#horse-Bally

[mysterysoulrider]

I love having an alt so I can coat color code my horsies

[brotherconstant]

Agent Singh Bally Gill in Slow Horses | Season 1

[lettersregardingjeeves]

My Man Jeeves vs. Carry On, Jeeves: A Choice On the Basis of Charm

So as I was having a go at putting the letters together with Mr. Wooster, I realized that the versions of the early New York saga on Standard eBooks, where I sourced the text, were taken from the 1919 collection My Man Jeeves, rather than Carry On, Jeeves - the latter being how I presume the majority of fans read the stories. Naturally, I figured that I really ought to get the most recent public domain versions of the stories, to best represent the current nature of the series. So I had a look at Carry On, Jeeves, curious about the differences therein. And the ones I found were... kind of disappointing.

So, if you haven't read the stories, or just aren't bally interested, then I'll just say that I think the versions present in My Man Jeeves are an awful lot more fun than their rewrites, and am making the executive decision as Woosterian Substack Secretary to use the old instead of the new. For those who are bally interested, I'll chat a bit more under the cut.

All in all, the differences aren't extreme. None of the plot elements have changed, most of the lines haven't changed, and really, if you know one version of the story, you won't have trouble conversing with someone who knows the other. But I find the changes made in the nature of baffling. Some are very tiny changes, but odd nonetheless. Here's Bicky in "Hard-Boiled Egg", talking about why he doesn't want to go in for ranching, in the original My Man Jeeves.

And here's the same passage in Carry On, Jeeves.

Why cut the line about Bicky hating horses because they bite? It gives a more interesting context to why he doesn't want to ranch than the one in Carry On, Jeeves. He doesn't just not want to do the work out of laziness - he's afraid of horses! It's an unexpected and interesting thing for him to say, and it builds a sort of unique speech pattern of short, snappy sentences that fire one after another. It's such a tiny thing that I'm not even sure why it was deemed necessary to cut, unless there were length requirements, but it sands Bicky down a bit.

However, some of the other changes are much more considerable. Take the intro to "The Aunt and the Sluggard" in My Man Jeeves...

...and compare it to the intro in Carry On, Jeeves.

Not even close! What possessed anyone - Wodehouse or editors - to make this sort of cut? On some level I suppose I could understand it if it were purely for the sake of not needing to introduce the character partway through a book, when you'd certainly need to in a magazine, but clearly My Man Jeeves didn't see a problem with having Bertie repeatedly introduce Jeeves this way - and as a reader, neither did I! It's a very charming paragraph full of Bertieisms, and the nervous sort of hesitation upon wishing to call him a friend is even more endearing. Sure, the "guide, philosopher, and friend" quote is later used in the first chapter of 1923's The Inimitable Jeeves, so I can see why Wodehouse and/or editors might have thought the sentiment too repetitive to stick in a collection published afterwards, but the two are subtly different. Here, Bertie is unsure that he can call Jeeves a friend, but in The Inimitable Jeeves below, he says it with surety.

It's especially sweet with the knowledge that My Man Jeeves was published before The Inimitable Jeeves, because that shows this as growth! He's more willing to let himself acknowledge their friendship, and that's a wonderful thing! And even without that linearity, it's just so much weaker of a start. You aren't as drawn in by the significant blander intro as you are by the acquainted birds of poet Johnnies, or the "guide, don't you know" that Bertie relies on at every turn. It's more conversational, engaging, and just plain fun.

But that's not even really the most egregious removal. No, the biggest difference is the excising of the entire intro to "Leave It to Jeeves".

This whole section, which later segues into a sum-up of the events of "Extricating Young Gussie" and a description of New York, is just plain gone in "The Artistic Career of Corky", which this story has been renamed in Carry On, Jeeves. No "Melonsquashville, Tennesee", no horses named Banana Fritter, no Bertie trying to give Jeeves racing tips because he's fond of him. It's peak Bertie silliness, and I remember that I really loved reading it. And yes, again, maybe it was cut just because it follows "Jeeves Takes Charge", which already introduces the character, but I certainly don't see a reason why none of it could be kept - especially since the conceit of the series tends to read as if being told aloud to someone else, and thus it makes sense to repeatedly introduce the character in such a way to new listeners and audiences. Instead, we are given this by way of introduction.

This goes straight into the "Gussie" sum-up and the description of New York, as well as the subsequent description of Corky. All that fun before, reduced to a paltry bit of introductory exposition before the exposition that already happened in the original. Was it cut merely for length? Why else could this possibly have happened? Why remove all that delightful humor and prose in favor of something so much weaker and less interesting? It boggles the mind - boggles it.

In short, I've decided to keep the My Man Jeeves versions of these stories as they are. While some of the changes I saw weren't bad - saying that Rocky's poem went on for "three more verses" got a chuckle out of me, I will say, and the connective tissue with the other stories wasn't bad, either - it was not enough to sacrifice all this. Bertie's narration is always a delight, and I think that delight should be preserved. But if anyone has rebuttals as to why they think the Carry On, Jeeves versions should be used instead, I'd honestly love to hear them!

Thank you for reading!

[volkswagonblues]

girl help seeing bally gill play a MI5 agent on slow horses has enchanted and bewitched me and all i can think or write about is Rashid the Long Suffering Talamasca Agent who's too fundmentally decent-hearted for this dark gothic narrative universe he's found himself in....

[eirinstiva]

Recursus et tactus

Hullo-ullo-ullo! Last night I received a letter from Jeeves, something that really surprises me. The fact that the story is tittled "Bertie Changes his Mind" surprises me more. Let's see what Jeeves wrote:

It has happened so frequently in the past few years that young fellows starting in my profession have come to me for a word of advice, that I’ve found it convenient now to condense my system into a brief formula. “Resource and Tact”⁠—that is my motto.

If someday Jeeves receives a peerage and needs a coat of arms, this should be his motto. It resumes Jeeves philosophy and is short enough to be written on a coat.

Bertie is sick and bored, poor baby~

“Every night, dash it all,” proceeded Mr. Wooster morosely, “you come in at exactly the same old time with the same old tray and put it on the same old table. I’m fed up, I tell you. It’s the bally monotony of it that makes it all seem so frightfully bally.”

As Shakira said "No fue culpa tuya, ni tampoco mía. Fue culpa de la monotonía".

It's interesting to see how Jeeves is afraid of Bertie getting married. What does he fear? To be separated of Wooster, and he knows that's common to get rid of the vallet.

Something to look after, if you know what I mean. Jeeves, I wish I had a daughter. I wonder what the procedure is?” “Marriage is, I believe, considered the preliminary step, sir.”

I agree with Jeeves on this case. Bertie needs a bit of sea breeze and extra time to think about parenthood.

Employers are like horses. They require managing. Some gentlemen’s personal gentlemen have the knack of managing them, some have not. I, I am happy to say, have no cause for complaint.

Peggy Mainwaring is a good chance for Bertie to know more about girls. probably he studied in an all-boys school so women and girls are a mystery to him. Yes, I know Bertie has a sister and three nieces but they are so far away that probably he barely meets them.

“Well, you are a sportsman!” observed the young person, with great enthusiasm. And she proceeded to kiss me⁠—in connection with which I have only to say that I was sorry she had just been devouring some sticky species of sweetmeat.

“He told me nothing about himself, except that he was a friend of Professor Mainwaring.” “He did not inform you, then, that he was the Mr. Wooster?” “The Mr. Wooster?” “Bertram Wooster, madam.”

I know that Bertram Wooster is a fancy name but the way Jeeves use that on their favour is priceless.

So that's how Jeeves and Wooster ended at a girl's school. As someboy who studied in that type of school I suggest you to run away as fast as you can. Trust me, I'm a scientist.

I drove round to the stables and halted the car in the yard. As I got out, I looked at it somewhat intently. It was a good car, and appeared to be in excellent condition, but somehow I seemed to feel that something was going to go wrong with it⁠—something pretty serious⁠—something that wouldn’t be able to be put right again for at least a couple of hours. One gets these presentiments.

(heavy breathing)

[rainintheevening]

Part I – Part II ... Part XV – Part XVI

February blows in with a gale, and far more snow than Peter can ever remember seeing, piling up in great drifts everywhere as every blizzard rages for a day or more, drowning them all in white.

On his way up to the Sixth Form common room from supper, a glance out a landing window shows Peter the lull of that afternoon has ended and snow is once more heaping up on the windowsill. He sighs, follows Robertson and Lambert up the next flight.

Horses and boys alike are chafing at a solid week of being cooped up inside, and the relative scarcity of schoolmasters has begun to tell, with petty squabbles in the hall morphing into covertly organised boxing tournaments, and the gymnasium swarms from dressing bell to lights out.

Tonight though Peter has reading to do; he's halfway through Chesterton’s Thomas Aquinas, and determined to finish it that night.

From above, comes a burst of noise, shouts, a yelp, and Peter stiffens.

A fight.

He can't pick out Ed’s voice, and he can always hear Ed, no matter how loud or distant the crowd, but he's starting forward, taking the steps two at a time when a call rings out behind him: “Pevensie!”

He turns quick, retort bitten back as he sights the speaker, Head Boy Wollers, who comes panting up, all quick worried eyes and frown.

“Pev. Have you seen your brother? Edmund?”

Peter can't help himself. “I wasn't aware I had any other brothers.”

Wollers doesn't laugh. “But when did you last see him?” And something in Peter's stomach stirs uneasily, something tenses in his shoulders.

“Well, it was… lunch, I suppose.” He can't remember seeing Ed since, but– “Why?”

Wollers face does something Peter doesn't like, and he straightens, chin coming up before the older boy speaks, reluctant.

“He's… missing. Bother it all, no one's seen him since lunch, he missed all his classes on one pretext or another, and now he's just gone. Can't find him anywhere.”

Peter's gaze strays to the window, the blowing snow, and his heart stutters a beat, something catches in his throat.

Ed.

“Where have you looked?” and it comes out sharp, but Peter knows how to get the answers he needs, how to get them quick.

It's all confusion for a bit then, Wollers talking, the Second Form master talking, other masters being questioned.

“Not the San, not the stables–”

“Wouldn't go for a walk in this bally snowstorm–”

“Should we telephone down to the enlistment office in the village?” someone asks, and Peter turns sharply.

“He wouldn't, he promised.” He tries not to hear how his voice shakes just a little. “Mum made me promise, and I made him promise. He wouldn’t go without me.”

He wouldn't go without me.

Because he wouldn't, Ed would never lay a plan like this, with all its elaborate excuses, and then not tell Peter why at the very least. He simply wouldn't; that isn't how they work, not as kings, not as brothers.

Which means someone else must have crafted this scheme, someone who wanted to separate them, and he remembers with startling clarity honeyed words, betrayals, an assassin’s knife between his ribs, and he shudders.

But this is school, he thinks. No one wants to kill us here.

They're standing in the North Tower's Second Form dormitory, and he glances desperately round, sees only Ed’s bed as neatly made as any other’s, sees the snow battering the glass panes, sees over the heads of the younger boys to the door, and a small pale face, Colin MacIntyre’s face, and in a flash Peter remembers. Remembers shouts, fists, plunging into the crowd of half a dozen boys that ringed Ed, standing beside his brother against the wall with the terrified Colin behind them, and the taste of blood, and the hissed curses as the bullies slunk away, remembers the triumph of beating out those wretched boys who had stolen Ed away from him for all those months back at Foreman House.

He blinks, meets Colin’s tortured gaze across the dorm before the first former spins away as if stung, and he is suddenly quite sure, he knows.

“Finley.”

And then he's in the Third Form common room, snatching at a red-haired boy's shirt with both hands, wrenching him up from his seat, glaring into blue eyes that get steadily wider.

“Where is he?” Peter demands, and his heart burns, his voice rings, fear and anger filling him till he feels ten feet tall. “What have you done to my brother?”

Finley, little beast, gapes at him, dangling from Peter's fists, and Peter frees one hand, draws it back for a blow.

“Speak, varlet,” he growls. “What have you done to Edmund?”

“No, please!” Finley squeals. “He-he’s in the well. Down the old well! I swear!”

“Down the what?”

“The old well.” Truth comes in a rush. “We told him you'd been hurt at the stables, led him off the path, pushed him down the old well.”

Down a well? Peter reels.

“Oh, damn.”

The horrified whisper catches him up, and Wollers flinches when he turns, but Peter is more interested in how the colour has drained from the Head Boy’s usually placid face.

“What does he mean? What old well?”

“It's ancient, dried out, covered over with a stone that takes at least two to lift. It's off the first turn in the track by those brambles.” Wollers’s words stumble over each other. “It's been partly filled in, with stones and whatnot from the fields, but–”

“How far down?” and Peter chokes up, mind spinning through images, each worse than the last.

“Probaby ten or twenty feet?” Wollers's voice dries up on the question mark.

Peter drops Finley as though his hands have been burned. A wave of panic sweeps over him, he has no idea where this well is, where Ed is, his little brother could be dead, he has no friends here to help him, no sisters, no Oreius, no Erah. Shaking fingers brush past his left hip where Rhindon hangs no longer, and he is suddenly small, a child again, helpless in the storm.

Oh, Ed, oh no, oh my brother, oh please, oh, oh Aslan…

Aslan.

Aslan, oh, yes, Aslan, and Peter catches his breath, jerks his head up, snaps his shoulders back.

“Right then.” He gulps once before he turns back to Wollers. “You come with me, show us the way. Someone fetch a rope, perhaps several ropes; Master Johnson, if you please. Finley, you little beast.” And Peter stares coldly down at the crumpled figure on the rug, pulls him up quickly by one arm. “You'll come with us. If he's dead, you should see the results of your handiwork. You two as well,” to the other boys he remembers from Foreman House. “Now. Move!”

They jump at his bark, scuttling to join their leader, as Peter shoves him toward the door.

It blurs for Peter then, all snow and wind and terrible thoughts of cold, of injuries, of blood spattered on stone in the dark.

He hears it said in whispers after, how Peter Pevensie walked out into the storm to rescue his brother like a king going out to battle, how he chivvied even the masters around, told everyone what to do and none questioned his authority. How a single Sixth Form boy lifted a stone that took three men to carry it. How Peter screamed his brother's name into the snow filled dark.

Peter doesn't remember those parts, he just remembers the torch beams converging on a huddled figure in blue and red and gold, remembers rough stone tearing at his fingers as he scaled the wall down, not bothering to wait for a rope. Remembers gathering the warm weight of his little brother into his arms, and hearing a dazed mumble: “Pete. Peter? What are you doing here? It isn't morning yet.”

Remembers tears and wild relief.

Gringham comes, and his raspy voice carries over the wind, his strong arms are the only ones Peter considers surrendering Ed to.

So they return in a flurry of triumph and concern, and everyone talking except Finley and his friends, who Peter only remembers after they've been rushed off to the San, and suddenly there are hot water bottles everywhere.

It doesn't end there, of course.

The only injuries are cuts and bruises to Ed’s hands and knees, and a twisted ankle, but those hours out in the cold tell, and by the next afternoon Ed lies in the San with a rising fever, and Peter refuses to leave his side.

It hurts, it frightens Peter, how powerless he feels here without any of Lucy's cordial, without the healers who had always seemed to work such marvels, without the hope of Aslan coming to do what no one else can.

Ed tosses and turns, coughing and moaning, shivering, murmuring of Narnia and England and asking Dad where he's going, asking Mum to turn the light on, and Peter wipes the sweaty forehead with a cold cloth over and over, strokes his brother's dark hair, tells him over and over, “It's alright, Ed. I promise, you'll be alright.”

Peter prays in a jumble of thoughts, sometimes to God, sometimes to Aslan, and whenever Ed stirs awake and knows him, he can catch his breath.

It reminds Peter of when Ed was little, how often he'd been sick as a baby, and how pale Mother had been, how tired and worried Dad had looked. He thinks often of Dad the following night, as he fights back the exhaustion, as he waves away Matron and the nurse from Ed’s bedside. Thinks of Dad out on the battlefield in North Africa, stitching up wounds, making amputations, watching fevers rise and fall, and he feels a kinship across the hundreds of miles like he has never felt with his father before. This is a war too, a war of cloth and bottle, water and blood, brain and hope, against the spectre of death itself, and Peter, well, nothing makes Peter fight harder than danger to his family.

He stares into Ed’s unfocused eyes, hears the cry for, “Peter!” and grips his brother's hand.

“I'm here, Ed, I'm here,” he says, steady and true, over and over till Ed’s gaze clears, and he smiles up at Peter.

“Oh good.”

He usually drinks something then, before falling back into the uneasy doze that passes for fevered sleep.

Peter doesn't remember Ed ever getting sick in Narnia. Hurt and wounded, yes, sometimes almost mortally, and for a moment Peter can see the Witch, see Ed falling into the grass, but as quickly as the vivid memory comes it fades, and he recalls only how it ended, the warm solidity of Edmund in his arms.

The sheets are white, Ed’s cheeks are bright red, his hair so black, and Peter's sight is blurred when he loses track of time.

Edmund falls quiet in the dimmed night lights, only mumbling sometimes, slurred so that all Peter can catch are Aslan's and Peter's names, some kind of plea in the hoarse voice that tugs at Peter's heart, drags him close and low, and in the exhausted shadows of the wee hours Peter lets his tears fall, whispers his own prayer against the burning of his brother's forehead through a gentle kiss.

He falls asleep there, slumped over on the bed, beside Edmund, twisted round so that he wakes with an awful crick in his neck, and an ache in his back.

But more, far more—he wakes slowly, softly, to grey light and a hand petting his hair; starts up to see, so close by his own, a shockingly pale face and deep, dark eyes; hears a weak raspy voice saying, “Peter? Is there anything to eat? I'm starving.” Closely followed by, “Oh, no, Pete, please. Bother, don't cry.”

It does feel a bit silly to cry, seeing as how Matron hadn't even called in the village doctor, the fever truthfully hadn't been so bad, but mixed up with everything else, the horrible march into the storm, walking straight into the face of his fears, images of Ed’s dead body swarming him as thick as the snowflakes, he is pathetically grateful for the rare occurrence of Ed hugging him close, and the chance to hide his face in his brother's pyjama shirt for a few minutes.

Matron comes beaming in with a hearty porridge for both of them, and her hand on Peter's shoulder is proud. “You might want to be thinking of being a physician yourself, lad. You have the heart for it, sure. The patience.”

Ed smiles weakly. “Actually, he makes a terrible patient.”

“Hush,” Peter mumbles through a full mouth. “Save your breath,” as a cough seizes Edmund's chest for too long to be healthy.

They both sleep for much of the afternoon, curled around each other on the bed, and Peter sleeps deep and hard, Ed's hoarse breathing steady, soothing under his arm.

Alright. Alright. Alright, he hears, and Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, is the answer from his own lungs.

News from the rest of St. Maurice’s comes through first former Colin MacIntyre, bursting with happiness at seeing Ed safe and mostly sound, and the immense honour of being the first visitor allowed in, just after supper that evening.

“They're going to be expelled!” he bursts out quickly, barely having sat down. “Finley and the other two. Zeb says they'll probably never be able to get into another school, since everyone here will make sure every other school knows what they did.”

“Have they already gone?” Ed asks.

“Oh yes, went last night. Very quick and quiet, Zeb said. I tell you, nobody’s sorry to see their backs.”

“No, I imagine not,” Peter mutters, turning Thomas Aquinas over in his hands.

A sideways glance shows Ed staring into the last of his pudding that he's been nursing for the last twenty minutes, and Peter feels a hot surge of anger in his chest. “Don't you dare feel sorry for them, Ed. They nearly killed you!”

Ed looks up, and Peter stills under the deep, sorrowful eyes of the Just King, calming, cooling.

“And I almost got you killed. No.” A twitch of his head cuts off Peter's retort. “I was one of them, Pete. You saw me, you know what I was like.”

“Never that bad,” Peter says firmly, emotions tangling into a painful ball at the back of his throat.

“Could have been.” Edmund's gaze doesn't waver as he rides out a coughing spell. “To him,” and his smile is painful, “I'm a traitor. So you could almost say I deserved–”

“Shut up.” Peter stands with a jerk, to pace away with short, savage strides. The worst part of it all, the whisper he wants to drown out, is how Edmund's right.

“He forgave me,” comes the soft murmur behind him, and once more Peter stills, finds the space to breathe, as he stares blindly out the window. “I can do that much to them. And I'll write a letter. It was a brilliant scheme, after all. Imagine all that genius turned to something good.”

Peter grips his hands together tight behind his back, and the silence lasts long, long enough for him to blink, for him to finally see beyond the frosted glass, to the golden light spilled over soft-heaped snow, and the black woods running up from the edge of the field, and… oh. The rim of a great golden moon just peering over the eastern hills, all huge and heavy, and Peter's heart swells in response, a great longing ache of if only. If only boys weren't cruel, and men didn't kill, and oh, if only you were here, Aslan. I–

“I miss you.” It's quiet as a mist, exhale upon glass, and he closes his eyes, rests his head against the cool hardness, balm to his own fevered soul.

There is no answer, not from the star-scattered sky, nor from his memories. He hears only Edmund saying something quiet, a quick reply from Colin, a burst of cough-riddled laughter, and he turns quick, brushing hand over eyes to clear his sight.

Messy black hair, dark smudges under his eyes, quick bright smile...

Measured steps of stocking feet on worn-soft wood floor, and Peter eases back to his brother's side on the bed, into the conversation, the story of Peter's thrilling leadership into the storm, and he shakes his head, smiling lopsided at the exaggeration.

I have him, Peter thinks. Even here, I still have him. The gift bought with Aslan’s own life.

Matron comes to drag Colin away in the middle of a joke, telling him only half-crossly that he'd ‘much overstayed his welcome, and not been at all quiet, like he promised’.

Peter pours Ed a glass of water, waits for the coughing to subside.

“Here,” Ed finally whispers, wracked weary, slumping back on the pillows. But instead of the glass, he presses a handful of string? into Peter's palm, a touch of metal, and Peter stares, speechless.

“Keep it for a little while. You need it more than I. Right now. I think.”

Peter doesn't trust himself to speak, just lays the bootlace over his head, a momentary crowning, before he pulls the little silver lion down, tucks it under shirt to nestle cool against skin and breastbone.

Ed shifts, half asleep already, slips sideways to fetch up against Peter's shoulder, and he is all heavy with life and heartbeat and faint snore.

No snow falls that night, and Matron smiles down soft at sleeping boys washed in moonlight, adjusts blanket over bared back of the elder, before she slips away, thinking how much better and kinder a world it might be, ‘if more brothers loved as these two do’.

Next

[sholiofic]

Whumptober Day 26: Breakfast Table

Absolutely not a single bit of whump in this one. Although it's a nightmare from Algy's point of view ....

No. 26: NIGHTMARES Breakfast Table | Parting Words of Regret | “I’m haunted by the lies that I have loved, the actions I have hated.” (Poe, Haunted)

Implied Biggles/EvS. Also posted on DW.

***

"Can't say I care for bally old Copper Horizon's chances at the Royal Ascot -- not a single farthing's worth," Bertie remarked sadly as he pored over the racing scores in the paper, amidst the results of a demolished breakfast in the Mount Street flat.

"So don't bet on him then," Algy said heartlessly. He'd spent most of his life aggressively uninterested in horse racing, mainly because of growing up around people who expected him to have opinions about it, and now Bertie had lured him into actually knowing the names of various racehorses; it was an intolerable thing to have to face before he'd finished his first cup of tea. "Pass that?" he added, holding out a hand into which Ginger plopped the butter dish.

"Isn't the chief up yet?" Ginger asked through a mouthful of toast. "He's always on us if we sleep in, and now it's almost gone eight and he hasn't put in an appearance. I don't suppose he's sick?"

"He's been looking a little peaky lately, don't you think?" Bertie asked, lowering the paper. "Or distracted, at least."

"Looked fine to me," Algy said sharply, plucking a piece of toast off the toast-rack.

Just then Biggles breezed into the breakfast nook, looking neither peaky nor distracted, merely tousled and cheerful in his dressing gown. "Morning, chaps," he announced, reaching over to snatch an already buttered piece of toast off Bertie's plate. "I'm headed out for breakfast, but if there's coffee, I wouldn't mind some."

"He's in the bathroom, isn't he," Algy said flatly, taking in Biggles's old brown dressing gown, the one he knew Biggles had shoved to the back of the wardrobe after it had worn thin and frayed. Algy could guess all too well where Biggles's nicer dressing gown had wandered off to, or more accurately, on whom it had wandered.

"No idea who -- that is, what you're talking about," Biggles said, turning slightly pink. Clearing his throat, he went on briskly, "The reports for the Amsterdam jewelry heist need to be filed today. Algy, you're on that. Bertie, see if you can get a grip on those mechanical failures at Woodley, you can run down in the Bentley. Ginger, you can go with Bertie, it'll go faster with two."

"Where will you be?" Ginger asked.

"At breakfast, as I said. I'll catch you up at the office. Oh, I'll take that too." He appropriated the toast off Algy's plate and hustled off with it, untouched. Algy heard low voices in the hall a moment later.

"Sick? We should be so lucky," Algy said in a voice of gloom, and grimly buttered another slice of toast.

[cordeliacordate]

the horses

cowboy like me by cordeliacordate

CLM MASTERPOSTS the horses: part one | part two

Stark Ranch

BARN NAME: Blaze OWNER: Stark Ranch RIDER: Rickon Stark AGE & HEIGHT: 21 years | 14.2 hands COAT & GENDER: chestnut gelding BREED: unregistered quarter horse PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: Rickon’s bombproof kids’ horse

BARN NAME: Dottie REGISTERED NAME: Starks Bastard Daughter OWNER: Stark Ranch HEIGHT: 16.0 hands COAT & GENDER: bay mare BREED: Rhonyar Warmblood BREEDER: Stark Ranch SIRE: MTL Sunrise Dawn (Martell) DAM: Bastards Daughter PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: three-day eventing

BARN NAME: Bruno REGISTERED NAME: Starks Top Dawg OWNER: Stark Ranch RIDER: Sara Stark HEIGHT: 16.3 hands COAT & GENDER: red chestnut gelding BREED: Rhoynar Warmblood PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: three day eventing INFO: Bruno's ear is scrungly even though it doesn't show it here :)

BARN NAME: Al REGISTERED NAME: MDY Al Pacino OWNER: Stark Ranch RIDER: Sara Stark HEIGHT: 16.1 hands COAT & GENDER: bay mare BREED: Warmblood PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: three day eventing

HRH Targaryen Equestrians

A registered prefix, like HRH, is a unique way for a bloodline and/or a stable to be recognized in the very name of a horse. It's a sign of prestige and ownership.

Horses born downline from a heritage horse that remain at the Red Keep will include a secondary name (e.g. HRH Prince Caraxes.) It is not uncommon for people to pay large sums of money to be able to lease, buy, breed their own mounts to (if approved), and/or compete on these horses under the HRHTE umbrella.

A heritage horse will only have one name following HRH (e.g. HRH Vermax.)

All non-heritage horses in the Red Keep legally belong to HRH Targaryen Equestrians, including Onyx and Skiffy, although the original heritage horse's owner/rider will be given a percentage of ownership that is nontransferable upon death (e.g. HRH Seasmoke Skiff is owned by both Laenor and HRHTE.) Non-heritage horses are ridden at the approval of management, even by family members. In most cases, it means HRHTE decides when you ride, what horse you ride, how, where, and when you compete.

BARN NAME: Caraxes REGISTERED NAME: HRH Caraxes OWNER: Daemon Targaryen RIDER: Daemon Targaryen HEIGHT: 16.3 hands GENDER: red chestnut stallion BREED: Valyrian Warmblood BREEDER: HRH Targaryen Equestrians SIRE: HRH Spring Prince PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: show jumping

BARN NAME: Sissy REGISTERED NAME: HRH Dark Sister Caraxes OWNER: HRH Targaryen Equestrians, Daemon Targaryen RIDERS: multiple, including Jacaerys HEIGHT: 16.3 hands COAT & GENDER: seal brown mare BREED: Valyrian Warmblood BREEDER: HRH Targaryen Equestrians SIRE: HRH Caraxes PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: show jumping

BARN NAME: Prince REGISTERED NAME: HRH Prince Caraxes OWNER: HRH Targaryen Equestrians, Daemon Targaryen RIDER: multiple, including Baela Targaryen HEIGHT: 16.2 hands COAT & GENDER: bay stallion BREED: Valyrian Warmblood BREEDER: HRH Targaryen Equestrians SIRE: HRH Caraxes PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: show jumping

Other

BARN NAME: Bally REGISTERED NAME: Balerions Ballerina OWNER: Aria Sport Horses RIDER: Natalia Aria HEIGHT: 16.2 hands COAT & GENDER: black mare BREED: Valyrian Warmblood BREEDER: HRH Targaryen Equestrians SIRE: HRH Balerion DAM: Dancing Reach PRIMARY DISCIPLINE: dressage INFO: artificial insemination breeding

NOTE: some information has been omitted because of spoilers or lack of relevancy ☆ thank you (again) to @heliophytes for all of his help and support <3

[atleastitsnotasbestos]

I was tagged by @miniaturemountainrange to pick a song for every letter in my url. thanks for tagging me

A - An Tagen wie die diesen by Fettes Brot feat. Finkenauer

T - Terraplane Blues by Robert Johnson

L - Lookaway by Sepultura

E - Electronic Pleasure by N-Trance

A - Across The Lines by Tracy Chapman

S - So Heavy I Fell Through the Earth (Art Mix) by Grimes

T - Tanz der Moleküle by Mia.

I - Infinite Misery by Cannibal Corpse

T - Thot Shit by Megan Thee Stallion

S - Sun Nee Kuriye by Bally Sagoo

N - November Has Come by Gorillaz

O - Once Upon A Pale Horse by Behemoth

T - Tambourine (Remix) by Nicki Minaj

A - Another Way To Die by Jack White & Alicia Keys

S - Station Q by Cosmic Analog Ensemble

B - Be a Hoe/Break a Hoe by Shirin David feat. Kitty Kat

E - Electric Lady by Janelle Monáe feat. Solange

S - Slime by Shygirl

T - Thique by Beyoncé

O - Orby by Cosmo Sheldrake feat. Andrea Vargas

S - Shake it by Charli XCX feat. Big Freedia, CupcakKe, Brooke Candy & Pabllo Vittar

tagging @ripjaws @ganthor96 @travellers-joy @scariercnidaria @itschellybear @paperbagfish @mairen-marionette @naturesafterthought @thegiantskeleton @estrogen-eater and everyone who feels like it.

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

New Releases by AAPI Authors

🦇 Happy Friday to all my fellow bookish bats! Looking for a few brand new (hello, new book smell!) books to add to your overflowing TBR shelves? Here are a few new releases by AAPI authors to consider!

🌸 Much Ado About Nada by Uzma Jalaluddin 🌸 Now You See Us by Balli Kaur Jaswal 🌸 The Great Reclamation by Rachel Heng 🌸 The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese 🌸 The Double Life of Benson Yu by Kevin Chong 🌸 Flux by Jinwoo Chong 🌸 Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H. 🌸 All the Right Notes by Dominic Lim 🌸 Biting the Hand by Julia Lee 🌸 Local by Jessica Machado 🌸 The Sense of Wonder by Matthew Salesses 🌸 Yellowface by R F Kuang 🌸 Almost Brown by Charlotte Gill 🌸 Girls Like Girls by Hayley Kiyoko 🌸 The Deep Sky by Yume Kitasei 🌸 The Museum of Failures by Thrity Umrigar 🌸 Horse Barble by Genna Rocero 🌸 Happiness Falls by Angie Kim

[libraryleopard]

September reads!

The Disenchantment by Celia Bell

The Girl Next Door by Cecilia Vinesse

Ducks by Kate Beaton

Magical Negro by Morgan Parker

Tilly in Technicolor by Mazey Eddings

Maame by Jessica George

The Wicked Bargain by Gabe Cole Novoa

She Had Some Horses by Jo Harjo

Inciting Joy: Essay by Ross Gay

A Safe Girl to Love by Casey Plett

A Very Nice Girl by Imogen Crimp

Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex by Angela Chen

Lucky Red by Claudia Cravens

Camp Damascus by Chuck Tingle

Scarlet Witch vol. 1 by Steve Orlando et al

Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows by Balli Kaur Jaswal

Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly

Shipbreaking by Robin Beth Schaer

My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite

Thornhedge by T. Kingfisher

Tender by Sofia Samatar

Bellies by Nicola Dinan

Bi: The Hidden Culture, History, and Science of Bisexuality by Julia Shaw

Something is Killing the Children vol. 2 by James Tynion IV, Werther Dell’Edera, and Miquel Muerto (reread)

Something is Killing the Children vol. 3 by James Tynion IV, Werther Dell’Edera, and Miquel Muerto

Something is Killing the Children vol. 4 by James Tynion IV, Werther Dell’Edera, and Miquel Muerto

Wolfish: Wolf, Self, and the Stories We Tell About Fear by Erica Berry

Ithaca by Claire North

[mysterysoulrider]

Thank you so very much Isebell, I can see it too

[brotherconstant]

Agent Singh Bally Gill in Slow Horses | 4.01

[embodies]

validation is spoken into fruition, an affirmation of what dutch had suspected about victor from the beginning — potential. there are the seeds of loyalty sown unto the earth, scattered bountifully if someone would only nurture them. dutch is a master at tending such crops, has led his gang for years through thick and thin. this will be easy work. the threat of civilisation looms from the east and now, now more than ever time is of the essence for rogues and outlaws. the wild west comes to an end.

when gravity falls upon his company's words he loosens the reins, dusts off his collar and brings levity back to their conversation. ❛ — goin' on ? ❜ repeated as if it were ludicrous, brows raised in comical caricature. he lets out a guffaw, all whiskey - warmed voice and sweet - stirruped paternity, the urge to slap his knee tangible.

❛ by ginger, i'll be a bally fool if i weren' the first to know about somethin' goin' on in my camp. ❜ his gaze steadies, measuring his truthfulness by the seconds he maintains that wry stand - off of eye contact. this is different kind of shoot - out, his hand not hovering over his gun but his pride. ❛ it jus' pays to be prepared. things can change like the wind out here : i don't want you gettin' lost in the ruckus should it come a' knockin', see. ❜ gruff solemnity coats his words as they end at the hitching posts, dutch greeting the count with a pat of his sturdy neck, fingers racking through alabaster mane hair. the horse nuzzles into his palm affectionately, a servile prop to attest to his owner's caring nature.

it's not all smoke and mirrors. dutch was a good man once, would like to claim he remains one still.

❛ you're a good kid. you'll do well here. ❜

truth be told , victor isn't quite integrated enough with the group to fully understand what dutch is talking about. the basic of his message is clear: every gang comes with their doubters , their back-stabbers , the ones that leave you behind. he knows that better than anyone , now. either leaving or left behind ——— he hadn't even gotten a choice in the matter.

but faith ? are things getting so big here that they must have faith in their valiant leader ? the thought makes victor's heart rate speed up , anxiety creeping in his bones. something must be going on. some big plan , a looming threat ——— and he's with them , he is. he likes them too much , he doesn't want to see a group of people——of better people——crumbling away into nothing. they saved him. they let him live and he wants to repay them: not out of obligation , but because he wants to.

so he nods , chuckling at the finger that prods his chest. ❛❛ i am with you , dutch , like i said. i wouldn't last a day out there without you lot. ❜❜ of course , he tries to lighten things with a smile , a little jest. dutch sounds increasingly serious about it all , and it just makes victor more nervous. so he leans in closer , lowers his voice. ❛❛ why're you tellin' me all this ? just commentin' on my—my blood , i guess , or . . . is somethin' goin' on ? ❜❜

[thepopculturearchivist]

BILLBOARD, August 23, 1952

[thehorsegodbuilt]

Bally Ache