#he means horse by the way

[ganondoodle]

discarded.

(Leonard, Lacrima, Elden Ring)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Normal boy spotted.

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[altschmerzes]

reflecting on seasons 3 and 4 of slow horses and i'd like to take a moment to appreciate how At Her Fucking Limit louisa guy is and for good reason. local woman who is isolated and very much alone and has just risked connecting with another person only to have that person brutally murdered now risks connecting with SECOND person only for that person to turn out to be god's least favourite court jester who keeps trying to also die on her. please give this poor lady two minutes of peace.

[greatgoddyke]

time to make your choice only you can be the one

[wildsaltair]

I will need 3-5 business days to catch my breath from this picture

[anghraine]

Fun fact: Imrahil of Dol Amroth is only ever described in LOTR as Denethor and Faramir's "kinsman", with no distinction ever made between how he's related to Denethor vs to Faramir. It's only later, when Faramir briefly thinks of his long-dead mother, that she is called "Finduilas of Amroth" and we can deduce that the family connection was likely between Denethor's wife and Imrahil, making him an in-law of Denethor but blood relative of Faramir. We're still not told exactly how Imrahil and Finduilas were related, though.

I always had the impression of a certain degree of tension between Imrahil and Denethor, and also of Imrahil being particularly concerned for Faramir, but his exact relationships with them are quite vague in the narrative. A lot of the names, dates, and family connections among the members of the house of Dol Amroth that we now accept as a matter of course are mainly from a separate document published in Peoples of Middle-earth that explains the most probable origin story for the house of Dol Amroth and has an attached family tree. IIRC the entire existence of Faramir and Éowyn's son Elboron is based on his inclusion in the Dol Amroth family tree in POME and he's never referenced in LOTR (and possibly not in anything else, actually?).

Tolkien definitely did imagine Imrahil and Finduilas as siblings regardless (e.g. I think he mentions it when observing that Denethor's natural beardlessness as an Elrosian Dúnadan would be reinforced in Boromir and Faramir by their additional Elvish heritage through Imrahil's sister), but he didn't actually say it in LOTR.

I do think it's important, though, because it's with this later information that Imrahil taking charge of Faramir's fallen body is conclusively revealed to not be simply a prince rescuing a vague "kinsman" of political/military importance, but specifically a man carrying his dead sister's last surviving child from a battlefield.

(No wonder he and Éomer bonded so much, honestly!)

[fightingwithallreality]

Album of Horses (1951) written by Marguerite Henry, illustrated by Wesley Dennis

[sunny-sainz]

i need all the carlos in a cowboy hat content immediately

[front-facing-pokemon]

[wildbasil]

group therapy (they make each other worse)

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 61

Chapter; Highlights (okay the entire chapter is a highlight)🤣

As requested @mysterylilycheeta I NEED TO SQUEAL IN WYVERN FANGIRL WITH YOU NOW CAUSE OH M GOODNESS THIS CHAPTER ON SO MANY LEVELS I JUST AHAKWIHUHFEJLZXBKEKA

Agony was a song in Lorcan's blood, his bones, his breath.

Every step of the horse, every leap she made over body and debris, sent it ringing afresh. There was no end, no mercy from it. It was all he could do to keep in the saddle, to cling to consciousness.

To keep his arm around Elide.

She had come for him. Had found him, somehow, on this endless battlefield.

His name on her lips had been a summons he could never deny, even when death had held him so gently, nestled beneath all those he'd felled, I, and waited for his last breaths.

And now, charging toward that too-distant keep, so far behind the droves of soldiers and riders racing for the gates, he wondered if these minutes would be his last. Her last.

She had come for him.

Lorcan managed to glance toward the dam on their right. Toward the ruk rider signaling that it was only a matter of minutes until it unleashed hell over the plain.

He didn't know how it had become weakened. Didn't care.

Still Elide kept urging the horse onward, kept them on as straight a path toward the distant keep as possible.

No ruk would come to sweep them up. No, his luck had been spent in surviving this long, in her finding him. His power would do nothing against that water.

The farthest lines of panicked soldiers appeared, and Farasha charged past them.

Elide let out a sob, and he followed the line of her sight.

To the keep gate, still open.

"Faster, Farasha!" She didn't hide the raw terror in her voice, the desperation.

Once the dam broke, it would take less than a minute for the tidal wave to reach them.

She had come for him. She had found him.

The world went quiet. The pain in his body faded into nothing. Into something secondary.

Lorcan slid his other arm around Elide, bringing his mouth close to her ear as he said, "You have to let me go."

Each word was gravelly, his voice strained nearly to the point of uselessness.

Elide didn't shift her focus from the keep ahead. "No."

That gentle quiet flowed around him, clearing the fog of pain and battle. "You have to. You have to, Elide. I'm too heavy-and without my weight, you might make it to the keep in time."

"No." The salt of her tears filled his nose.

Lorcan brushed his mouth over her damp cheek, ignoring the roaring pain in his body. The horse galloped and galloped, as if she might outrace death itself.

"I love you," he whispered in Elide's ear. "I have loved you from the moment you picked up that axe to slay the ilken." Her tears flowed past him in the wind. "And I will be with you ..." His voice broke, but he made himself say the words, the truth in his heart. "I will be with you always."

He was not frightened of what would come for him once he tumbled off the horse. He was not frightened at all, if it meant her reaching the keep.

So Lorcan kissed Elide's cheek again, allowed himself to breathe in her scent one last time. "I love you," he repeated, and began to withdraw his arms from around her waist.

Elide slapped a hand onto his forearm. Dug in her nails, right into his skin, fierce as any ruk.

"No."

There were no tears in her voice. Nothing but solid, unwavering steel.

"No," she said again. The voice of the Lady of Perranth.

Lorcan tried to move his arm, but her grip would not be dislodged.

If he tumbled off the horse, she would go with him.

Together. They would either outrun this or die together.

"Elide-"

But Elide slammed her heels into the horse's sides.

Slammed her heels into the dark flank and screamed, "FLY, FARASHA." She cracked the reins. "FLY, FLY, FLY!"

And gods help her, that horse did.

As if the god that had crafted her filled the mare's lungs with his own breath, Farasha gave a surge of speed.

Faster than the wind. Faster than death.

Farasha cleared the first of the fleeing Darghan cavalry. Passed desperate horses and riders at an all-out gallop for the gates.

Her mighty heart did not falter, even when Lorcan knew it was raging to the point of bursting.

Less than a mile stood between them and the keep.

But a thunderous, groaning crack cleaved the world, echoing off the lake, the mountains.

There was nothing he could do, nothing that brave, unfaltering horse could do, as the dam ruptured.

Rowan made himself stand there, to watch the last moments of the Lady of Perranth and his former commander. It was all he could offer: witnessing their deaths, so he might tell the story to those he encountered. So they would not be forgotten.

The roaring of the oncoming wave became deafening, even from miles away.

Still Elide and Lorcan raced, Farasha passing horse after horse after horse.

Even up here, would they escape the wave's reach? Rowan dared to survey the battlements, to assess if he needed to get the others, needed to get Aelin, to higher ground.

But Aelin was not at his side.

She was not on the battlement at all.

Rowan's heart halted. Simply stopped beating as a ruddy-brown ruk dropped from the skies, spearing for the center of the plain.

Arcas, Borte's ruk. A golden-haired woman dangling from his talons.

Aelin. Aelin was—

Arcas neared the earth, talons splaying.

Aelin hit the ground, rolling, rolling, until she uncoiled to her feet.

Right in the path of that wave.

"Oh gods," Fenrys breathed, seeing her, too.

They all saw her.

The queen on the plain.

The endless wall of water surging for her.

The keep stones began shuddering. Rowan threw out a hand to brace himself, fear like nothing he had known ripping through him as Aelin lifted her arms above her head.

A pillar of fire shot up around her, lifting her hair with it.

The wave roared and roared for her, for the army behind her.

The shaking in the keep was not from the wave.

It was not from that wall of water at all.

Cracks formed in the earth, splintering across it. Spiderwebbing from Aelin.

"The hot springs," Chaol breathed. "The valley floor is full of veins into the earth itself."

Into the burning heart of the world.

The keep shook, more violently this time.

The pillar of fire sucked back into Aelin.

She held out a hand before her, her fist closed.

As if it would halt the wave in its tracks.

He knew then. Either as her mate or carranam, he knew.

"Three months," Rowan breathed.

The others stilled.

"Three months," he said again, his knees wobbling. "She's been making the descent into her power for three months."

Every day she had been with Maeve, bound in iron, she had gone deeper. And she had not tapped too far into that power since they'd freed her because she had kept making the plunge.

To gather up the full might of her magic.

Not for the Lock, not for Erawan.

But for Maeve's death blow.

A few weeks of descent had taken her powers to devastating levels. Three months of it

…

Holy gods. Holy rutting gods.

And when her fire hit the wall of water now towering over her, when they collided —

"GET DOWN!" Rowan bellowed, over the screaming waters. "GET DOWN NOW!"

His companions dropped to the stones, any within earshot doing the same.

Rowan plummeted into his power. Plummeted into it fast and hard, ripping out any remaining shred of magic.

Elide and Lorcan were still too far from the gates. Thousands of soldiers were still too far from the gates as the wave crested above them.

As Aelin opened her hand toward it.

Fire erupted.

Cobalt fire. The raging soul of a flame.

A tidal wave of it.

Taller than the raging waters, it blasted from her, flaring wide.

The wave slammed into it. And where water met a wall of fire, where a thousand years of confinement met three months of it, the world exploded.

Blistering steam, capable of melting flesh from bone, shot across the plain.

With a roar, Rowan threw all that remained of his magic toward the onslaught of steam, a wall of wind that shoved it toward the lake, the mountains.

Still the waters came, breaking against the flames that did not so much as yield an inch.

Maeve's death blow. Spent here, to save the army that might mean Terrasen's salvation. To spare the lives on the plain.

Rowan gritted his teeth, panting against his fraying power. A burnout lurked, deadly close.

The raging wave threw itself over and over and over into the wall of flame.

Rowan didn't see if Elide and Lorcan made it into the keep. If the other soldiers and riders on the plain stopped to gape.

Princess Hasar said, rising beside him, "That power is no blessing."

"Tell that to your soldiers," Fenrys snarled, standing, too.

"I did not mean it that way," Hasar snipped, and awe was indeed stark on her face.

Rowan leaned against the battlements, panting hard as he fought to keep the lethal steam from flowing toward the army. As he cooled and sent it whisking away.

Solid hands slid under his arms, and then Fenrys and Gavriel were there, propping him up between them.

A minute passed. Then another.

The wave began to lower. Still the fire burned.

Rowan's head pounded, his mouth going dry.

Time slipped from him. A coppery tang filled his mouth.

The wave lowered farther, raging waters quieting. Then roaring turned to lapping, rapids into eddies.

Until the wall of flame began to lower, too. Tracking the waters down and down and down. Letting them seep into the cracks of the earth.

Rowan's knees buckled, but he held on to his magic long enough for the steam to lessen.

For it, too, to be calmed.

It filled the plain, turning the world into drifting mist. Blocking the view of the queen in its center.

Then silence. Utter silence.

Fire flickered through the mist, blue turning to gold and red. A muted, throbbing glow.

Rowan spat blood onto the battlement stones, his breath like shards of glass in his throat.

The glowing flames shrank, steam rippling past. Until there was only a slim pillar of fire, veiled in the mist-shrouded plain.

Not a pillar of fire.

But Aelin.

Glowing white-hot. As if she had given herself so wholly to the flame that she had become fire herself.

The Fire-Bringer someone whispered down the battlements.

The mist rippled and billowed, casting her into nothing but a glowing effigy.

The silence turned reverent.

A gentle wind from the north swept down. The veil of mist pulled back, and there she was.

She glowed from within. Glowed golden, tendrils of her hair floating on a phantom wind.

"Mala's Heir," Yrene breathed.

Down on the plain, Elide and Lorcan had halted.

The wind pushed away more of the drifting mist, clearing the land beyond Aelin.

And where that mighty, lethal wave had loomed, where death had charged toward them, nothing remained at all.

For three months, she had sung to the darkness and the flame, and they had sung back.

For three months, she had burrowed so deep inside her power that she had plundered undiscovered depths. While Maeve and Cairn had worked on her, she had delved. Never letting them know what she mined, what she gathered to her, day by day by day.

A death blow. One to wipe a dark queen from the earth forever.

She'd kept that power coiled in herself even after she'd been freed from the irons. Had struggled to keep it down these weeks, the strain enormous. Some days, it had been easier to barely speak. Some days, swaggering arrogance had been her key to ignoring it.

Yet when she had seen that wave, when she had seen Elide and Lorcan choosing death together, when she had seen the army that might save Terrasen, she'd known. She'd felt the fire sleeping under this city, and knew they had come here for a reason.

She had come here for this reason.

A river still flowed from the dam, harmless and small, wending toward the lake.

Nothing more.

Aelin lifted a glowing hand before her as blessed, cooling emptiness filled her at last.

Slowly, starting from her fingertips, the glow faded.

As if she were forged anew, forged back into her body.

Back into Aelin.

Clarity, sharp and crystal clear, filled its wake. As if she could see again, breathe again.

Inch by inch, the golden glow faded into skin and bone. Into a woman once more.

Already, a white-tailed hawk launched skyward.

But as the last of the glow faded, disappearing out through her toes, Aelin fell to her knees.

Fell to her knees in the utter silence of the world, and curled onto her side.

She had the vague sense of strong, familiar arms scooping her up. Of being carried onto a broad feathery back, still in those arms.

Of soaring through the skies, the last of the mist rippling away into the afternoon sun.

And then sweet darkness.

[blackhholes]

teen wolf meme: [6/6] creatures -> ghost riders

In storm clouds just like these, phantom hunters would appear, riding black horses with blood-red eyes, and wolves and hounds at their side, baying and snarling. What were they hunting? Souls.

[dykedvonte]

Guys the cartoon horse line is not implying Jimmy being a predator to kids because the baby is represented as a foil. It is because horses are his stand in for consequential figures and Anya and the sexual violence he perpetrated towards her.

I know he’s deplorable but the line is very much about his warped views of women and Anya along with the Pony Express as a corporation seeing as horses stand in for a lot in his mind.

[teyrnacousland]

I've seen the headcanon that Lucanis' mother, Caterina's perfect heir, was actually similar to Illario in some ways. That she was calculating, ruthless, ambitious, obedient... all the things Caterina overlooks in Illario because Caterina sees her favourite daughter's deep brown eyes and quiet, controlled demeanor and careful planning in Lucanis.

But I am also attached to the idea that the opposite is true too. That Illario's mother shared similarities with Lucanis; that she was empathetic and stubborn, with a slight rebellious streak. But she was always outgoing and charming, was more impulsive with her emotions, and was always sharper with her tongue than with a sword, so Caterina only sees her in Illario.

I just love the idea that Caterina can't look beyond the surface and see who her grandsons really are because on some level she can't see past the ghosts reflected in their eyes. She can't see that the quiet brown eyed boy is is more of the gentle hearted rebel, and the one with blue eyes and a shining, fake smile is the ruthless leader who would do anything she asked.

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]

Russ Ballard producing Daltrey's album

1975 Interview

Russ Ballard has something special. Call it professionalism, the sure touch, luck, talent, a mixture of the lot if you like, but everything he's involved in seems to turn out pretty good, even when it's something completely new to him, like record producing.

When he was fourteen, he wrote his first song and sold it to The Shadows after having had the sense to demo it after their style. Having mastered the guitar and scored quite a bit of acclaim for his playing, he turned to keyboards and now nobody hearing him play would think he hadn't been brought up on them. Argent reached the height of their success when he was with them, he gave Colin Blunstone a monster hit with I Don't Believe In Miracles and now Ride A Rock Horse is enjoying considerable favour. Its producer? Russ Ballard! The man, wearing his customary shades, exudes an air of quiet confidence. He can afford to. He's well respected as a musician and as a writer and he's now in a position many people could envy. After all, a singer of Daltrey's calibre doesn't call up just anybody and say "How about producing my album?"! What is really surprising is that Roger should ignore all the established record producers in favour of Russ, who has only ever produced one album before in his life and that was the solo one he made after leaving Argent.

How did his new role come about? "Well, I worked with Daltrey on his first album, played a little drums and piano on it, but I didn't produce that one, just put in some ideas. He must have liked them because when he was planning his second, he just asked me if I wanted to do it." Russ explained. In an issue of Beat dated April 1966, Daltrey himself described his voice in pretty disparaging terms. "I don't have a good voice, no-one needs to tell me that. I'm a screamer with a group and I'm happy. I'm not worried about my voice, though, it is developing and I can notice the change." He also added "I'd get a real kick if I could have a proper girl vocal group backing." It's taken nine years, but now he's achieved what he hoped for, a voice which no-one can deny is pretty exceptional, and backing singers led by Marsha Hunt, care of Russ Ballard! "I was involved with everything." said Russ. "Going through songs with him, deciding what musicians should be used, who would be good for this and who for that." For a reluctant producer, who admits that "I'm not really into production, even though it's a creative thing, I'd rather be an artist." Russ had some pretty definite ideas as to his treatment of the album. "I deliberately kept his voice well up because in so many recordings I've heard of Roger, he's been immersed in sound. He's got such a powerful and such a good voice which contains many aspects that people haven't heard before. What I set out to do on the album was to expose all those voices for the first time. I don't think it is a good thing for a producer to put his own standpoint on an album, the most important thing is to project the artist." Russ thinks that Daltrey's film work has given a lot more confidence and he also found getting to know him has radically changed the concept he had of The Who. "Many people would imagine Daltrey as an ego tripper, but he's not in the slightest. Before I got to know him well, I was under the impression that The Who were Pete Townshend's baby. But speaking to Roger, listening to his ideas, I think that a hell of a lot of his ideas must have always gone into The Who, a lot more than people think."

It was originally Roger's idea to record an album of his early influences. Then he changed rock horses in mid-stream. "By then we'd already recorded Walking The Dog and that Beachboys sounding song, so we were lumbered with them." The second idea was to project the different sides of Daltrey's voice in a collection of mixed rockers and ballads, including three songs of Russ's, Come And Get Your Love, Proud and Near To Surrender. "We didn't actually discuss the point but I felt he wanted to make a heavier album than the one we'd originally planned. Yet not totally heavy, but a record which would compliment the heavier stuff with lighter stuff. Right from the very first session when he sang the first song I could see his voice was so much better, I feel it's improved tremendously since the early Who days even though I think he had a good voice in 1964."

The next thing to decide on was the overall sound and the arrangements. Ex-Shadows drummer Tony Meehan was the man who worked on these. "I decided to make the sound quite sparse,-" explained Russ, "- rather than over-producing it. Some people just don't know where to stop. I decided that if a song called for piano and nothing else, that's what I was going to do." (Hence Phillip Goodhand Tait's beautiful slow rocker Oceans Away with the composer on piano.) "The most important thing in an arrangement is the song. If it's a good one you should be able to sing it with no backing at all and it should still sound great. If it's not, no matter how many extras you add it won't work." Russ reckons that having been in bands himself definitely helped him as a producer, enabling him to put himself in the artist's shoes. Yet he doesn't think he'd like to produce his own next album entirely alone. "When I was in Argent I found being produced by somebody else was very frustrating because I could tell people were veering away from the original ideas I'd had for my songs. That's why I decided to produce my first solo album, which turned out a bit of a mixture because I had a backlog of work to get out of my system. My next album will be slightly deeper, not so light-hearted. I hope to be co-producing it with Muff Winwood, whom I really admire because he's got such a good ear and can really make a musical point."

At the moment, Russ is doing very well with songs of his which are being covered by other artists. One called Heartbreak, has recently been recorded by Olivia Newton-John and yet another is currently being recorded in L.A. by Stevie Wonder's band. Russ has got a new band together consisting of the ex-drummer from Curly, Alan Wickett, bass player Tony Lester and guitarist Alan Skates- "He really does!" joked Russ. He's got three weeks booked in E.M.I. Studios to get the album done. As for his producing career, it looks like Ride A Rock Horse may be his swansong. What if Roger asks him to produce his third album? "Well… if I want to do what I want to do, that is, sing, play, write and record, I just won't have time to produce anybody." said Russ. There's nothing like getting out when you're on top!

[ratatatastic]

local man haunts (me) open practise yet again more news at 11