#my characters: Trestle

[possumcollege]

Nobody asked, but now you know what Trestle does and where all those corndogs come from.

[crittertongue]

Crittertongue no.15:

Crittertongue II: The Tongue-ening

[loverindeepspace]

Lost // Xavier x Reader

This is my first fanfic in years, so please be nice T^T I'll be doing ones with a similar concept for the rest of the boys too Concept: Xavier has a nightmare, you comfort him CW: hurt/comfort, spoilers for his anecdote, death of character (in dream), blood, nightmares, bit of fluff at the end, she/her pronouns for reader Masterlist

He swayed on his feet with every step he took, he had to keep moving, yet every step he took made burning pain shoot up his side. The cuts on his face sting in the cold air, blood long dried and flaking on his skin.

He has to make it back. She’s waiting for him. 

It’s been so long since he last saw her, her bright eyes, a smile that lit up his heart. It’s been so long since he felt her warmth, her hand in his, fitting perfectly like two pieces in a puzzle. 

He looked down, the protocore in his hand held firmly. He was going to save you if it’s the last thing he did.

He kept walking, one step after another, each step closer to her, to the place he knew she’d be, the place they first saw the stars together, a wish placed upon each star that shot through the sky above them. 

He finally spots her, on that trestle bridge.

And then he’s running, running, running, pain long forgotten, until she’s right there, right in front of him. 

She looks pale, bags under her eyes, cheeks hollow with the weight that she lost. 

She was beautiful. In his eyes, he could only see the girl he fell in love with. 

The girl who seems to be withering away in front of his very eyes.

A sense of urgency, of desperation, overcame him. He holds out his hand, still trying to catch his breath, the shining protocore cradled carefully in his palm. 

They exchange a few words, and she reaches out a hand, resting on his cheek, wiping away the blood that clung to his skin. He nuzzles into her cold palm, eyes never leaving her but his sight getting more blurry by the second, tears threatening to spill down his face, sorrow and love painted across his face. 

“It’s too late.”

Her eyes water, streaks of tears spilling down her own cheeks as he cradles her right back. Before he knows it, they’re sitting side by side, her weak body leaning against him, arm around her  back holding her close, the other hand holding hers, lights, like fireflies, floating around them. 

“I wish to meet you in my next life… I wonder if that will come true…”

“It will.”

Her eyes fall closed for the last time, and panic takes hold in his heart. He calls her name, over and over, until the final breath leaves her lungs.

She’s gone.

… She’s gone.

Sob after sob spill from his lips, her name falling from his lips like a mantra between broken breaths, arms holding her fragile body close, not wanting to let go, never wanting to let go.

With a pained whimper, Xavier’s eyes fly open, sitting up as dread settles into his very core. The stabbing pain in his pounding heart seemed like it would never stop, his eyes flying around the room searching for you. Finally they settled on your form, nestled in the sheets next to him, unmoving. His stomach dropped, fear seized him, his breaths coming out sharp as a shaking hand moved over to your form, quickly settling on your hand, his fingers searching desperately for a pulse. 

You had to be okay, please be okay.

Your eyes fluttered open with the sensation of your wrist being held tightly in someone’s warm grip. 

“Xavier?” You muttered softly, the fog of sleepiness still clouding your senses. His blue eyes snap to yours, hazy and unfocused, and all you can focus on is the terror reflected in them. With that you were very much awake, calling his name more firmly, “Xavier? What happened?” You sit up quickly and reach your free hand out towards his face, stroking the still flowing tears away.

“... You’re okay…” He breaths out, relief flooding his features, more tears spilling down his face. Without a second thought, you pull him in, resting his head on your chest, arms wrapping around him. And the moment he hears the steady thud thud thud of your heartbeat, a choked sob escapes his throat, his arms pulling you closer than ever, holding you tightly like you are his last lifeline. 

With a steady breath, you whisper softly, “Shhhh… you’re okay… I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.” You try to sooth him, your hands running through his silky blonde hair. You don’t know what happened, but you can put two and two together for now, it must’ve been a nightmare, a bad one at that. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look like he does now. Lost. Frightened. Terrified. 

Some time passes, the sobs dying down, arms still clinging to you tightly.

“I’m sorry for waking you up.” His voice is soft, still rough, raw with emotion, his head burying itself deeper in your neck.

“Don’t apologise sweetheart. I’m here, always. I’m always going to be here. Don’t hesitate to wake me up next time, okay?” You murmur into his ear, fingers running along his back in soothing motions, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He shakes his head, drawing in an unsteady breath, “No. Not yet at least. Just… let me hold you, please.” His voice breaks slightly at the end.

“Okay. But When you’re ready, I’m here okay?” 

“... Thank you.” He mutters softly, as the two of you move to lay down, still entwined in each other’s embrace, his face still buried in your neck, feeling and hearing your pulse beating continuously and reassuringly.

[belladonnafeli]

List of Prophecies in ASOIAF and People wanting to take the magic out of the series

It’s my personal opinion that this fandom sometimes has a tendency to try to write off the magic in the series as not real. Or as unimportant, completely ignoring that this is still a fantasy series. An example of this are the prophecies that we get within the story. People in the fandom will write them off as being not true or untrustworthy and to a certain extent they are right but not in the way people believe. 

If visions and prophecies aren't true then what is the point of Bran being a greenseer? What is the purpose of Daenerys’ dragon dream that saves her from committing suicide in A Game Of Thrones? It’s Dany’s visions and dreams that help her birth the dragons. Dragons being one of the main sources of magic, hence the title A Song Of Ice and Fire.

The problem in my opinion is that people don’t know the literary device George is using to convey his messages. The way George uses the prophecies is through the literary device that is “dramatic irony”. Dramatic Irony is a type of irony where the reader knows something that the characters do not. 

Examples of Prophecies:

Daenys the dreamer seeing the doom of Valyria

Jojen's green dreams about Bran and about the iron born coming to winterfell.

 “I dreamed that the sea was lapping all around Winterfell. I saw black waves crashing against the gates and towers, and then the salt water came flowing over the walls and filled the castle. Drowned men were floating in the yard.

Bran and the people of Winterfell have no idea what this means, but us as readers have Theon’s chapters and know that the Iron men worship the drowned god, so we know that its them.

A good chunk of Dany's visions in the House of the undying.

She came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Severed hands clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter.

Maggy the Frog and her prophecy about Cersei.

"Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."

Will the king and I have children?" she asked. "Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you."

"Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," she said. "And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."

"Worms will have your maidenhead. Your death is here tonight, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close."

 Red wedding by Patchface 

We literally get like three prophecies about the Red Wedding well before it happens.

"Fool's blood, king's blood, blood on the maiden's thigh, but chains for the guests and chains for the bridegroom, aye aye aye."

All of these prophecies have come true or they will come true. And typically if you really look into the text you can infer how. What George shows us in the books is that yes, prophecy is true and real but trying to force it or stop it cannot change what the prophecy is meant to do. I’ll use an example to prove my point. First with Mirri Maz Durr, she believes that Daenerys’ child Rhaego will be the stallion who mounts the world. Mirri believes in killing Rhaego she has stopped this prophecy but what she fails to realize is that by doing this she’s only setting the prophecy in motion because Daenerys is the stallion who mounts the world.

“As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name. The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.” “As swift as the wind he rides” “Tell Khal Drogo he has given me the wind” When Khal Drogo gives Dany her Silver. , “Fierce as a storm this prince will be” Daenerys Stormborn. In killing Rhaego she hasn't stopped anything, only further set things in motion. 

Not to mention the Ghost of High Hearts prophecies which all come true  

“The old gods stir and will not let me sleep. I dreamt I saw a shadow with a burning heart butchering a golden stag (Renly Baratheon), aye. I dreamt of a man without a face, waiting on a bridge that swayed and swung. On his shoulder perched a drowned crow with seaweed hanging from his wings (Euron Greyjoy). I dreamt of a roaring river and a woman that was a fish. Dead she drifted, with red tears on her cheeks, but when her eyes did open (Lady Stoneheart), oh, I woke from terror. All this I dreamt, and more. 

I dreamt a wolf howling in the rain, but no one heard his grief. I dreamt such a clangor I thought my head might burst, drums and horns and pipes and screams (Red Wedding), but the saddest sound was the little bells. I dreamt of a maid (Sansa Stark) at a feast with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs (Purple Wedding). And later I dreamt that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow. 

We can assume that the last line is Sansa slaying Littlefinger based off of these quotes from the last Sansa chapter in ASOS “A giant” the boy whispered, weeping. “It wasn’t me, it was a giant hurt the castle. She killed him!” “A mad rage seized hold of her. She picked up a broken branch and smashed the torn doll’s head down on top of it, then pushed it down atop the shattered gatehouse of her snow castle. “If tales be true, that’s not the first giant to end up with his head on Winterfell’s walls”. 

What I’m trying to say with all of this is that the fandom's dismissal of prophecy makes no sense to me. We as readers have more context than the characters in the story so of course we know what will and won’t happen. 

[cinemaocd]

I think the fundamental David Lynch story was the one he told about being a kid in rural Montana, playing outside at the end of a long summer's day. It was dusk and he was putting away his toys and a woman came out of the woods naked. She was clearly upset and clearly had experienced some kind of terrible trauma. She left before he could do anything to help.

This image of a woman in distress in the wilderness, appeared over and over in his work: Ronette Polaski in her slip, running across the train trestle in Twin Peaks, the beautiful, dying stranger with the head injury in Wild at Heart, Rita's flight from the limo in Mulholland Drive (there are probably loads more, this is just three I could think of off the top of my head). Every David Lynch narrative is haunted by a vulnerable person who is beyond help.

There was also a thread running through his work about our guilt and complicity in seeing the images of people in distress for our own pleasure. I'm thinking about the jumpscare with the homeless person behind the dumpster in Mullholland drive, the people who pay to see John Merrick in the clinic after hours in the Elephant Man, the way that Nikki Grace--the main character in Inland Empire, a movie whose tagline is 'a woman in trouble' literally dies on the street while people step over her body.

Lynch's art confronted evil in the world and our powerless over it, but it also confronted the very media he worked in, which of course thrives off reproducing these images of horrific suffering.

I'm not a visual artist but I was so inspired by him as a writer because I feel like there are certain themes that pop up in my work over and over and finding new ways to express them is useful to me and because I admired his seemingly inexhaustable capacity to keep working beyond what was promised, demanded or paid for until the last moment of his life. May all creative people find that groove and ride it to the end.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Part 6

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader

Themes: Soft

Warnings: Mention of Elwing casting herself into the sea prior to the beginning of the story | Mentions of other character deaths prior to the beginning of the story

Wordcount : 3.1K words

Summary: Thranduil attends the feast held in honor of Angon taking Nitiel to wife.

Minors DNI

Masterlist

Thranduil’s POV

The feast Lord Thiliedir and Lady Annien held in honor of their son taking Nitiel to wife was a most splendid affair. 

Guests came from all over Amon Lanc. They poured through wide open doors leading to a vast garden, dressed in their finest furs and silks. Gold and silver, rubies and emeralds, glittered around the throats and lips and ears and wrists of many. Newly forged circlets rested amidst dark, crimson, and silver-gold hair that had been combed into intricate braids. Some of the visitors bore the marks of beasts and leaves and flowers along their arms and along their cheeks. Heralds called out the names of each new visitor, and attendants walked amidst the invited elves, their hands heavy with gilded pitchers full of wine and trays full of delicate pastries. Thranduil stood by his father’s side, observing lords and ladies joining an ever-growing line of those wishing to offer their felicitations to the newly wedded pair.  

“The marriage of Lord Angon and his lady has been well received.” Oropher nursed his chalice of wine, while minstrels kept to the grotto set aside for their use during the festivities. The music they played and the songs they sang drifted around the garden, barely heard over the chatter of elves and the clinking of glass. “I confess, I expected to hear and see quite the opposite when I was told the news.” 

“Were you hoping to witness the tearing of hair and the gnashing of teeth?” Thranduil whispered. He sipped his wine and then smiled. “Lord Angon’s lady mother and lord father are too well bred for such theatrics. So are their kin. If they truly are unhappy with their son taking a servant to wife, then they have taken great care not to show it.” 

“You are studying those who serve us,” said Oropher. “That is a good thing, my son. Continue it. It will serve you well should my crown pass on to you.” 

Thranduil shivered. His lord father’s demise was not a matter he wished to consider. “It will not happen,” he replied, “for you will live on for more ages than you could care to count, and then we will both take a ship leaving for the Blessed Realm so that we can be reunited with my mother.”

“That is my hope also,” his father returned. “But so long as Belegûr’s servants remain abroad, we must prepare ourselves for the dark possibility of my perishing in this land. Do you understand me, my son?” 

“Yes, father,” Thranduil told him, albeit reluctantly. 

Oropher clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Enough of such talk. Come! Let us join the throng!”  

The throng had grown in size by the time they joined them, and they had grown more carefree despite the late autumn chill. Golden lamps adorned the low-hanging branches of trees, their light limning all those who stood beneath them. Trestle tables had been arranged at the far end of the garden, with a raised dais facing them. Kitchen attendants were occupied slowly turning wooden spits and roasting wild boar and deer over a fire pit, basting the meat with honey and herbs until it crackled. The smell of freshly baked bread and pies wafted from the nearby kitchen. Even the tables themselves had large bowls placed in the center, all filled with wild berries, cheese, and olives brought in from Esgaroth. More wine was served, along with ale and mead. Thranduil joined his father while he spoke to the others, taking great care to listen to all that was being said and answering any question that was asked of him. 

It was an aspect Thranduil had long prepared himself for: the tediousness of everyday duties. He had to attend council meetings even when he wished to do nothing more than lay in bed; he had to hear out supplicants that came to him, begging for a listening ear; and he had to speak to elven nobles he had no desire to speak to, all while having a warm smile or a look of deep concern on his face. All of this he did splendidly well, which pleased his father greatly.  

“Now all you need is a bride who might one day make a fine queen,” Oropher said when they had a moment to themselves again. “Someone worthy of you, and of course, someone worthy of the crown that would rest amidst her hair.”  

‘Tis the same song as always, Thranduil thought. He forced himself not to sigh. “I will wed when my own household is ready, father,” he said through gritted teeth, and he set his jaw in determination. “And I will decide for myself whom I should marry. Me, father, and no other. Any command for me to bind myself to a stranger in a marriage of political convenience will be answered with a swift and certain no.” 

“I swear to Eru, my boy, you can be as stubborn as your beloved mother sometimes.” Oropher laughed. “And I understand the need to wait until your household is ready to receive a mistress. Pray tell me what is becoming of the halls our builders are making for you.” 

They spoke at length while they made their way to the dais. Angon and Nitiel had already taken the seats of high honor, and the king and the crown prince took their places on either side of them. Then the mother and father of Angon, and the mother and father of Nitiel, took their seats accordingly.  

Angon only waited a moment before rising, his cup in hand. “Let us drink!” He cried. “A toast, my friends! To Lady Nitiel! My wife and the companion of my life!”  

The others rose and lifted their cups. “Lady Nitiel!” They shouted as one. Nitiel flushed, and she bowed her head as a gesture of thanks.  

The first course was a dish of soup made of leeks and mushrooms, served in glazed green bowls. Lady Annien took the first spoonful to taste, and the others were served after she gave her approval. 

Lady Nitiel looks so different now, Thranduil thought. The lady who once served in the kitchens was dressed in robes sewn especially for the feast, and with colors that matched those on her husband’s tunic. Green velvet slashed with cloth of gold adorned her person. New gold caught the light of nearby lamps as they lay around her throat and around her wrists. More gold gleamed where it lay in her auburn hair. It had been combed into elaborate plaits and then arranged in a style he did not recognize.  

The gold and the robes must be gifts, no doubt, Thranduil thought, from her doting husband. The way her hair has been arranged, on the other hand…

“Forgive me,” he leaned in and said, “for asking this, but who arranged your hair?” 

Nitiel leaned in as well and lowered her voice. She did not wish for the king to hear what she had to say. “Y/n, my lord,” she said. “She helped me dress, and then she arranged my hair for me. It is the style favored by those who dwelled in a city called Alqualondë, she said, but without the adornments of shells and pearls.” 

Thranduil knew of Alqualondë, having heard the tales told by Lady Galadriel. “The style favored by the elves of Alqualondë?” he whispered, “and not the kind favored by her own people?” 

“She thought the sight of it might anger the king.”     

“Of course. It was wise of her to make such a choice. And it was thoughtful of her as well, to help you prepare for this feast.” 

The next course was a dish of sage and potato tarts, and the course that came after that was a dish of roasted boar and venison with stewed carrots and potatoes that had been boiled to a mash and mixed with cream. Thranduil ate with great relish, and he ate in silence.  

Y/n would have had to have learned the art of such arrangements from her mother, as she was born long after the first kinslaying. And it would have served her well during the years she spent wandering from one place to the next, perhaps even keeping her safe, as the few who served the sons of Fëanor and remained in the new land they had come to call home found little welcome wherever they went.  

There is the grandson, he remembered. Why did y/n not go to Lord Celebrimbor? 

It was a question he had asked when he first procured her freedom, and it was a question he thought of asking her himself, as those who held her could not give him an answer. Until the opportunity to do so presented itself, he would have to bide his time. 

A minstrel plucked at the strings of a high harp while another sang, her voice as sweet and clear as a bell. It was nowhere as lovely as Tinúviel’s otherworldly voice, Thranduil thought, nor was it as bewitching as her lady mother’s. Still, it was enchanting to hear, and a tear came to his eye when he remembered Menegroth in all of its glory. He harkened back to the days of his youth, when nightingales would make their nests in little nooks and crannies that dotted the great city of many caves, where flowers of rare beauty would bloom to life during the spring, where Daeron played the harp and Tinúviel sang, and they were sheltered from the darkness that tainted the lands beyond their own. Then the sons of Fëanor came to reclaim what was taken from their father, they had said, and to seek justice for the slaying of their grandfather.  

The sons of Fëanor came, Thranduil thought as he drained the last of his wine. The sons of Fëanor fought. And the sons of Fëanor perished. Thranduil set down his chalice when a dish of gammon pie was set before him. And the line of Melian and Thingol nearly ended because of them and that blasted Oath of theirs. 

Grief and bitterness gathered around his heart like a swarm of angry bees. Thranduil still remembered King Dior and his queen, Lady Nimloth. He remembered their sons, twins who were all of three when their father came into his inheritance, and he remembered the dreadful winter that brought about an end to Dior’s reign, the tragic fate that befell his sons, his queen, and the great city of caves they all called home.   

And then there was the daughter, the princess who was forced to abandon her own children as she was once forced to abandon her home, and cast herself into the sea after those who sought the Silmaril came for her. That too angered Thranduil—that swords were raised against those who fled the violence that fell upon their once-fair city. He remembered the dark words that were brought to them on a night with the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds. Perhaps that was a sign, a portend of the dreadful message they were to receive. His father gave the order for their warriors to march, but by the time they reached the Havens, it was already too late. 

At least Elwing's sons lived, he thought, and I pray word of their living lives of great renown reached her ears in the Blessed Realm.  

He took the pie with both hands and bit into it. The meat melted in his mouth, as did the pastry that held it. And it tasted almost like ash against his tongue. Thoughts of the lives lost because of an Oath that could never be fulfilled tainted whatever joy the prince would have found in the food he ate. He waived away all further offers of refreshments, claiming that he was already full. 

I need to step away for a moment, he told himself, and free myself from such dark and dismal thinking.  

He rose and excused himself. “Pray allow me to take my leave of you all for a moment or two,” he said. “I will return soon enough.” 

“Of course, my lord,” Lady Nitiel said. Thranduil bowed deeply and took his leave of them. 

The air outside the manse was no less fragrant. This time, the smells that greeted him were of night-blooming flowers and not the scents of delectable dishes being brought to the table. He walked toward a nearby marble pond, listening to the little waterfall bubbling at the far end of it. There was no other elf to be seen. Most were at the feast. Others were keeping a watchful eye along the city’s high walls or tending to their duties in the palace itself, and there were those who had already retired for the night. Still, the absence of other elves was a welcomed thing, as was the cool wind that swept around his face and hair. Thranduil felt the anger and grief within him ebb away. He stopped and sat on the edge of the pond. 

Tis good to have a moment to clear my head, he thought. Tiny fish darted beneath the leaves of water lilies and around his fingers as he trailed his hand through crystal-clear water, their scales glittering with silver and gold whenever they caught the light of nearby lamps. He heard the sound of leather against stone. Another elf was walking toward him; the sound he heard was the sound of their slippers falling over polished cobble. Thranduil sighed as his peace was disturbed. Then he heard a gasp. The elf who came upon him did not expect to find him there.  

“Forgive me, my lord,” they said. “I… I was told this part of the city was empty at night.”  

“The one who told you this did not err on that score.” The prince turned to face the one who approached the pond. “This part of the city is quiet at night. And there is no need to ask for forgiveness, y/n. You have the freedom to walk about Amon Lanc; there is no one to hinder you from doing so. Pray why are you here, at such an hour?” 

“We were not needed in the kitchens.” Y/n dipped into a deep curtsy before rising again. “And the cook told me that I would not be needed on the morrow. I… I thought of seeing something of the city while the others were not about, my lord.” 

“Yes,” Thranduil smiled. “Amon Lanc feels like a city found only in fairytales when one walks about it at night. I will not say more, lest I spoil the beauty of the city for you.” He paused and decided now would be an opportune time to speak to y/n about Celebrimbor and why she did not approach him for shelter. “But I do have a question to ask of you.” 

“Go on, my lord,” said y/n. 

“That day when I procured your freedom, I was told you spent your days wandering. You put down no roots, not even with Lord Curufin’s son, Lord Celebrimbor. Why is that, y/n?” 

“Being the daughter of an attainted kinslayer made it hard for me to put down roots, my lord. And Lord Celebrimbor made it plain that anyone who served his father and his uncle would find no welcome in his home.” 

“Is it because of what happened to Lord Finrod?” 

“Yes, my lord. Lord Celebrimbor never forgave his father, nor his uncle, for that matter, for what became of Lord Finrod in the end.”  

“And so you kept away from his realm,” Thranduil said. He patted the space beside him.  

“Yes, my lord.” Y/n smoothed her skirts and sat a respectful distance away from him. Etiquette demanded it, for she was but a kitchen maid and he was the crown prince. “I did not have the stomach to bear the sight of another door closing on me, so I kept away.” 

The crown prince tried to envision what such a life would have been like: walking from place to place without a proper home to claim for oneself, selling what little possessions one had to keep oneself alive, having no friends, no family, and no one to turn to for aid. He shivered.  

Such a wretched life, he thought, and yet the lady is still here, enduring each hardship as best as she can. 

Enduring such hardships without complaint was to be expected of the Noldor; it was something minstrels waxed poetic about in story and song. Thranduil studied y/n discreetly. Her hair had grown a fraction longer, and already she looked less gaunt than she did before. The robes she wore were blue and gray, simple but well-made. A tarnished pin was all she had for an adornment. Its painted flowers had faded, and they were the likes of which Thranduil had not seen before. 

“The flowers on your pin,” he began, “are those found only in the Blessed Realm, yes?”

“Yes.” Y/n reached up and touched it. Her fingers trembled when they brushed against the filigreed silver. “My father had this made for me when I came of age. My mother painted the flowers you see in the center. This is all I have left of them.”

To have only one token left of one’s flesh and blood, and that too in a poor state, pricked at Thranduil. But it could still be saved, he thought. It could still be restored to its former glory.  

Ah, but would the goldsmiths agree to such an undertaking when the request to do so came from one such as her? Thranduil knew they would turn her away the moment they saw her standing at the door of their forge. A respected courtier who carried the order of the crown prince, on the other hand… 

“It must have great value to you.” Thranduil rose. He could not linger for much longer. The others would expect him to return to the feast without further delay. Nevertheless, he did not intend to leave until he spoke to y/n about what he had in mind. “And it can be returned to what it looked like when you first received it. Give it to Feren when you see him next. I will speak to him, and have him go to our goldsmiths. If there is anyone in Amon Lanc who could restore that pin to what it once was, it is them.” 

“I…” Y/n paused and hesitated. She lowered her gaze, took a deep, steadying breath, and then she dared to look him in the eye. A decision had been made. “Thank you, my lord.” 

Thranduil nodded. “And now you must excuse me. I must return to the feast before my father sends someone to search for me.” 

“Of course, my lord.” Y/n rose also, and curtsied to him again. “Good night, my lord.”  

“Good night, y/n,” Thranduil said. He looked back at her over his shoulder for a moment as he walked away. The sight of her beneath a spill of lamplight, her eyes sparkling as she turned to admire the fish in the pond, tugged at him in a way he could not describe.

tags: @deadlymistletoe @coopsgirl @lemonivall @tigereyesf @thranduilseyebrows @cupids-got-me @asianbutnotjapanese @kurochan3

[o-josh]

🦇LET'S FENNORIAN HOUSING!🦇

List of residential furniture reproducing the background of official Fennorian images.

Furniture may be sold in the guild store; try searching at the Tamriel Trade Centre(TTC)

フェノリアンの公式画像の背景を再現したハウジングの家具リストです。家具はギルドストアに売ってる可能性もあるのでTamriel Trade Centre(TTC)で検索してみましょう。

Text is used as a translator

My Fennorian house

Ravenhurst:Fennorian's Raven ID:josholbra(PC,NA) Tags:Residences(住居),Cozy(快適), Lore-Friendly(伝承指向)

💰Housing Editor Purchase Tab購入タブで購入可能

🔨Craftクラフト可能

🧝‍♂️Furnishing Folioフォリオのクラフト(Folios can be bought from Faustina Curio.フォリオはファウスティナ・キュリオから購入できます)

🎖Achievement Furnishers 実績家具

🎪Eventイベントのみ

🫳Enemy dropドロップ

🚓Thieving盗み

🥷Picketpocketingスリ

📅Luxury Goods Furnishers週末家具

❓Onotherその他の条件

Meet the Character - Fennorian

Desk1

Solitude Desk, Ornateソリチュードの机（装飾）💰🔨

Vampiric Chair, Fanged吸血鬼の椅子（牙）💰🔨

Bottle, Liquor　ボトル（リキュール）🥷💰🔨

Bottle, Elixir　ボトル（霊薬）💰🔨

Common Quill, Feather　一般的な羽ペン🥷🚓💰🔨

Vial, Delicate　小瓶（繊細）💰🔨

Vampiric Lab Jar, Red Gelatinous　吸血鬼のビーカー（赤ゼラチン）💰🔨

Breton Chamberstick, Tallブレトンのチャンバースティック（背高）💰🔨

Letter, Personal　手紙（私信）🥷🚓💰

Papers, Stack　紙（山積）🥷🚓💰

Common Inkwell, Practical 一般的なインク瓶（実用的）🥷🚓💰🔨

Any open book任意の開いた本❓ Infinite Archive, Furnishing Pack

Mortar and Pestle　乳鉢と乳棒🧝‍♂️Crafter's Furnishing Folio

Desk2

Alchemical Apparatus, Master 錬金術師の装置(マスター)🧝‍♂️Dark Elf Furnishing Folio

Mages Apparatus, Master 魔術師の装置(マスター)🧝‍♂️ Morrowind Furnishing Folio

Case of Vials　小瓶セット🧝‍♂️Crafter's Furnishing Folio

Solitude Trestle, Ornate Large　ソリチュードの大架台💰🔨

Green lighting: Hlaalu Salt Lamp, Enchanted 緑色の照明:フラールのソルトランプ🧝‍♂️ Ebonheart Furnishing Folio

Desk3

Solitude Chair, Wood　ソリチュードの椅子（木）💰🔨

Solitude Desk, Ornateソリチュードの机（装飾）💰🔨

Book Stack, Trio　本の山（トリオ）💰🔨

Bottle, Liquor　ボトル（リキュール）🥷💰🔨

Bottle, Wine　ボトル（ワイン）💰🔨

Bottle, Elixir　ボトル（霊薬）💰🔨

Desk4

Vampiric Flask Stand, Double　吸血鬼のフラスコスタンド🎪

Solitude Trestle, Ornate Large　ソリチュードの大架台💰🔨

Bookshelf本棚

Vampiric Drapes, Tall　吸血鬼のドレープ（閉）💰🔨

Unknown:Bookshelf不明な本棚*

(*) From the background of the official image, I would guess that it is a grand bookshelf that is being used. However, space is limited in this house, so a regular size bookcase( High Isle Bookcase, Carved Filled 💰🔨+Book Row, Long(orBook Row, Decorative)💰 )is used.

公式画像の背景から察するに、使用されているのはグランド本棚だと思う。ただしこの家ではスペースが限られているので、通常サイズの本棚(ハイアイルの本棚（フル）💰🔨+本の列を使用

Heart's Day in 2024

High Isle End Table, Carved　ハイアイルのエンドテーブル💰🔨

High Isle Chair, Ornate　ハイアイルの椅子（装飾）💰🔨 (*) The "Chair, Love-Blessed" is used in the image.画像では椅子（愛の祝福）を使用。

Alinor Chalice, Ornateアリノールの杯（装飾）💰🔨

Elsweyr Sugar Bowl, Gilded　エルスウェアのシュガーボウル💰

Replica Jubilee Cake Slice2019　記念ケーキのスライスのレプリカ2019🎪

Replica Jubilee Cake Slice2020　記念ケーキのスライスのレプリカ2020🎪

Unknown:Candle,Fork, Towel Substitutes代用品

Hlaalu Towels, Foldedフラールのタオル(折畳) 💰🔨

Dwarven Candlestick, Laboratory　ドワーフの燭台（研究室）💰🔨

Redoran Fork, Wooden　レドランのフォーク（木）💰🔨

Smolder Scrolls Online-Background

Breton Table, Round　ブレトンのテーブル（ラウンド）💰🔨

Breton Armchair, Padded　ブレトンの肘掛け椅子（パッド入り）💰🔨

Redguard Carpet, Dunesレッドガードのカーペット（砂丘）💰🔨

Light and Shadow 光と影❓ Shadowy Supplier "Have anything that can help make me less noticeable?" Substitutes代用品：Skull Candles, Triple 頭蓋骨の蝋燭（三連）📅

Book Pile, Large 本の山（大）💰🔨

Breton Sconce, Grand　ブレトンのロウソク（グランド）💰🔨

Common Pack, Backpack一般的なパック（バックパック）💰🔨

Any Grand Full Bookshelf 任意のグランド（フル）本棚

　　I used "Alinor Bookshelf, Grand Full"🧝‍♂️Summerset Furnishing Folio 　　ここではアリノールのブックケース（グランドフル）を使用

Bookshelf accessories本棚の小物

Dark Elf Cruet, Glass ダークエルフのクルエット💰 🔨

Bottle, Elixirボトル（霊薬）💰🔨

Vampiric Goblet, Full吸血鬼のゴブレット💰🔨

Skull, Human　頭蓋骨（人間） 🫳

　　Substitutes代用品

　　Reliquary Skull 聖遺物の頭蓋骨🎖

Bottle, Elixirボトル（繊細）💰🔨

Bottle, Liquorボトル（リキュール）🥷💰🔨

Hourglass, Common砂時計（一般的）💰🔨

Breton Mugブレトンのマ��🥷 💰

[ask-de-writer]

WIND MEETS THE ROM : Part 21 of 27 :

MLP Fan Fiction

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

WIND MEETS THE ROM

Part 21 of 27

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover art by @wind-the-mama-cat

54212 words

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 06/01/18

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story? Read from Part 1, here!

///////////////////////

Wind replied, “Thank you, Mama Dragon. I have already learned that I am not yet ready for swords.”

Hanar chuckled, “I was there! No, sweet love of mine, no swords. If you tell me what it needs, I will make you a staff of Rom Blackwood. No wood is stronger than Blackwood.”

As Wind was thanking Hanar for her offer, Mama Dragon pushed back her chair and said, “Marchhare, I must thank you for your excellent care of my Kitten. Now, I fear, it is time for me to go.”

She was starting for the door in the front of the caravan when Wind took her arm and told her, “Not yet, Mama. You need to stay until the fair opens. The wood miners have found a big ancient maple with burls. The burls and some of the other wood have opalized. Think of the lovely maple burl grain patterns in opal.”

Mama Dragon's eyes closed and her lips pursed in a near ecstacy as she pictured the burl grain in opal colors. Recovering, she looked down at Wind and ruffled the hair between her ears as she rumbled, “Thank you, Wind. You have saved me from a grave error.”

Turning to Hoof Dancer and Black Lotus she said contritely, “It appears that you will have to make more carnivore breakfast, my dears. How soon will the wood miners get here?”

Marchhare giggled but replied, “Fairly early after sunrise. They will need to set up their sales booth. How do I compete for opalized burl wood with a dragon looking to increase her hoard?”

Mama Dragon's grin bared all of her impressive fangs as she retorted, “You don't!” Her grin morphing into a smile, she added, “Fear not, I will leave some for both you and Rose. In fact, I would love to buy one of her boxes made from this opalized wood.”

Breakfast was the usual madhouse of Rom grabbing pastries, pies, tea and scrambles. Mama Dragon surprised everyhorse there by taking a place beside Wind in the serving line, speaking perfect Gyptian to the rest.

The three of them, Mama Dragon, Wind and Hanar found a nice shady spot to eat their breakfast. Hanar was brimming over with questions about Wind's home world as they sipped big mugs of tea.

Suddenly Hanar's magic gathered all their breakfast dishes and utensils and sailed them unerringly into the soaking tubs! She pointed, dancing with excitement! “The wood miners! That is their cart on the midway!”

There was a small stampede of Rom and a dragon toward the cart in the midway! Wind, far ahead of the pack, stopped by the cart and politely asked, “How can we help you to set up? We have some horses and a dragon who all want your special woods.”

“We'd be glad of some help, um, Mam. We have some heavy things to off load and our tables have to be real stout, so they are heavy too.”

Wind pointed, “So, those trestles and boards on top are your tables? No problem at all. If I am counting right, you want four trestles under each table, right?”

Wind just hopped up onto the wagon, calling, “Hanar! They want four of these under each table!” She casually began tossing the dozen stout wood trestles off the wagon!

Hanar's magic caught the sawhorse like trestles and set them neatly into a big U shape. Boards sailed off from Wind's hands but were caught and placed with precision by Hanar's magic. In short order, the booth tables were ready.

Mama Dragon and Marchhare stepped to the front. Mama Dragon, leaning forward in a slightly predatory posture, politely asked, “I hear that you have some opalized maple burls. I am most eager to see them. I will buy one if they are anything like the report that I heard.”

Stepping back with trepidation from the dragon in front of him, the leader pointed to three stout square cases on the wagon. They are right there. It takes two of us to lift each one. We will get right on it . . .”

His words trailed away as slight seeming Wind picked up the first of the indicated boxes and handed it to Mama Dragon, who took it, balancing it on one hand and transferring it to the table. They repeated the task with each of the other two. Wind hopped off of the wagon and joined Mama Dragon, giving her a hug.

Mama Dragon returned the hug with hands that were rough scaled on the backs but scaled as smooth as the belly scutes of a snake on the palms and undersides of her fingers. The sheer comfort that Wind radiated showed all who could see that she was happily at home in Mama Dragon's arms.

Mama Dragon extricated herself from Wind and asked politely, “May I see the burls?”

The lead miner nodded, “Sure can. If you want to buy one, we will take a Secure Gold Transfer or cut it down to a size that you can afford.”

“Oh, that won't be necessary. You do take gold coin don't you?”

“Yes, Mam, we do. But this is thousands of gold bits we are talking about here.”

“I did figure that out, Sir. Equestrian gold bits are 2% copper for durability. I have coins that match that purity in my hoard. You do have a trade scale to weigh them, don't you? Of course I expect you to test my coins for purity.

“May I see your burls now?”

Mutely he nodded and unfastened catches at the lower front corners of each case. He folded back the front and top to make a display box of each case.

He apologetically explained, “We only got them cut free of the trunk two days ago. Didn't have time to polish the faces but you can see, they are top quality.”

Mama Dragon picked up one and asked, “May I shine them for you? I promise that it will not be hurt by it.”

He nodded, “If you can without hurting them, go ahead.”

Cradling the stone in one solid arm, she breathed a gentle wash of pale blue flame across the burl while rubbing it softly with the smooth side of her other hand. In only a few minutes, she put the burl back in its box. Its face was now perfectly smooth, revealing to all the brilliant reds, blues and greens in the wonderful swirled patterns of the burl's original wood now replaced by pure opal.

She quietly went down the table repeating the feat. The rare treasures of the wood miners held every horse and pony there spellbound.

Mama pointed to the first one that she had polished and said cheerfully, “I will take that one. Now, the gold. You do have a scale don't you?”

“I do. That one is 32,000 bits for the whole thing.”

He put out a scale with a stand and two sliding weights. He set the weights and pronounced, “There. It's set for five hundred bits weight. You going to have some, um, horse go get your gold?”

“Not necessary. I have it here.” Mama Dragon opened her belt pouch and reached impossibly deep into it. She pulled out a large hand full of huge golden coins.

His eyes bugged out at the sight of them! “I have never seen coins that big! They must be near two inches across!”

He drew one across a testing slate, leaving a streak and applied the test acid to it. “These are pure gold! I'd be robbing you of 2% to take them. Let me re set my scale to give you fair value.” He fiddled with an adjustment screw on his scale. “There. Now it will read honest for you.”

Stacking coins on the scale until it balanced, he set aside the stack. Cheerfully he commented, “500 bits. Only sixty three more stacks to go!”

One of the other wood miners put out a largish box for Mama Dragon to pile her coins in and started keeping a tally as his boss weighed stacks of coins.

Mama Dragon's huge supply of coins coming from a seemingly small pouch drew nearly as much attention as the opal burls!

Finally the last stack was weighed and the last of the gold loaded into a coffer. “Do you need a receipt, Mam? Help with carrying your purchase?”

“I think that I can manage it.”

Mama Dragon took the pouch off her belt and pulled the opening wide. She stretched it over the box with her opal burl, working it around the box like a snake swallowing a large prey. At the last she tipped it up, letting the box fall inside the pouch, which resumed its original small belt pouch size. Mama Dragon attached it to her belt, and gave Wind another hug.

“I really must go home now, Kitten. I will see you again when you can properly wield Soulblade. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mama. I will miss you. Take good care of your world.”

The crowd parting in front of her and closing behind her, Mama Dragon went into Marchhare's caravan and closed the door behind her.

With Mama Dragon gone, the crowd became the usual somewhat unruly collection of ponies that anypony with brains expects around the wood miners booth. Their goods, as usual, were first rate.

Marchhare managed to get his hooves on a whole burl too. Wind and Hanar helped him to carry its box to his caravan. Wind noticed that Rose had obtained a nice plank of beautifully grain figured maple that was subtly infused with the lovely opal.

As they were opening Hanar's booth for the day, Wind wanted to know, “Hanar, you said that you might make me a staff out of Rom Blackwood? I would really appreciate that. I have not been able to work out with any weapons since I got here. I do need that discipline.”

“Then you shall have it, Wind, my love. But not until this evening, after the fair closes for the night. How big around and how long should it be?”

Wind took the time to measure out one of Hanar's woven Broadweave fabrics for a customer. The customer, a pleasant faced yellow pony with a bow in her forelock, was surprised when Wind sheared off the fabric on the cutting board. She held it in her new metal hand and sliced it free of the bolt with a claw sprung from the index finger of her flesh hand.

As she took her neatly folded purchase, a little wide eyed, she asked, “That was amazing! Do you need a knife or scissors at all?”

Hanar looked up from where she was twining more thread on her spinning wheel and replied with a grin, “Only if she needs to cut something really big! Those claws of Wind's are really sharp!”

As the Sky Dancers first tune struck up, Wind went to high alert! Her keen eyes scanned the crowd for any sign of surreptitious magic use that might endanger the performers.

What she saw instead was indeed sneaky use of magic, all right. Some pony was sliding coins out of a merchant's coin box while he was distracted by the ongoing dance in the air!

She was over the counting board in a leap! She was silently charging through the crowd of fairgoers, dodging or leaping over ponies as needful!

The first that the thief knew of his trouble was Wind landing astradle his back! Her clawed metal hand was gripping his horn! Her right arm was around his neck, claws sunk solidly into his skin, just over the major blood vessels!

Using his horn for a lever, she pulled his head around! A few coins fell to the ground, along with the surprised blue green unicorn!

Wind shifted position as he fell and landed solidly across his neck! Conversationally, she commented, “If you try to get away or use magic, I rake your horn and you won't ever use magic again. Clear?”

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[aquaticasart]

With a Heavy Heart - Chapter 2

<- Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ->

Summary:

After a disasterous mission, Raven demotes Li Ling from his rank as Operations Chief. He is placed under the tutelage of Drew, who is tasked with his re-training and assessing when, or if, he is able to earn his title back.

In his brash attempts to regain his lost position and pride, Li Ling stumbles into long-buried pasts, and comes to realise the terrifying depth to his unassuming teacher and the house he served.

CW:

Contains themes of emotional hurt, grief and loss, with mention of canonical character death, and use of organised crime-adjacent tropes.

Chapter 2

Li Ling stepped sideways to get through the small door to the old gym, an instinct from his usually imposing silhouette. He caught himself and squared himself up before crossing the threshold. Damnit. He absentmindedly clawed at the slim cuff on his left arm, trying to work his fingers underneath where it opened at his forearm. He fidgeted on his entire approach to the lone figure of a Jackal at the opposite edge of the room.

Drew was carefully setting out water bottles on an old trestle table, standing them up alongside an expertly curated collection of electrolyte powders. His silhouette was rigid, his motions restrained to the bare minimum required for his task. His pristine appearance was made dingy when lit solely by the cheap Fluro of the room’s blinking overheads. The room was deathly still, not even a wayward fly causing movement to grab onto. Compared to the Union halls Li Ling had just come from, the entire scene was painfully, achingly ordinary.

An ear flicked at Li Ling’s heavy footfalls.

“Ah! Master Li Ling, thank you for joining me.” Drew began. “As you were no doubt made aware, I will be your tutor for your retraining. I do apologise for the poor state of our training arrangements, unfortunately the usual Union training grounds are not built with such a… mundane standard of safety in mind.”

Li Ling took this opportunity to take in the surroundings. Calling it in a poor state was euphemistic at best. The gym was small and stuffy, with raw brick walls half-heartedly covered with sagging crash mats. One wall was dedicated to a grimy floor to ceiling mirror, attached to the wall in several panes with seams every few meters. Li Ling couldn’t escape his own reflection, diminished substantially without his arms. He took a moment to square up his shoulders and push back the slouch that had crept in, desperately trying to close the few centimetres in height between him and Drew. Jigsaw mats roughly colour matched into two sparring rings lined the floor.

It was patronising to even stand in.

“For the foreseeable future your afternoons will be spent here” Drew continued, “I have been asked to take you through combat and sparring basics, with an emphasis on controlled martial arts and meditation. Our course will consist of several forms, including Yoga, Tai Chi, Tae Kwon do…

“Look Drew…” Li Ling interrupted, crossing his only arms, “I don’t know what kids TV lesson Raven’s cooked up with you, but we can skip it. I’m sorry, ok? I’ve learnt my lesson, I won’t do it again, write it in the rulebook and throw it at me. I don’t need any of this crap, and the longer I spend in THIS thing…” He yanked helplessly at the cuff “… the less time Miramon spend dying, which no one wants. So, if you would just get me OUT of this THING.” He threw his arms down by his side. The cuff rather inconsiderately stayed fastened to his forearm.

Drew raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s excellent to hear, Master Li Ling.” Drew replied. His tone was perfectly pleasant, but Li Ling couldn’t hear anything but sarcasm drip from the words. “I shall report it to Raven at once. However, before I do so, may I trouble you for a demonstration?”

A demonstration? What was this dog on about? Drew carefully slid his tailcoat off his shoulders, revealing a crisp white dress shirt underneath, his normal bandage wraps carefully rolled into neat cylinders on the table already.

“Fine. Whatever you want.” Li Ling threw back through clenched jaw. “Want me to write a sappy letter? Record a teary apology video and post it to SwiftSpace? Wear a sandwich board with ‘I fucked up’ written on it?”

“None of that will be necessary” Drew responded, not rising to the venom in Li Ling’s voice. “If you do not believe my training is required, I simply wish you to show me.”

Satisfied his coat was out of danger of the water and powders, Drew turned to Li Ling and widened his stance slightly, his black leather shoes sinking into the foam as he lowered his centre of mass, his cane in his hand with its tip held unwavering off the ground.

Li Ling guffawed.

“What, FIGHT you?”

The contrast between the two couldn’t be starker. Li Ling stood shirtless, in flowing and unrestrictive fighting gear. His physique was lean and powerful, with deep lines cut into it from a lifetime of operating at a superhuman level of strength and finesse. Drew, on the other hand, was dressed for a high tea. He hadn’t so much as undone his top button, let alone prepared himself for a fight. Only his canine appearance betrayed any nonhuman ability whatsoever.

“A simple spar” Drew clarified. “If you can land a hit on me, I will go to Raven immediately and relay what you have told me and recommend the immediate reinstatement of your field duties…”

A smile crept onto Li Ling’s face. This was perfect, even without his Esper abilities Drew was literally fighting on Li Ling’s terms.

“…However,” Drew continued “If I can knock you off your feet, our training will continue as planned. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yeah, Whatever.” Li Ling replied gleefully, trying to hide his confidence.

“In that case…” Drew said, his grip on his cane tightening and his stance deepening, “Proceed.”

Li Ling didn’t need to be told twice. He lunged forward with astonishing speed, pulling his fist back for a punch that he hoped would end this charade as soon as it started. Drew hadn’t so much as flinched. He held statue still as the punch raced towards him. Li Ling’s fist flew forward, expecting to find contact with furred jaw. It found nothing but air. Drew had effortlessly sidestepped the lunge, gently tapping the bronze tip of his cane into Li Ling’s back as he sailed inelegantly past.

Li Ling yelped and caught himself, shifting his feet to catch his wild momentum. The tap of the metal cane had been calculated not to damage, but to sting like hell on his bare skin and intensely irritate him. It was working. Li Ling stretched his neck side to side, recentering himself. Drew was standing perfectly upright, his heels touched together and his arms behind his back, cane included. Li Ling surged again, throwing fist after fist at the Jackal, but kept on landing on the empty space the Jackal used to be in. Drew weaved easily around Li Ling’s speed, not even so much ducking, and each time he followed up with another one of those stinging, infuriating taps.

Li Ling roared, he wasn’t holding back his punches for sparring purposes anymore, he was throwing wild, powerful attacks trying desperately to wipe the placid, calm look off that smug canine face. His blows were heavy, and his speed was taking a toll to match. His attempted hits were becoming more and more sluggish as his back stung. One sloppy punch was all it took. Instead of smoothly weaving to the side again, Drew simply dropped his head, allowing the fist to fly into the space where he had been a moment ago. He grabbed Li Ling’s wrist, effortlessly redirecting the momentum to continue forward as he pulled on Li Ling’s arm, adding a substantial amount of force that Li Ling hadn’t anticipated. It was all it took to send Li Ling spiralling off balance and crashing to the floor.

He breathed heavily, sprawled on his back, utterly despondent. Drew hadn’t even darkened his white shirt. A black furred hand was held in front of him, an offering of sportsmanship. Li Ling didn’t take it and scrambled to his feet on his own.

“I believe that’s settled then” Drew said, cheerfully.

“Yeah yeah.” Li Ling growled, letting his anger smoulder in the words. “Real fair fight, Esper against effectively a normal human. If it weren’t for…”

Drew wasn’t listening to him, instead he was turning back towards the trestle table. He unbuttoned one of his sleeves and quickly rolled it up, paying no mind to Li Ling. He pulled a small key-like device from the pocket of his tailcoat and ran it along the slim, metal cuff he revealed underneath his sleeve, a perfect match to the one on Li Ling’s arm. With a click it opened and drew placed it gently on the table. As the cuff left his arm, Drew’s body alighted with energy, plumes of otherworldly black smoke pouring from every opening to his clothing and from a tiny crack at the top of his cane. Drew’s silhouette roiled as the smoke seamlessly ebbed and flowed from his black fur, before calming down into its usual subtle turbulence. Drew’s power returned in force, an illusory violet butterfly coming to rest on his shoulder and casting a gentle purple light into the room as he turned back to face his ward, who could do nothing but stand with his mouth agape.

“We shall be starting today with some meditation exercises…” Drew said, launching into his session as though nothing at all had happened.

The dojo underneath House Ramses was crowded with aspirants. Every Esper in the room had endured gruelling trials to stand where they were, seeing Lateef Ramses in the flesh for the first time. He sat stoically as he gave them their final trial. A simple task, a deceptively simple one, one that he assured them would separate the one here who would be welcomed into the family; Defeat the family butler in one-on-one combat, no holds barred, all powers permitted. The first challenger raced at the opportunity and was dispatched just as quickly. The others weren’t so eager after that. Esper after Esper fell and was dismissed, and as the butler discarded more of his bloody, sweat-laden and elementally damaged garb between fights, it became ever more apparent that he wasn’t just a simple master of the house. Espers either fled or were carried grappling with injuries. Finally, one candidate remained to test his mettle; a young man barely in his twenties with the head of a Jackal and a wicked rapier that burned with black and purple fire.

[silkendandelion]

Pomegranates, A Stardew Valley fanfiction

Pairing: Lance (SVE) x Farmer (male, character sheet here)

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Farmer Max didn't listen to the wizard's warning and encounters a spell that shows him a version of his life where he married Elliot, instead of Lance. Hurt/Comfort, happy ending.

AN: Spoilers for Lance's 10-heart event and several late game quest lines, references to the outcome of these quests or rewards. Player is an OC with established characteristics, story, mannerisms. It's fine, we have fun anyway.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for sexually suggestive content, unsafe situations, characters worried about infidelity (No actual cheating). One-shot. Cross-posted to Ao3 here. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

He always saved the best pomegranates for Elliot.

The shiniest fruits of the batch, so heavy with juice they nearly jumped off the branch and redder than wine-stained, kiss-swollen lips. They always got washed separately, scrubbed twice, and packed in a box that had become known as “Elliot’s box” because of the blocky, handwritten label that declared it.

“That time of the year again?” Lance smiled as he set his satchel on the kitchen floor, mindful of the farmhouse’s stone counter-tops ever since they discovered that life elixir is surprisingly acidic. Luckily, the microwave now hides his shame.

“Just in time for his birthday too, since the summer was so cool,” Max said, clicking the crate shut.

“Well, I’m off to the Highlands.” Lance glanced in the fridge while the farmer tugged on his boots. The sticky rice he made the night before was untouched, a cursive note that read ‘goodnight, my love’ still attached to the top.

Poor farmer, he works so hard, he thought. “Actually. There’s not much to do the first week of the season, besides observations. If I only do a half day, I could make it back by say… 8 o’clock? What do you think, love, want to quit early with me?”

His mushy thoughts of hiking up to the bath house and splitting a pot of cider on the couch were dispersed by Max reaching for his coat with a wince. “I’m sorry, honey, probably not. Leah wants to do a brunch thing tomorrow for Elliot’s birthday and I gotta turn in early if I’m gonna finish the chores before I go.”

Lance opened his mouth to point out the flaw in his plan, but settled for a frown as he slung his satchel over his shoulder. “No worries, love, just a thought.”

They parted ways with a kiss, soft and sweet: the farmer’s preferred choice of apology when he knew Lance wasn’t actually looking for one.

“Stay safe up there. And say hi to Marlon for me if you see him,” Max said.

“Of course. Safe travels, farmer,” Lance teased him with a smirk.

He watched Lance leave their homestead and down the road, the smell of freshly-tilled soil washing away the scent of his husband’s soap before he even turned the corner. By the fifth day of the season, the crops were all settled into their neat little rows, the promise of pumpkins already in curly little saplings, and colorful mushrooms peeking up from plush, sleepy grass. The trestles by the fence would have grapes on them soon enough—best to keep an eye out for Petunia then, lest his horse be tempted out of her stall and he find her foundered in her sin.

Elliot loved the fall.

And Max almost slapped himself as he started the rest of his chores.

The wizard had warned him, “you can peruse my library at your leisure, but don’t touch any of the books behind that altar. It’s for your own safety,” and gestured to a menacing golden creature atop a spell circle, the statue’s ruby eyes seeming to follow him around the candlelit room.

It was one book.

A simple spell, just a single, short paragraph among the hundreds of others, found by parting the book to a random number and beginning in the middle of the page. The spell explained itself to have no ingredients, casted only by reading, though Max couldn’t have guessed how literal the instructions were.

“Spirits alive, spirits alike, spirit made flesh. The mind is a shallow cup, cursed to overflow with too many memories, but the soul remembers. Never forget, dear spirit. Recall your journeys, dear spirit… allow us to enter your mind, spirit. And look with us.”

Even Max knew not to speak aloud from spell books, but just reading the words left him breathless, his wheeze condensing in front of his face. He slammed the book shut, quick and careful to replace it on the shelf exactly as it had been found before fleeing back to the warp hall, his fumbling hands yanking at his coat’s zipper.

“Too creepy… Never again,” he said, believing now that Magnus wasn’t exaggerating when he placed the shelf off limits.

But the spell was already cast, brought to life by being read, and Max found himself visited by the most vivid dream he’s ever had—and hasn’t had one like it since.

A farm, what must have been his farmhouse, and an autumn day like today. A striped cat rushed to the kitchen under his feet while the writer hummed at the stove, his ginger hair pulled back to the nape of his neck.

“Good morning! Come eat, darling, I made your favorite.”

He never cared for pancakes but his stomach growled regardless, heart squeezing unbidden when the writer fluttered over to greet him with a milk coffee kiss.

Lance drank his coffee black.

It wasn’t his farm, not his cat, not his husband, so why did it feel so warm?

Why did he wake up missing the rosy lens of that other place? With syrup on his tongue and a pain in his chest for a man he’s never looked at before with anything other than friendship? His heart sank, belly cold as he rolled over to seek the warm back of his sleeping husband, minding the pomegranate hair draped over his pillow.

“Mm—hello,” Lance rumbled with fondness, awoken by the way the farmer squeezed around his middle.

“Go back to sleep, Lance,” he said against his hair. The smell of magic never did manage to wash out, like lightning in a forest. A happy huff was his only reply, though Max would stay awake for the rest of that night, and for days after.

He never should have read from that damn book.

The dream wasn’t anything more than a glimpse. He didn’t know the farmer’s story, who raised him, but he knew why his belly twinged when the writer kissed him. And if this flash of a feeling could haunt his thoughts in broad daylight, he knew he would die if he ever knew the truth about their entire life together, killed gloriously by the knowledge of one single lifetime, out of the thousands this other valley might know.

And he would never recover if Lance knew.

How could he ever say that in another life, some other place just like their valley, he was married to Elliot? And that they were so happy?

He couldn’t, he would rather jump naked into a bath tub of lava slimes than hurt Lance.

Lance, who when he was contemplating giving up farming to be a full-time adventurer declared with that self-assured grin that Max was the only one who could help him with his research.

Lance of the First Slash Clan, seasoned adventurer, who becomes as red as his hair, suddenly shy when Max reminds him that on his first visit to the First Slash Guild Hall, he took off his clothes and suggested they squeeze into the single bed.

The same man who when Max came to him with the insane idea to turn their cellar into a guild hall, didn’t poke holes in his dream or complain about how much the construction would cost, instead swelling with pride to say “My farmer, always thinking of others.”

Lance, whom without the world would have no spring.

Max looked at the crate in his hands, having walked all the way to the beach after his chores, and knocked on Elliot’s door with his boot. What am I doing?

“Max, hello there!” He opened the door with a gasp. “Are those for me?”

“What—yes. Fresh from Haddenfield,” he said reflexively, pulled from his thoughts to follow Elliot inside and put the crate on the piano bench for unpacking.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” he said, holding one up to the window to admire it’s ruby glitter. “Won’t you let me pay you this time?”

“No no, of course not,” Max waved his hands. “I brought it to you without asking, it’s a gift. Happy birthday.”

“Well, thank you.” Elliot bowed his head, but was struck by a thought. “Wait. This is heavy, too big for Petunia. Did you walk all the way here? Let me make you a cup of tea before you go.”

Max remembered the smell of green tea from his dream, knowing what he would offer even before Elliot opened the metal canister. “I’ve got green tea, do you mind a travel cup?”

This life is enough. No memory, intangible and false, will come between him and his valley.

“I’ve actually gotta get going. Somewhere to be. Thank you, Elliot, and happy birthday!”

“Thank you, Max, please be careful. Say hi to Lance for me!” He called as Max was already marching his way up the beach with a wave. ____ ___ __ _

Good, Marlon didn’t take the boat, he thought as he found the dinghy by the mountain dock, tied and ready. The trek to the Highlands always managed to be twice as long when you were in a hurry, and Max prayed the clouds gathering overhead would hold off on their rain until he made it to the outpost.

A distant crackle of thunder caught Lance’s attention, and he paused his note-taking where he was crouched beside a sleeping mushroom sprite.

“That’s enough for today, I guess,” he said, accidentally startling the creature awake and having to cast a recall spell to avoid its tiny rage.

On the river, Max struggled with the frantic sail of Marlon’s little boat, holding his own against the wind despite the way the waves slapped against its fragile sides.

“I can hear the conversation now—Sorry Marlon, I took your boat out into the storm without your permission but it was all for love! No no, it’s in pieces but I’ll buy you a new one, I promise.” Max yelled to no one as the little boat bobbed and thrashed around the last bend before the dock.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Inside the outpost, Lance closed the line on his emergency phone when no one answered.

“He must be on his way home… oh, I hope he’s all right,” he said, going to pilfer his satchel for supper.

“Oh no,” he groaned, realizing his packed dinner was still in the fridge at home, probably next to the forsaken sticky pudding.

“Crumbs,” he said with a huff. Rain on the stone roof meant it was too late to try to fish, too far to try to go home.

A loud thud came from the direction of the dock, heard clearly even through the heavy wooden door, and the hair on his arms stood up.

Debris from the storm? No, it sounded like a person. Marlon? But why? It could also be a monster.

“The warding should keep them away…” Unless the storm fractured my spell circle.

The lumbering came again, closer now, until both Lance and the mysterious noise stood on opposite sides of the door.

His fingertips sparked with a welling of magic. “Aureus lux—“

The door flew open to crash against the opposite wall. “DAMN it all—”

“Max!” Magic leapt from his hand to scorch across the stone wall, but at least the attack hadn’t landed on his soaked husband, frozen in the doorway.

“Did you just try to zap me?!”

“Of course I did! How am I meant to know you’re the one stomping around like a Golem in the middle of a storm? What are you doing here?” He helped the farmer inside, setting him down at his workbench to begin taking off his boots. His fingers shook on the dripping laces, but not with magic.

“You’re soaked—what were you thinking?! What if the boat crashed, how would I ever even know what happened to you? Drowned, or, or—” Max hushed him with the hand that wasn’t holding his bag.

He pulled him close, uncaring he was likely dampening Lance’s shirt, he needed to feel him before he floated away. “You forgot your dinner.”

Lance blinked at him, watching the farmer open his bag to take out two portions of curry and a bottle of wine. Blue Moon, his favorite. “No hard feelings that it’s not from Haddenfield,” Max said, like every time he gifts it to him with the same cheeky grin.

“Have dinner with me? Maybe?” He tries again when Lance is quiet.

“That was an incredibly foolish thing you did,” Lance finally says, flat, but his eyes are soft when he pulls him into a long kiss. They can hardly tell which one of them deepens the kiss first, lips sliding and tasting of petrichor by the time they part to breathe.

“… So you’re not mad?” Max says, dazed and a little warmer where his jacket collar bows away from his skin.

“Of course I’m angry. But I’m also helplessly in love with you, farmer.” He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle.

“I’ll open the wine if you’d like to change your clothes.”

“You have extra clothes here?”

“No,” he says, flat again, and punctuated by both the pop of the cork and his affectionate smirk.

Well, at least the bed is dry, he thinks as he sits in his underwear. Lance never stayed mad for long, and by the time they finish supper he’s coaxing the farmer under the duvet and into his arms. For body heat, he insists, not because the outpost bed, while bigger than the one at the guild hall, is still a squeeze for two grown men.

“It reminds me of that first night at the First Slash,” Max said, accepting the wine bottle when Lance passed it to him.

“Oh Yoba, hasn’t my heart been through enough tonight?” Lance rubbed his tired eyes, albeit smiling behind his hand.

“Don’t be embarrassed, you were very charming,” Max grinned and passed the last sip back to him.

“How long had we been dating? Not long at all, and I threw myself at you.”

Max grabbed his hand to invite his gaze. “I caught you, didn’t I?”

Lance waited a beat, eyes softening as he squeezed their hands. “Yes, you did. Handsome farmer, I couldn’t help but need to know how you felt.”

“I promise, the fact that you were pressed up against me with your abs out had no influence on my answer.” Lance’s chuckle made his stomach flip, a familiar feeling he wanted to happen over and over for him alone.

He drifted easily into a useless dream about keeping Petunia away from the grapes, deeper than he’s slept in weeks, and wondered if pomegranates would be important in his next life too.

[possumcollege]

Cereal Killer's outfit from Hackers 8)

Thanks for this suggestion from a movie that probably awakened a generation of queer nerds, a movie whose release likely coincides with a noticeable spike in rollerblade injuries, a movie that simultaneously makes computer hacking look cooler AND dumber than it really is, 1995's Hackers.

[crittertongue]

Crittertoingue no.8: Varmint Master

[ausfurniture]

Quality Solid hardwood trestle desk made in Australia locally made trestle desk with one drawer all 35mm thick timber SIZE：  WIDE：1700MM DEEP：650MM HIGH：760MM Custom made service available, It can be made to your measurements. Custom Made by order only,4-8 weeks to make,Please contact for interstate delivery. Choices of stains and free color match,Custom sizes and other timber,Combination of solid timber and timber veneer. All drawers are using double extension ball bearing metal runners,All doors are using soft close hinges to ensure a very top quality.Life time exchangeable warrantee for runners and hinges,$100 extra per drawer for Blum soft close runners. Australian Made hardwood furniture handcrafted in Sydney,My product is individually handcrafted from a blend of high quality sustainable local. We are making Solid hardwood trestle desk,hardwood Commercial table top，study desks,chairs,  wardrobes,  bed frames, bedside tables, bedroom suites,  consoles,lamp tables,tallboys, dressing tables,tv units,entertainment units, kitchen dressers, coffee tables,dining sets, home offices, buffets, sideboards,and kitchens, etc. The timber has been carefully sourced from sustainable and managed forests making each piece unique in its own character. We are proudly using sustainable Australian forest products such as Tasmanian oak, Tasmanian Blackwood, spotted gum, Blackbutt and imported timbers like American white oak, European oak, European beech, American walnut and recycled hardwood. All our timbers are kiln dried to ensure a minimal movement,ultimately resulting in a fresh, modern approach to Hardwood timber furniture. We do custom made to satisfy any special usage,All our products have 10 years structural warranty.  Our products are made by our expert tradesmen who have more than 50 years combined experience supervised by me, the third generation of cabinet maker in the family. All the furniture is prepared by 320 grit sanding which meaning 6 or 7 times of sanding by different grits of sand paper.We have choices of finishes,Such as lacquer, Osmo oil, non toxic water based lacquer and polyurethane. These products give you a smooth, superb and carefree finish. All my ranges use traditional and modern construction techniques to create this aesthetically innovative design. Aboutus   Ourfriends   Facebook   Twitter   Instagram   Pinterest   Bedroom Suites   Neo Home Office   Tv Unit   Kitchen cabinet  Quality timber   Coatings   Abbey timber Read the full article

[chase-prairie]

Macdonald, Helen. H Is for Hawk (pp. 27-29). Grove Atlantic. Kindle Edition.

I never forgot those silent, wayward goshawks. But when I became a falconer I never wanted to fly one. They unnerved me. They were things of death and difficulty: spooky, pale-eyed psychopaths that lived and killed in woodland thickets. Falcons were the raptors I loved: sharp-winged, bullet-heavy birds with dark eyes and an extraordinary ease in the air. I rejoiced in their aerial verve, their friendliness, their breathtaking stoops from a thousand feet, wind tearing through their wings with the sound of ripping canvas. They were as different from hawks as dogs are from cats. What’s more, they seemed better than hawks: my books all assured me that the peregrine falcon was the finest bird on earth. ‘She is noble in her nature’ wrote Captain Gilbert Blaine in 1936. ‘Of all living creatures she is the most perfect embodiment of power, speed and grace.’ It took me years to work out that this glorification of falcons was partly down to who got to fly them. You can fly a goshawk almost anywhere, because their hunting style is a quick dash from the fist after prey at close range, but to fly falcons properly you need space: grouse moors, partridge manors, huge expanses of open farmland, things not easy to come by unless you’re wealthy or well connected. ‘Among the cultured peoples,’ Blaine wrote, ‘the use and possession of the noble falcons were confined to the aristocracy, as an exclusive right and privilege.’

Compared to those aristocratic falconers, the austringer, the solitary trainer of goshawks and sparrowhawks, has had a pretty terrible press. ‘Do not house your graceless austringers in the falconers’ room,’ sniped the fourteenth-century Norman writer Gace de la Bigne. ‘They are cursed in scripture, for they hate company and go alone about their sport. When one sees an ill-formed man, with great big feet and long shapeless shanks, built like a trestle, hump-shouldered and skew-backed, and one wants to mock him, one says, “Look, what an austringer!”’ And as the austringer, so the hawk, even in books written six centuries later. ‘One cannot feel for a goshawk the same respect and admiration that one does for a peregrine,’ Blaine explained. ‘The names usually bestowed upon her are a sufficient index to her character. Such names as “Vampire”, “Jezebel”, “Swastika” or even “Mrs Glasse” aptly fit her, but would ill become a peregrine.’ Goshawks were ruffians murderous, difficult to tame, sulky, fractious and foreign. Bloodthirsty, wrote nineteenth-century falconer Major Charles Hawkins Fisher, with patent disapproval. Vile. For years I was inclined to agree, because I kept having conversations that made me more certain than ever that I’d never train one. ‘You fly falcons?’ a falconer enquired of me once. ‘I prefer goshawks. You know where you are with a gos.’

‘Aren’t they a pain in the arse?’ I said, remembering all those hunched forms lodged high in wintry trees.

‘Not if you know the secret,’ he countered, leaning closer. There was a slight Jack Nicholson vibe to all this. I drew back, faintly alarmed.‘It’s simple. If you want a well-behaved goshawk, you just have to do one thing. Give ’em the opportunity to kill things. Kill as much as possible. Murder sorts them out.’ And he grinned.

‘Right,’ I said. There was a pause, as if it wasn’t quite the right response. I tried again. ‘Thanks.’ And I was all, Bloody hell! I’m sticking with falcons, thank you very much. I’d never thought I’d train a goshawk. Ever. I’d never seen anything of myself reflected in their solitudinous, murderous eyes. Not for me, I’d thought, many times. Nothing like me. But the world had changed, and so had I.

[icebreaker01]

S4E8 Predictions

Again, I can not stress this enough! I have a shovel! It is a very BIG shovel! I use it to go digging for things on the internet about Snowpiercer! Sometimes I find fun things, some times I find things I do not want to find, and sometimes I find things that strongly hint on what is to come by simple logical thought. Therefore: If you do not want to know what is coming, it is STRONGLY suggested you not read this. Does it contain SPOILERS? Not directly. But it does contain, again, extremely well thought out logical conclusions from previews. Am I always right? No. But sometimes better safe than sorry, hey?

So, lets get into the next episode. In the previews, several things are shown. One that makes me happy is that poor little Javi, though appearing unconscious, is still in one piece. Now this is not all good as that ONE, he is unconscious, meaning he was still close enough to the bomb when it went off to catch some of the discharge, and TWO; he is not laying on tracks. It looks more like solid ground, suggesting he may have been thrown off the train trestle by the force of the explosion. Lets face this down, folks. We have already lost two engineers. Without engineers, the people left on earth, especially our intrepid little group, stand a zero chance of survival. (Remember this when your children are considering a career. Earth needs engineers!) Now, with it clearly pointed out engineers are the most endangered species currently on the show, allow me to put a theory out there that flies in the face of everything I have read on this subject. Is Javi yet another casualty of the insane writers vendetta against engineers? (Goes searching for a coin to flip.) Is Wilford really gone? My theory is ‘No’. Why? Because Sean Bean is well past the ‘I am sick of not being invited to the wrap party because my character died halfway through the show’ stage. Also, the blunt he smoked was laced with a Headwood concoction. As fanatically dedicated as that lunatic was to Wilford, I do not see her providing him with a way to end his life. More likely I would suggest that blunt was laced with something that gave the appearance of shucking the mortal coil, and the person would revive later. Why do I think this? If I remember things right, Wilford was in the last cars with Layton and Josie that got disconnected. Now those two, while good fighters, are no electronic wizards. And yet, Layton was able to find (or MAKE) a radio device to call for help as shown in the preview. My theory for this goes like this: Wilford, in the second car left behind, wakes up, comes forward, and tells Layton and Josie if they want to survive they will not kill him again, and he manages to either contact Snowpiercer (which honestly at this point I have lost track of exactly where which train is) to rescue them, or somehow manages to make those two train cars move on their own. And quite frankly, having FINALLY been allowed to see ‘Wilford the engineer’ at work, I firmly believe this man could make an engine out of three bobby pins and some bellybutton lint.

Do I think Layton et all are dead? No. Why? First off, you do NOT kill babies on shows. That is just a solid no-no. Next, previews of episodes going forward clearly show Layton in New Eden when the Rat Squad arrives. How do I think he survived?

(The author stopped here because she foolishly found a recap of episode 8 and even more foolishly watched it. She is now going off to sit in a corner for while to contemplate just how wrong her predictions in this installment are and keep telling herself that Wilford is not dead.)

If by chance you do want to check out the episode 8 recap by Weeping Cross Breakdown, I highly recommend it. He makes some excellent points about what happens in E8 and the inconsistencies in other characters exits from the show that just don’t make sense.

Also, I’m not saying anything about the attack on New Eden because A) I have prior knowledge about that scene, B) I think what they do is a loving head nod to the original movie, and C) it makes no sense.

And did I NOT tell you we needed to kill little weasel Nima? DIDN‘T I!?!

[wutbju]

Who has seen Red Runs the River? We all need to watch it again.

Film Focuses on General Who Turned to Religion

"Red Runs the River," the latest feature length production of Unusual Films, a Bob Jones University enterprise, details not only the conflict of North against South in compelling col-or, but focuses on the conflict the heart of Gen. Richard Stoddert Ewell, who found religion on the battlefield.

Starring in the film, indeed running away with the picture is Dr. Bob Jones Jr. university president, whose talents as an actor have earned him recognition both nationally and abroad. As a young man, he turned down offers from Broadway and Hollywood for his ministry in evangelism and education.

In the role of the rough, tough, blasphemous, bald-headed Gen. Ewell, who scoffs at things spiritual, Dr. Bob Jr. turns in a convincing performance from beginning to end of the 90-minute film. His maturity, his diction and his seasoned stage abilities result in an outstanding performance.

In sharp contrast to his father, is Dr. Bob Jones III as Gen. Stuart, a flamboyant and colorful character, He measures up well to the demands of the role of the daring and capable cavalry officers who still paused in the press of war to give Christian testimony. But it is Gen. Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, as played by Jack Buttram, who carried the burden of evangelistic appeal. A Virginian himself, he is said to have voice, build and facial features that admirably fitted him for the role. He also had histrionic experience that rang. ed from Shakespeare to radio program production.

Historians have described Jackson as a devout Christian who considered the spiritual condition of his men as much as his responsibility as the winning of battles. He is quoted as declaring that "I always take time to bury my dead and care for my wounded," but he took time, too, to read the Bible, pray and hear testimony.

Directed by Mrs. Katherine Stenholm, "Red Runs the River" is from an original story by Miss Eva Carrier both are of the BJU faculty--and the screenplay was adapted by Charles Applegate.

Primary responsibility for the filming lay with the students in the division of cinema of the school of fine arts, but the student body and faculty were also involved in producing the epic.

Two months before filming started, students began growing beards and long before that research teams were off to Manassas, to the Smithsonian Institute and the Library of Congress. More than 600 actors were outfitted with uniforms, muskets, bayonets, canteens, cups and haversacks. "Ordnance" crews made working models of Civil War rifles to augment real muskets and hundreds of dummy guns were made, so real "only a woodpecker could tell the difference."

Equally realistic are the scenes of Virginia's rolling hills and red soil filmed actually a few miles from the campus. Nothing was stinted -- the cavalry action, the great train wreck when Gen. Stuart dynamited a trestle, and the battle scenes with their realistic mortar and cannon explosions and musket volleys. Mention should be made, too, of the fine music track produced by Dr. Dwight L. Gustafson, who composed and directed the mood music.

The world premiere was held at Bob Jones University in the spring of 1963, two years after the original story had been conceived and a full year after the cameras had first rolled. The award-winning film is now available on rental basis through application to Unusual Films. Seeing it is a memorable experience.