the pit. “I will pull you up.”

It was a very close thing. As Hob fell gasping onto the grass, Old Mighty stepped into the pit with a heavy thud. All around, there were echoing thuds as the stones returned home, and when the earth stopped trembling… Complete silence. 

“I apologise,” Dream said calmly, pulling Hob to  his feet. “I was delayed… and I have heard it is impolite to keep a friend waiting.”

Hob gaped at him, then laughed with the kind of relieved giddiness that only a near-death experience could bring. “You-! You mad creature!” he exclaimed. “I really thought that was the end for me…! And then you-! Oh, I could kiss you, I really could!”

There was a hand on his cheek, and his laughter stopped abruptly. Hob found himself caught in thrall to those gleaming black eyes.

“If you mean it…” Dream said quietly, “If you do not speak in jest or high spirits-”

“I have never meant anything more in my entire life,” Hob said somewhat hysterically and then he couldn’t say anything more because he quite suddenly had his arms full of Dream and his mouth thoroughly occupied. It was a glorious, beautiful thing. Dream tasted like starlight should and he kissed like Hob was the most desirable thing on the Earth. Hob would be quite pleased to do this forever: kiss his faerie love in the shadow of the great stones…

He pulled back, struck by a sudden thought. “Wait, what of Burgess? He had spells ready to get him and his loot out of the pit, but he never answered my calls and I heard him screaming…?”

“You stopped kissing me to ask me that?” said Dream petulantly, but with a smug smile tugging up his lips. “Worry not, the sorcerer is dealt with. His paltry magic was nothing compared to my own. The moment he stepped into the pit, he doomed himself, for I trapped him there and there he shall remain., until such time as I deign to remove his bones.”

From that day on, the sorcerer was never seen or heard of again. Hob, the shepherd, became a rich and benevolent land owner, beloved of his tenants. And although he never again took sheep to graze upon the high plains, he could often be seen up by the stone circle, resting in the shade of Old Mighty. And though mortal eyes could not see it, he was never, ever alone. He had found his happily ever after.