horse carving

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My current work in progress is this small black horse pendant that I’m carving from Bog Oak as a gift of thanks to the person that gave me the wood. It is a truly extraordinary wood to work with and the sheen left by the knife on its surface seems almost jewel like when it shimmers in the sunlight.
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#woodart #woodcraft #woodcarving #art #artist #handcarved #handmade #carving #medieval #viking #jewellery #jewelry #boho #countrylife #countryliving #horse

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It was a still night, tinted with the promise of dawn. A crescent moon was just setting. Ankh-Morpork, largest city in the lands around the Circle Sea, slept.
That statement is not really true On the one hand, those parts of the city which normally concerned themselves with, for example, selling vegetables, shoeing horses, carving exquisite small jade ornaments, changing money and making tables, on the whole, slept. Unless they had insomnia. Or had got up in the night, as it might be, to go to the lavatory. On the other hand, many of the less law-abiding citizens were wide awake and, for instance, climbing through windows that didn’t belong to them, slitting throats, mugging one another, listening to loud music in smoky cellars and generally having a lot more fun. But most of the animals were asleep, except for the rats. And the bats, too, of course. As far as the insects were concerned…
The point is that descriptive writing is very rarely entirely accurate and during the reign of Olaf Quimby II as Patrician of Ankh some legislation was passed in a determined attempt to put a stop to this sort of thing and introduce some honesty into reporting. Thus, if a legend said of a notable hero that “all men spoke of his prowess” any bard who valued his life would add hastily “except for a couple of people in his home village who thought he was a liar, and quite a lot of other people who had never really heard of him.” Poetic simile was strictly limited to statements like “his mighty steed was as fleet as the wind on a fairly calm day, say about Force Three,” and any loose talk about a beloved having a face that launched a thousand ships would have to be backed by evidence that the object of desire did indeed look like a bottle of champagne.
—  Terry Pratchett - The Light Fantastic

Willie drew himself up, fists clenched, purple in the face.

“I’m not a bastard!” he shrieked. “I’m not, I’m not! Take it back! Nobody can say that to me! Take it back, I said!”

 Jamie stared at the boy in shock. There had been talk, then, and Willie had heard it. He had delayed his going too long.

 He drew a deep breath, and then another, and hoped that his voice would not tremble.

“I take it back,” he said softly. “I shouldna have used the word, my lord.”

 He wanted to kneel and embrace the boy, or pick him up and comfort him against his shoulder—but that was not a gesture a groom might make to an earl, even a young one. The palm of his left hand stung, and he curled his fingers tight over the only fatherly caress he was ever likely to give his son.

 Willie knew how an earl should behave; he was making a masterful effort to subdue his tears, sniffing ferociously and swiping at his face with a sleeve.

 “Allow me, my lord.” Jamie did kneel then, and wiped the little boy’s face gently with his own coarse handkerchief. Willie’s eyes looked at him over the cotton folds, red-rimmed and woeful.

“Have you really got to go, Mac?” he asked, in a very small voice.

 “Aye, I have.” He looked into the dark blue eyes, so heartbreakingly like his own, and suddenly didn’t give a damn what was right or who saw. He pulled the boy roughly to him, hugging him tight against his heart, holding the boy’s face close to his shoulder, that Willie might not see the quick tears that fell into his thick, soft hair.

 Willie’s arms went around his neck and clung tight. He could feel the small, sturdy body shake against him with the force of suppressed sobbing. He patted the flat little back, and smoothed Willie’s hair, and murmured things in Gaelic that he hoped the boy would not understand.

 At length, he took the boy’s arms from his neck and put him gently away.
 
“Come wi’ me to my room, Willie; I shall give ye something to keep.”

 He had long since moved from the hayloft, taking over Hughes’s snuggery beside the tack room when the elderly head groom retired. It was a small room, and very plainly furnished, but it had the twin virtues of warmth and privacy.

 Besides the bed, the stool, and a chamber pot, there was a small table, on which stood the few books that he owned, a large candle in a pottery candlestick, and a smaller candle, thick and squat, that stood to one side before a small statue of the Virgin. It was a cheap wooden carving that Jenny had sent him, but it had been made in France, and was not without artistry.

 “What’s that little candle for?” Willie asked. “Grannie says only stinking Papists burn candles in front of heathen images.”

 “Well, I am a stinking Papist,” Jamie “said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “It’s no a heathen image, though; it’s a statue of the Blessed Mother.”

 “You are?” Clearly this revelation only added to the boy’s fascination. “Why do Papists burn candles before statues, then?”
 
 Jamie rubbed a hand through his hair. “Aye, well. It’s…maybe a way of praying—and remembering. Ye light the candle, and say a prayer and think of people ye care for. And while it burns, the flame remembers them for ye.”

 “Who do you remember?” Willie glanced up at him. His hair was standing on end, rumpled by his earlier distress, but his blue eyes were clear with interest.”

 “Oh, a good many people. My family in the Highlands—my sister and her family. Friends. My wife.” And sometimes the candle burned in memory of a young and reckless girl named Geneva, but he did not say that.

 Willie frowned. “You haven’t got a wife.”

 “No. Not anymore. But I remember her always.”

 Willie put out a stubby forefinger and cautiously touched the little statue. The woman’s hands were spread in welcome, a tender maternity engraved on the lovely face.

 “I want to be a stinking Papist, too,” Willie said firmly.

 “Ye canna do that!” Jamie exclaimed, half-amused, half-touched at the notion. “Your grandmama and your auntie would go mad.”

 “Would they froth at the mouth, like that mad fox you killed?” Willie brightened.”

 “I shouldna wonder,” Jamie said dryly.

 “I want to do it!” The small, clear features were set in determination. “I won’t tell Grannie or Auntie Isobel; I won’t tell anybody. Please, Mac! Please let me! I want to be like you!”

 Jamie hesitated, both touched by the boy’s earnestness, and suddenly wanting to leave his son with something more than the carved wooden horse he had made to leave as a farewell present. He tried to remember what Father McMurtry had taught them in the schoolroom about baptism. It was all right for a lay person to do it, he thought, provided that the situation was an emergency, and no priest was to hand.

 It might be stretching a point to call the present situation an emergency, but…a sudden impulse made him reach down the jug of water that he kept on the sill.

 The eyes that were like his watched, wide and solemn, as he carefully brushed the soft brown hair ” “back from the high brow. He dipped three fingers into the water and carefully traced a cross on the lad’s forehead.

 “I baptize thee William James,” he said softly, “in the name o’ the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

 Willie blinked, crossing his eyes as a drop of water rolled down his nose. He stuck out his tongue to catch it, and Jamie laughed, despite himself.

 “Why did you call me William James?” Willie asked curiously. “My other names are Clarence Henry George.” He made a face; Clarence wasn’t his idea of a good name.

 Jamie hid a smile. “Ye get a new name when you’re baptized; James is your special Papist name. It’s mine, too.”

 “It is?” Willie was delighted. “I’m a stinking Papist now, like you?”

 “Aye, as much as I can manage, at least.” He smiled down at Willie, then, struck by another impulse, reached into the neck of his shirt.

 “Here. Keep this, too, to remember me by.” He laid the beechwood rosary gently over Willie’s head. “Ye canna let anyone see that, though,” he warned. “And for God’s sake, dinna tell anyone you’re a Papist.”

 “I won’t,” Willie promised. “Not a soul.” He tucked the rosary into his shirt, patting carefully to be sure that it was hidden.

 “Good.” Jamie reached out and ruffled Willie’s hair in dismissal. “It’s almost time for your tea; ye’d best go on up to the house now.”

 Willie started for the door, but stopped halfway, suddenly distressed again, with a hand pressed flat to his chest.

 “You said to keep this to remember you. But I haven’t got anything for you to remember me by!”

 “Jamie smiled slightly. His heart was squeezed so tight, he thought he could not draw breath to speak, but he forced the words out.

 “Dinna fret yourself,” he said. “I’ll remember ye.

—  Diana Gabaldon “Voyager”
nostalgia. believing in fairy tales. falling in love with fictional characters. getting lost in a book and day dreaming. wooden merry-go-rounds with hand-carved horses. that fleeting moment right before a kiss. screaming at the top of your voice just because. bonfires and roasted marshmallows. the sound of cars passing by on a busy night. staying up till way past three in the morning. slowly treading your fingers through someone’s hair. new messages. the starting of summer.
—  name aesthetics: Selin //requested by anonymous
said God, Love covers a multitudes of sins

Summary: Louis is sixteen years old when he realizes that his father is still alive.

this is like. the most self-indulgent bittersweet fluff i have ever written in my whole life but there was no two ways about it, i had to. anyways, note that i have played so utterly fast and loose with historical accuracy that it’s not even funny, but also note that these characters deserve to be happy and to raise a good son because they are actually made by god to be parents this is like, canon, okay, anyways i hope anne and aramis live happily ever after into the sun and aramis gets to tell as many dad jokes as he wants. love u bye. much love to @hansolosbutt, @emilybrontay and @elsaclack (who hasnt even watched this show but proofread for me anyway because shes the real mvp).

When Louis is five, he quickly realizes that Aramis is not, in fact, going to be his new servant. Aramis is in the palace a lot more than he was before – before, when everything was a little different and Papa was still around. But he wears pretty blue clothes and Mama says he is the First Minister of France, and that that is an important position, and that his job is to help her rule Louis’s people until Louis is old enough and wise enough to do so himself.

Louis wonders if he will ever be wise. He is not wholly sure what the word means, only that it is something that makes you a person people like, and that Madame d’Chevreaux, who has been hired as his new governess, says it is a word that describes Mama well. Wise despite her youth, is what Madame d’Chevreaux had said, helping to button him into his tunic in the morning, three weeks after Papa stopped coming to wake him in the mornings and he had his adventure with Madame d’Artagnan in the streets of Paris. You would do well to learn from her, your Majesty.

Madame d’Chevreaux likes Mama very much, which is why Louis supposes she is his new governess. His old governess, Mademoiselle Dufraimont, always went tight in the lips when Mama was in the room. Papa liked her, but Louis thought her smiles were too pinched.

Louis likes it when people have nice smiles, and Aramis has the best of smiles. He is not always smiling, Louis knows. He has seen him talking to the council, standing taller than everyone with a snap to his voice and a clench in his jaw. He has seen him speaking extra quietly with Mama, sometimes, their heads bent over important state papers. He has seen the crease between his brows when he carried him the first time, through the streets of Paris with Mama on his other side. But he is always smiling at Louis, it seems, with a twinkle in his eyes that Louis likes very much. And when Aramis is smiling, Mama is also smiling, so Louis supposes that even if Aramis isn’t his new servant, he would very much like him to stay a long while, just so that Mama smiles more. She didn’t used to smile nearly as much, before when Papa still woke him up in the mornings, unless she was smiling at Louis. Mama always smiled when she looked at Louis, just as Aramis always smiles at him now.

But now Mama smiles when she looks at others as well. Louis likes Mama dearly when she smiles. It lights up her whole face; it’s such a nice smile.

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Tricky Business

Fandom: Star Trek (AOS/TOS).
Pairing: 
 Reader x Chekov.
Prompt: This is for @youre-on-a-starship ‘s #YOASS1000followerhypetrain.  My prompts were intensify, double, and calculation.
Word Count: 1191.
Warnings:
None, pure fluff.
Rating: Teen+.
Author’s Note: Congrats again on 1k, Alex!  I hope I’ve done these prompts justice!  The title comes from a George Cukor quote: “looking for love is tricky business, like whipping a carousel horse.”


Tricky Business

You laugh as the adorable, curly-haired man next to you tries yet another tired, old pickup line on you, pushing another glass of your preferred cocktail across the bar towards you as he drinks his vodka neat.  He’d already won your heart with his good looks, cute accent, and general easy demeanor, but you were egging him on anyway, wondering just what kinds of ridiculous things he’d come up with to try to win your favor.

“According to the calculation I have just performed,” he intoned loudly over the thumping bassline emanating from the overhead sound system in the club.  “If you double your alcohol intake, the intensity of your feelings for me should increase exponentially.”

You shake your head, leaning in closer to him, feeling a stray curl tickle at your cheek as you put your lips close to his hear so you can be heard over the din.

“I’d rather be sober enough to remember you, Pavel,” you murmur.

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IxxP Aesthetic

One for the misfits.

INFP: Industrial ruins offering glimpses into a post-apocalyptic world where slowly, but inevitably, wild grasses will softly bury everything until the sun will engulf the earth and the universe will implode. Getting lost in the streets of an unfamiliar town, door creaking as you enter the messiest antiquarian bookshop imaginable and are greeted with a kind smile. Wooden merry-go-rounds with hand-carved horses, hand-cranked organ playing circus tunes. Ten-page letters never sent, messages in a bottle found a hundred years later. An abandoned train station in the middle of nowhere where maybe the ghost of the porter is forever waiting for passengers he knows will not arrive. Being careful to avoid an audible click between tracks so to not ruin that well-nigh perfect transition between songs as you record a mixtape onto cassette. Modern-day hand bookbinders and watchmakers. That one good line from that awful poem you wrote in seventh grade. Everything cringeworthy about your favorite band’s first demo tape.

INTP: Home plastered with whiteboards, fridge-freezer door painted with chalkboard paint for good measure so you can deal with your brainstorms whenever you have them. Chindōgu, the Japanese art of coming up with creative solutions to minor everyday annoyances that are ultimately useless because people would be too embarrassed to use them, such as the famous noodle splash guard. Fringe sports. Like curling. Disc golf. Or robot soccer. The USS Enterprise-shaped pizza cutter. Setting Wikipedia’s Randompage as your homepage, never getting started on anything because you keep clicking the hyperlinks in the articles. Avoiding TV Tropes for the very reason. Getting unexpectedly invested in the debate when it comes to footnotes vs. endnotes. Wanting to learn Elvish but getting stuck when you can’t decide between Quenya and Sindarin. Also maybe wanting to learn stenography. Or steganography. Or how to play the contrabass balalaika.

ISTP: Blue jeans, white shirt, vintage leather jacket. Wishing the multiplayer trend in gaming would go away because you like the sense of personal responsibility found in a classic adventure but getting really competitive at Mario Kart. Cherry pit spitting. Building your own bed frame out of recycled pallets. Wearing your battle scars with pride. That one delinquent character in a highschool anime setting with the key to the forbidden rooftop. Just… sitting on rooftops. When the silence between two people isn’t awkward at all but feels natural for once. Knees grazed from skateboarding, callused fingers from playing guitar. Collecting vintage horror pulp zines. Or baseball cards. Or pocket knives. Tinkering things apart and putting them back together again to see how they work. Patching up your worn-out combat boots with shoe goo to grant them another chance at life. The rewarding view from the summit after a particularly challenging hike.

ISFP:
Those utterly perfect movie scenes. Like when Luke Skywalker gazes into Tatooine’s evening sky, Binary Sunsets is playing, and nothing fucking happens but you feel that this, this is the very moment he realizes he might just be stuck on that dead-ass planet for the rest of his life and he’s mourning the life he’ll never have, or maybe he’s actually deciding he’s indeed made for greater things, who knows, but the sheer significance is there for everyone to forever burn onto their retinas. You know the scenes. Not being intimidated by an empty canvas but excited about the unlimited possibilities contained within. Decorating your dorm room with washi tape. Meticulously consistent editing of pictures so to not disrupt the flow of your Instagram feed. The plethora of colours light shines onto a soap bubble. Bath bombs. Sidewalk chalk. Not necessarily studying but always stocking up on cute stationery. Having strong opinions on the fonts used in movie end credits (Wes Anderson has a thing for Futura, by the way). The brand of escapism embodied in a Lana Del Rey video.