#hackney pony

[hippography]

31. A Hackney Pony 

Photo by W. A. Rouch, 1935, Horses and Ponies, Routledge: London.

#Hackney pony #pony #vintage #W. A. Rouch #Horses and Ponies

[thehackneypony]

decided to make a masterpost of my horses making faces

#yoyo #leaky cup #hackney pony #blm mustang #my horse

[woodelf68]

#i should have used a pen to straighten out the harness lines before throwing this out #oh well i just liked the soft colours in this #artwoodelf #artblr #artists on tumblr #horses #horse #ponies #pony #could be either #maybe it's a hackney pony #watercolours

[sanitymakesposts]

What's your favourite pony breed? is it even possible to choose?

HRMM... my favorite HORSE breed is the ardennes draft horse cause look at him. he' sso fucking big.

I personally identify most with horses that can pull, rather than run fast, or are comfortable rides, so I'm a big fan of these huge dudes.... but now PONIES are different! I did have to google around and look up some pony breeds

take a look at the Hackney pony. look at their gaze. they seem like they know something i dont and they are for sure not fucking telling me it. also, the line of 'a star in the show ring' is a REALLY good contender. link for the article i pulled these from is here

nothing wrong with a good bog pony but i dont like the coloration too much.

This pony of the americas is apparenlty mixed up with an appaloosa and I fucking love this coloration so fucking much. I also REALLY love the idea of this American Pony just being a mixture of three different pony types. That's what the country's supposed to be, baby! A mix of a bunch of different stuff, lookin' beautiful!

overall, i think i gotta go with the dales pony. 'surefooted, strong, and steady under pressure' is what a horse should be -- when they're not freaking the fuck out at a balloon.

thank you for asking :D

send me stuff about horses and ill talk about it !

#horses #horse #asked and answered #forgot which of those is my horse tag

[mintyscuriocabinet]

My Little Pony Tales (1992) Infection AU! Part 1 (CW: BODY HORROR)

Hi all, thank you for your overwhelming support of my infection AU. I really hope you enjoy it. I decided to go for something a little different than the usual infection AUs and put my own little spin on it. This AU is based on G1.5! If you have any questions about it or you'd like to see more, please let me know! With that out of the way, here's my Infection AU art.

Bon Bon

Status: Uninfected

Sanity: 80%

Health: 95%

Bon Bon wants to find a cure for the Crystallovirus, despite Flapjack Fiesta telling her it's impossible. She's willing to develop a vaccine before the infection spreads by any means necessary.

Items: Medical supplies, diary, kitchen knife (self defence)

Starlight

Status: Infected (Stage 3)

Sanity: 2%

Health: 10%

Starlight was infected by an unknown pony before being admitted to Redheart Hospital. Once she reached stage 3, she was too powerful for the staff to control so she escaped into the woods with the other zombies.

Items: Ice cream shop name tag, hospital IV, the crystal (plenty to go around...)

Clover

Status: Uninfected (amputated infected limbs)

Sanity: 78%

Health: 80%

Clover was infected by Starlight after she bit her legs. As a result, she had to get them amputated to control the spread, which works as a temporary solution against the Crystallovirus. Her disability makes her an easy target for zombies, so she prefers to be in the company of other safe ponies rather than bring alone.

Items: Flask of tea, pocket knife, seed pods

Ms. Hackney

Status: Infected (Stage 2)

Sanity: 50%

Health: 50%

Ms. Hackney is being treated at Readheart Hospital. She's currently experiencing the worst stage of the virus, where pain increases and memory begins to fade. She is highly supportive of Bon Bon's goal and hopes she can cure her before she reaches stage 3. She has aggressive outbursts regularly.

Items: Balloon (from the girls), pills (for pain), mask

Flapjack Fiesta

Status: Immune

Sanity: 85%

Health: 99%

Flapjack Fiesta is the girls' substitute teacher, who took over from Ms. Hackney after she got infected. He was born in Unicornia to two unicorn parents, causing him to be immune to the virus as it only effects earth ponies. Bon Bon is using him as a case study. He's also now the girls' primary caregiver as they were separated from their parents.

Items: Maths compass (for self defence. He's surprisingly good at using it for this purpose), textbooks, "mobile" phone (BRICK)

Dr. Hooves

Status: Uninfected (Possible immunity?)

Sanity: 90%

Health: 100%

Dr. Hooves is one of Bon Bon's biggest supporters in developing a vaccine. Because of his name. She things he has a medical licence, but he doesn't realise this. He spends a lot of time caring for his sick companion, whom he is very protective of. He believes it is possible that timelords are immune to the virus, however, he still wants to protect himself just in case.

Items: Umbrella, Nitro-9, psychic paper

Scrub-a-Dub

Status: Infected (Stage 1)

Sanity: 60%

Health: 65%

Scrub-a-Dub is a crime scene cleaner for Coltville Decon who contracted the virus from the blood of an infected pony while she was at work. She is the doctor's companion and has been quarantined in the TARDIS since she was diagnosed. The epidemic has had a major impact on her mental and physical health.

Items: Kitty (emotional support), Swiss army knife, keepsake locket

Sweetheart

Status: Uninfected

Sanity: 99%

Health: 100%

Sweetheart seems to be the least effected by the stress of the epidemic and acts the way she always did. This, along with her lifelong dream of becoming a nurse, has helped her to take on a 'medic' role of sorts. Her bag is always filled with non-perishable foods - like her favourite chocolate - just in case of an emergency.

Items: Chocolate, torch, portable radio

Bright Eyes

Status: Uninfected

Sanity: 90%

Health: 90%

Bright Eyes is Bon Bon's lab partner and the brains of the operation. Unlike Bon Bon, she's much more level-headed and utilises her critical thinking skills to help her stay sane when under pressure. Though she isn't very skilled with weaponry, she makes up for it with her high intelligence. She is one of the most valued member of the team.

Items: Portable lab kit (give to her by Flapjack), rope, notebook and pen

Melody

Status: Uninfected

Sanity: 69%

Health: 83%

Melody has been traumatised after losing her twin sisters, Jing-a-Ling and Ting-a-Ling. Her house has been taken over by zombies so she no longer has access to her belongings, including her bass. For this reason, she's turned to poetry rather than music as a source of comfort. She isn't afraid to get her hooves dirty and is skilled with a blade.

Items: Surgical blade (stolen from her mother before they were separated), poetry book (from library), music player

#my little pony #mlp #mylittlepony #mlp g1 #mlp g1.5 #mlp tales #my little pony g1 #my little pony infection au #mlp infection au #mlp infection #mlp infected au #infection au #infected au #my little pony tales #cw body horror #Crystallovirus

[fjordfolk]

congrats on Troja’s successful show season! did Luna or Sparta ever do any showing in the past?

Luna never did, because she has a steep/loose front that never corrected (so she flings her front legs around like a little hackney pony). She's also bothered by noise and commotion, and wouldn't be happy in a show environment.

Sparty was shown once as a junior, but then she didn't grow out of Looking Like That, so she retired at the ripe old age of ~10 months. She comes with us for most of them though and had a blast at the breed specials, but requires a bit of management because she wants to be all up in everyone's business.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 6

Penelope makes a midnight run for England to speak to Anthony. Will she be able to pull off her plan?

Need to catch up? Find previous chapters and works on AO3.

This chapter does not have content warnings.

A very sunburned Penelope had been delayed in following Worth and Colin back to England by hours because she was loathe to tell Byron or the Shelleys what was going on. Worth’s letter had also recommended that she return to England quickly, as though she lacked the sense to do exactly that. She had sat, teeth gritted, through supper—excusing Colin’s absence by his persistent headache—and waited for everyone to retire to bed. Then she packed Colin’s saddlebags, left a note for Mary—inventing the excuse of a family emergency that required her and Colin’s immediate departure and requesting that their things be shipped back to England to Bridgerton House—and took her pony to ride into the nearest town and hire herself a hack to take her to a point where she could cross the channel.

She had managed to distract herself through dinner by focusing on behaving utterly above suspicion and while riding with remaining in the saddle—Colin had taught her how to ride astride at speed, but that had been meant to get her out of any potential danger they might meet on the road, and she still lacked confidence at a full gallop. These distractions had been sufficient to keep her on her feet, thinking, and moving. However, trapped in a hired hack with hours of travel ahead of her, Penelope could not escape the great, yawing hole in her chest that had torn her world asunder when she had opened the bedroom door to find Colin’s unsheathed sword on the floor and a letter addressed to her on the bed.

She wasn’t sure how long she had leaned against the closed door, trying to get up her courage to pick up that sword. It had to be sheathed; anyone coming in and finding it would lead to questions she could not answer. That there was no obvious pool of blood on the floor was all that kept Penelope on her feet; she didn’t know how she would manage if she picked up the blade and found blood on it. Eventually, she talked herself into it, and as soon as she took the first step, a curtain seemed to descend between her and the world. Her fear was still present, but felt detached, and she found that she could breathe and think. If everything felt a bit unreal and floaty, well, she could manage that better than sheer panic.

There had been no blood on the sword. She had wiped it down carefully with a handkerchief to be sure and to prevent the blade that had saved both her life and Colin’s on the road from rusting in its sheath. She had hesitated over taking it with her before she left Villa Diodati, but in addition to having exactly no idea how to use a sword, this was Colin’s sword, and he had nearly a foot of height over her and significantly more strength. The simple fact was that even had she fencing training, his sword was too big for her. And if its presence with her provoked anyone into challenging her, it would be more of an impediment than a help. She had left it hanging in the armoire. What she had taken was Colin’s overcoat, because it was warmer than her Spencer jackets and less bulky than her cloaks, while still managing to cover a similar amount of her. And it smelled like Colin.

The pre-dawn sky racing past the hackney’s windows had sufficiently lightened to allow her to read, so Penelope pulled out Worth’s letter to review.

Dame Penelope,

I write to you both on behalf of Her Royal Majesty Charlotte, Queen Consort of Great Britain and Ireland and Electress and Queen Consort of Hanover, and on my own humble behalf.

I first assure you that Mr. Bridgerton is safe and in good health; my fellow agents and I took great care as to his well-being when we collected him on behalf of the queen. Unfortunately, I am not permitted to inform you of our destination; the queen has decreed that Mr. Bridgerton’s residence shall be shrouded in utmost secrecy, on pain of grievous bodily harm to Mr. Bridgerton.

What I am permitted to tell is as follows. Mr. Bridgerton will remain a secret guest of Her Majesty to ensure that you refrain from publishing as Lady Whistledown again. Should you disregard this letter and publish, Mr. Bridgerton will pay the price. Additionally—and in case the previous paragraph was not entirely clear—you are prohibited from telling anyone about this situation. This includes through publication, correspondence, or in person. Not even the Bridgerton family is to know of this. The consequences of disobeying this edict will, again, be paid by Mr. Bridgerton.

I am sorry to say that I cannot give you any information about how and when Mr. Bridgerton may be released. You may apply privately to Her Majesty, if you wish, with no penalty to Mr. Bridgerton.

If I may take this juncture to offer some personal opinions on the matter: I do not know when Her Majesty intends to release Mr. Bridgerton, and I would recommend returning to England as quickly as possible and maintaining a low social profile to avoid any awkward questions. Remaining cloistered in your home may be best. I also reiterate my recommendation from Lord Byron’s fete: You must not publish. Until and unless you do so, Her Majesty does not dare harm Mr. Bridgerton. Should you publish again, I cannot guarantee your husband’s safety, or even his life.  

I understand that both the separation and the limitation on your activities may be difficult to bear, but capitulation and submission are the most effective strategies with Her Majesty. Should you demonstrate your willingness to obey, I do not doubt that eventually the queen will see reason and return Mr. Bridgerton to you. At the risk of taking liberties, I urge you to be steadfast, Penelope. Surrender Whistledown and you will see Colin again.

Yours dutifully,

Worth

On first read, all Penelope had been able to focus on was that Colin was all right—as much as anyone who had been unceremoniously kidnapped could be—and that she had to get home without telling anyone anything. Now, however, having been given time to become accustomed to the news and with many hours before her to plan, the burn of anger made itself known in her chest as voices howled in her mind.

“Be steadfast, Penelope.”

“You must not publish, Penelope.”

“Be silent, Penelope.”

“Obey, Penelope.”

Her sisters, her Mama, Cressida Cowper, Viscount Bridgerton, the queen, all of society had said those words to her, over and over. And she had tried, from the time she was handed off to a bevy of governesses to her presentation, to burying Lady Whistledown. Silence and obedience were simply not who she was. For Worth to insist that she sit silently in the parlor of her home and wait for the queen to feel magnanimous enough to release her husband was entirely too much to ask.

And yet there was the queen’s explicit threat to Colin should she do anything. The thorny bit of the problem, according to the part of Penelope’s mind that was Whistledown, was that the queen was in the wrong and she clearly knew that—she had contrived a pyrrhic situation in which she, Penelope, and Colin would all burn if Penelope chose not to play by the rules she had set. And yet there was simply no endgame otherwise. This was Colin, he could not be left as a hostage again Penelope’s good behavior. He was too social, too entwined in his family to manage isolation well, and were Penelope to be honest, she missed him dearly already. She would not—could not—play this game and win.

So distracted in her thoughts was Penelope that she nearly broke her nose on the opposite wall of the coach as it abruptly halted. Jolted back to reality, she could hear waves and smell saltwater. Making sure that her hair was tucked securely away beneath a scarf and that her hat was pulled low to conceal her hair and as much of her face as feasible, Penelope exited the carriage and made for the shipping office to book herself passage across the Channel.

Standing in the prow of the ship, face to the wind and the rising sun, Penelope could feel the ghost of Colin’s hands about her waist. Breathing deeply, Pen closed her eyes, remembering. Colin’s grin when he was feeling wicked, the press of his lips on hers, the safe warmth of being held in his arms, and the strength she found standing next to him, hand-in-hand, as they faced the world together. She tried to think through the conversation she wanted to have with him. The decision she was loathe to make alone, but she had little choice. She did not know if he would agree with her choice. That uncertainty cut her nearly as deeply as her certainty that it was the only choice she could possibly make.

The remaining hours of her crossing, still standing in the prow of the ship, were not enough for Penelope to talk herself out of her newly formed plan. She did try, but as she descended the gangway and hired herself another hack—and as she changed hacks several times, to avoid prying eyes—she found herself resolute. The resolution stayed with her as she bulled past Varley into the hall of her mother’s house, as she crept out the back kitchen door, as she crossed the square to Bridgerton House, and as she used a key she wasn’t sure Eloise knew she still had to slip in a side door. Her resolve began to waver as she padded quietly through the halls and stopped before Anthony’s study door.

The hand Penelope lifted to knock hung suspended in the air for long moments. She was reluctant to break the spell of silence in the hallway, and she was disinclined to potentially draw attention to herself. She also did not want anyone else who might be in the study to know that she was in the house. She did not intend to stay, and the fewer people who knew she had been here, the better.

And standing before the door like a ninny with your hand in the air is certainly not going to help, she scolded herself. Dropping her hand, Penelope listened. She heard no voices in the room, just the sound of liquid splashing into a crystal glass. Another ten or fifteen seconds of listening to papers shuffle, and Penelope rolled her shoulders back before slipping into the room and pulling the door softly shut behind her.

Anthony jerked to his feet behind his desk as the door opened, eyes snapping in fury. When Penelope pulled off her hat and scarf, his jaw physically dropped. The cool, analytical part of Penelope’s brain whispered, I don’t believe I have ever seen that happen outside an Austen novel. She remained quiet and still as Anthony’s eyes took in Colin’s coat wrapped around her, her general rumpled air, and whatever her countenance was doing—she truly was uncertain.

“What in God’s name has happened?” asked Anthony.

It took an almost shamefully short time for Penelope to explain the situation. Anthony began standing bolt upright behind his desk, but quickly shifted to settle his fists on the desk surface and lean forward before nearly falling back into his chair. The parts of Penelope’s mind not focused on keeping her upright and speaking slowly and clearly noted that not once did Anthony reach for the crystal decanter or still-full glass on his desk. That was bad; Anthony tended to reach for his drink the way a small child reached for a blanket or soft toy. The impulse was to comfort oneself, to ensure that one could handle what was to come. Penelope had seen him simply pour a glass and hold it during particularly intense family meetings. Benedict would invariably throw a glass back, but if Anthony needed to be Viscount Bridgerton, he rarely took more than an initial polite sip. That he had failed to even reach for it as she spoke meant that they were in uncharted, treacherous waters.

When Anthony held out a hand, Penelope put Worth’s letter into it and then turned to face the small fire in the study as he read. This would be her last moment to make a different choice, to change the path she was about to put herself, Colin, and the Bridgerton family on. Did she want to? Was she still sure that Colin would stand behind her choice?

Nausea rose in Penelope’s throat, and she leaned forward, head resting against her forearm, which was in turn resting awkwardly below the lip of the mantelpiece—which was designed for people several inches taller than she. The lower edge dug uncomfortably into her scalp as she breathed deeply, trying to calm her roiling stomach and slow her racing heart. She felt cold, despite the perspiration she could feel on her forehead from the heat of the flames.

Anthony’s hands were gentle on her shoulders as he pulled her away from the fire, turned her around, and gently pushed her down into one of a pair of comfortable armchairs. She looked up and met his eyes, mostly to distract herself from wishing that the hands on her shoulders were Colin’s. They were not, and if she did not act, they may never be again.

“It will be all right, Penelope,” said Anthony, in a tone that Pen was sure was meant to be reassuring but somehow came out vaguely accusatory. “You did the right thing by coming to me. I shall take care of everything. You must—”

“No,” interrupted Penelope. “No, Anthony. I am not here to ask your help or your blessing. I must put out a special edition of Whistledown telling the world what the queen has done.”

Anthony turned purple. His jaw worked for long moments before he turned on his heel and walked away from her. Face dropped into her hands, Penelope listened. Anthony’s footsteps were erratic, faster then slower, then faster again. Decanter and glass clinked together, then both were slammed onto the desktop. The window opened, and a breeze ruffled Penelope’s hair for a long moment until the crash of sash hitting sill echoed. Books thumped on shelves. There was the distinctive snap of a breaking quill.

For her part, Penelope suddenly felt lighter. Her nausea evaporated, and she felt really, truly calm for the first time since walking into her room at Villa Diodati. The pain and deep sadness of knowing the consequences for Colin of her decision sharpened into a stake through her heart, but it wasn’t the sort of stake that said she was making the wrong decision. Sitting in limbo forever, never knowing if or when she would see Colin again, dying slowly by inches, and agonizing over every possible decision and action to prevent a capricious, petty, and terrified autocrat from harming her husband would have been unlivable. Eventually, Penelope would have had to break the stalemate, and losing time in the stalemate meant a longer captivity for Colin. Better to simply force the queen’s hand now.

The heat of the fire on the backs of her hands cut off suddenly. “We haven’t any other choice, Anthony. The queen’s position of power rests entirely on her actions remaining secret. The House of Lords will never stand for her actions; she will have no choice but to release Colin. The ton may riot when they hear of this.” Lowering her hands, Penelope started. Anthony’s still immensely purple, furious face was bare inches from her own. His hands were on the arms of the chair, and she heard it creak as he leaned more of his weight on his hands and arms.

“Were you anything other than a gently bred lady,” Anthony hissed through clenched teeth, “I would challenge you to a duel here and now.” He shoved himself back from the chair so violently that it tipped back on its rear legs for a long moment, sending Penelope’s heart into her mouth. As the chair rocked forward, she stood, watching Anthony pace the room. Waiting.

“Do you love Colin at all, or is it simply that he is so besotted with you that he is easy to manipulate, and you married him so you could continue to publish as Whistledown?” Anthony managed not to yell—he had no more wish to attract the attention of the household than Penelope did—but his tone was vicious, and his words cut deep.

“Of course I love him,” she exclaimed.

“Ah, you love him so much you are content to doom him to torture. How silly of me to mistake your affection!”

“You cannot imagine she wouldn’t find any excuse to do it anyway if we do nothing!”

“You cannot know that! All we do know is that if you give the queen a reason to hurt Colin, she has said explicitly that she will. It is our duty to keep that from occurring.”

“Anthony…” Penelope’s voice trailed away. She walked to his desk and poured herself a small glass of scotch from his decanter. Catching sight of a copy of An Englishman in Italy on the desk with a bookmark about a third of the way through caused a lump to spring up in Penelope’s throat. Swallowing hard and taking both glasses in her hands, Penelope handed a poleaxed Anthony his glass, clinked hers against his, and took a sip. Anthony followed suit automatically. 

“We cannot stop the queen hurting Colin,” she said, striving for a matter-of-fact tone. “Either she will find an excuse to carry out her threat or holding him captive will slowly eat away his spirit. Can you imagine Colin if he cannot go traveling?” The spike in her heart wormed its way a few inches deeper as Anthony’s face twisted at the thought of Colin so restrained. The pained twist of Anthony’s face turned to anger again quickly, however.

“At least in those cases we are not actively taking part in the harm,” Anthony said. “I would wait for Kate forever if it kept her safe and unharmed.”

“The queen can always choose not to go through with her threat, and doing nothing is simply a choice to expose him to a different kind of harm. There is no good choice here, Anthony. I have no tools at my disposal without blood on them. The absolute best I can do is not draw this out indefinitely. I shall go home now, and write.” She set her glass down on the desk again, and tucked her hair up into her hat; the scarf went in the pocket of Colin’s coat.

“If you walk out that door now, Penelope, you will never be welcome under this roof again.” Anthony hadn’t moved, but Penelope had never heard him sound so deadly serious. “I cannot stop you from publishing if you insist upon it; I’m sure you knew what kind of power the queen’s conditions gave you before you ever walked through this door. But know this: If so much as a single hair on Colin’s head is harmed, I shall hold you personally responsible. You will be banned from Bridgerton House and Aubrey Hall. I shall see to it that you never see your nephews. You shall have no correspondence with Eloise, Francesca, or Hyacinth, and if I could prevent you corresponding with Daphne, I would do so. Neither you personally nor any member of the Featherington family shall have my support in any form. What say you?”

“I’m not the one hurting Colin, Anthony.” Without waiting for a response, Penelope pivoted on her heel and walked out the door. She waited for a long moment, listening. The sound of a crystal glass shattering against the wall and full-chested sobs haunted her steps as she made her way back to her and Colin’s Mayfair house. The sun was rising again as she slipped inside the back door.

Her steps echoed. The furniture was covered in sheets to prevent the dust, and the house was truly empty because they had given their household a vacation while they were abroad. The housekeeper would check the house over every few days to ensure nothing untoward happened, but the rest of the staff had been released to their families. She hadn’t sent word ahead that she would be returning. And yet, when she saw the uncovered front hall table with its polished salver uncovered and holding a letter addressed “Dame Penelope” in Worth’s now-familiar hand, she was entirely unsurprised. She was simply exhausted beyond words.

She opened the letter, and was perversely grateful to see that it was only a few short lines telling her that he had personally been following her since she crossed the Channel, but that he was not reporting that she was back because his belief was that she was following his advice. He reiterated that Colin was well as of the writing of his letter and reminded her not to publish. She used the letter to light the stove to make herself a cup of tea to avoid having to go upstairs to an empty bedroom. Ultimately, she fell asleep on the settee in Colin’s study, his coat still wrapped around her.

In lieu of trying to comb out her hopelessly tangled curls when she woke up, Penelope opened her travel writing desk and wrote her special issue of Whistledown. It didn’t take long; this was less a scandal report than it was an excoriation and cry for rule of law. She then dressed in the plainest gown she had, threw an apron and short cloak over the whole thing—listening to her stomach growl all the while—and at the last moment remembered to pin her lace cap over her hair. Striding out into the afternoon sunlight, Penelope made for her original printer’s shop.

Rounding the corner, the crowd abruptly thinned, revealing something of a wasteland where she was accustomed to seeing bustling crowds. The print shop itself was ominously dark, and there may have been boards inside the window. Penelope tried the door and found it very firmly locked. A surreptitious jiggle of the door and careful peering through the windows confirmed that the door and window had been boarded over from the inside. She could also see an explosion of paper, moveable type blocks all over the floor, and the handle of the press itself sat at a hideously incorrect angle.

There was no notice on the door, no obvious explanation for what had happened. Penelope’s breath came hard; she had to be able to print and distribute this issue of Whistledown. She truly had no recourse if she could not get this done. Catching herself leaning against the door nearly in tears, Penelope forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. She had run her operation alone for years. She could problem solve this, and she knew all the printers in this part of London; it would be simple enough to try another. Just a street over was a printer who had done excellent work for her in the past.

I will be calm, and I will do this, she told herself. If she ran more than walked the distance, she simply looked like a maid on a mission for a persnickety mistress. Or so she told herself.

The next printer’s shop was blessedly open. The door itself was propped open to catch errant breezes, and the print master was overseeing a print run—his journeymen were setting type and the apprentices were doing the heavy lifting of pressing and hanging pressed pages to dry. The broadly built print master had done enough business with Penelope in this guise to recognize her.

“Your mistress is writing again, eh lass?” he asked, long years in England nearly but not quite hiding the brogue of his childhood in Scotland.

“You might say so, sure enough,” she said, imitating her cousins in Ireland out of sheer habit. Pulling the closely written sheets of paper from her pocket, Penelope said, “My mistress needs this for noon tomorrow, and she’s willing to take a smaller cut than usual for your prompt work.”

“That’s mighty generous of her,” he said. “I’ll just be needing to see the writ of crown approval and then we can get underway.”

“Writ of crown approval?”

“Surely your mistress has heard that the crown is enforcing an old law now. Old Abernathy was ruined when he published a pamphlet on dog breeding without a writ of approval last week.”

Penelope’s heart jittered. That explained what had happened to her first printer. She would have to see what she and Colin could do for the poor man once Colin was free. But first she had to get this printed. “My mistress and I have been on the continent, we only just returned,” she began, but petered off as the print master frowned and shook his head.

“Then you shall have to convey my apologies to your mistress. I shan’t risk a thousand-pound fine and worse for publishing without a writ of approval.”

“I’m sure my mistress would be willing to cover the fee.”

“The fee perhaps, but we should never be considered for crown publishing projects again, lass. And your mistress surely cannot pay for that loss of income. You have my apologies, and my promise that your mistress shall be at the front of the queue as soon as you have a writ of approval. That’s the best I can do, lass. Now be along, we have work to do.”

Penelope retreated. The print master was correct, she could not cover the loss of crown commissions, and that was clearly a more powerful consideration than the quick payday that a Whistledown issue would bring. And while she absolutely would pay the fine, if a printer were willing to print anyway, it would not be an insignificant sum from their coffers. Heart pounding, mouth dry, and feeling increasingly frantic, Penelope elbowed her way through the crowded streets from print shop to print shop with increasing aggression.

At each and every shop, she received the same answer. Nobody, not even the least reputable printers she could find in parts of London that terrified her to walk through alone, would print without a writ of crown approval. Whatever spectacle the queen’s men had put on at Abernathy’s shop had apparently terrified the rest of the printers into compliance. She endured leers, grabbing hands, rudeness, anger, dismissal, and ridicule, and still she failed. When the last print shop she had been directed to slammed its doors in her face, Penelope nearly dissolved then and there. She could not give up, but she had no sense of what to do next. The sounds of a raucous, certainly drunk group of men startled her, and she picked up her skirts and ran.

#polin #bridgerton #the polin fic #polin fic #polin fanfic #polin fanfiction #colin bridgerton #colin x penelope #colin bridgerton and penelope feathertington #penelope bridgerton #penelope featherington

[adam-n-dog]

OOC Art-

'Taurs done!

Aziraphale's didn't end up turning out the best, but I'm very proud of Beelzebub's and Muriel's :)

(My silly little rambles under the cut!)

Aight, exposition time.

Eric- He's a donkey! It felt fitting, and meant I got to keep the giant ears and have it not look a bit odd design wise.

Beelzebub- Again, donkey. This was more just vibes than anything else.

Muriel- Bay Hackney horse! Hackney horses are a breed of horse developed in the UK as carriage horses. They have are a very flashy breed, with a lot of knee action. I picked this for Muriel for two main reasons. Muriel is rather put-together, appearance wise, which fits with a Hackney. The other reason is the carriage horse bit. It feels fitting that the more "Get things done scrivener" angel would be a working breed.

Aziraphale- I chose a cremello Welsh Pony. Ponies tend to be rather round, which fits appearance, and also Michael Sheen is Welsh, so it's funny.

Crowley- Chesnut Thoroughbred. Thoroughbreds are fitting personality wise, and him being red fits well with the good ole "Red Mare" superstition. Red mares have a reputation of being extra sassy.

I made the angels unicorns, I guess to represent their haloes? It felt fitting.

#OOC post #My Art #Centaur

[wandaluvstacos]

i haven't bothered to watch this video but based on the preview it seems they're saying that the hyper extended trot in dressage is abuse?

I hope we can all understand that the riding you do in video games has no real basis in reality, so I won't even touch on that beyond noting that this is what the extended trot looks like in the video game:

There is zero contact with that horse's mouth, lol. Also, not a dressage saddle. I assume it's due to the limits of what you can design in a video game. So no one should be learning how to ride dressage from a video game.

However, the hyperextended trot is not abuse, it's just a flashy thing bred into warmbloods at this point, like how hackney ponies naturally have high-stepping trots. Dressage judges love it, even though it often results in poor dressage.

Dressage is full of abuse, most notably what we call "rolkur", which is forcing a horse's face into its chest. This can actually affect their breathing and can result in the sudden "blowups" you occasionally see of horses in the dressage ring, often caused by low oxygen to the brain (thus resulting in reactivity and confusion). It's very bad!

The video actually does point this out, but for whatever reason they focus on the toe flick instead of the news headline they actually show on screen, which yes, are actual abuse and a big problem in competitive dressage.

The video does discuss rolkur. But the video game doesn't show rolkur?? This horse's head is actually high by dressage standards, not pinned to its chest at all. Why would it be, you could drive a house through the loop in this rider's reins lol.

And honestly, its extended trot looks fine. There are much worse examples of how the toe flick can result in bad dressage. With the trot, you want to see full engagement from the HIND end, which means your horse must be driving itself from the rear. This should result in a hind leg and foreleg angle that matches. See that this more or less does:

If you wanted to look at a bad example, THIS is very bad form:

Notice the angles are all out of whack. This is a horse highly engaged in the FRONT, not the behind.

There ARE highly extended trots that are still GOOD extended trots. Look at this Andalusian

The toe is UP, but that hind leg is right there with it. This horse is still driving itself from the hind. Just because the trot is animated doesn't make it bad.

this disconnect is why you'll find graphics made by classic dressage people that look like this. There is a faction of (objectively correct) dressage riders who have come to associate the toe flick with bad dressage, but it's not necessarily always true.

These issues crop up in the piaffe, as well. The piaffe is the most extreme form of collection, and with all things dressage, should be driven by the HIND end. This means that a horse is so collected, so driven by its hind legs, that it basically "sits" back on them, which is why the Lipizzaners then continue onto the Levade.

(This is not a rear; it's a dressage movement only highly trained and conditioned horses can do)

So if you don't have that hind end motoring you, you end up with a piaffe that looks like this, which is... bad.

compare it to the form of the correct piaffe, where a horse is almost "sitting down" in the back.

Also, because it's my favorite video of a piaffe, please enjoy this guy doing one backwards.

THAT is a classically trained horse; you can see the slack in the reins, so you know his head isn't cranked in. He's also a Portugese breed (Lusitano), and both Lusitanos and Andalusians have naturally animated/expressive movement that I think the warmblood world has tried to copy to mixed results (because they aren't nearly as small/compact). So you end up with toe flicks without any of the power that Andalusians/Lusitanos tend to bring with them.

However, it's not impossible to get a big horse to do proper dressage. This dude is like 18 hands. From what I can tell, he seems relaxed and happy, and his piaffes are great. The extended trot is big but still seems synced with the hind end. Notice he's not flicking his tail constantly (which can be a sign of irritation). Also, I think a lot of people seem to think a rein with contact=tight rein, but if you know what you're looking for, you can tell the difference between a cranked in rolkur rein and light contact. This guy has pretty light contact on this horse's mouth, so he's holding his head in that way because it's his natural (working) headset.

#for someone who doesn't ride dressage I have a lot of dressage opinions lol #i can see why older women like it tho #a lot safer than jumping aha #Youtube

[only-horse-polls]

American shetty <3 tiny

100% honesty, I will never understand what american shetland ponies are cuz to me as a European, a shetland pony is a shetland pony, and the american shetlands just look like larger versions of american miniature horses. I know the miniatures came after the american shetty and that american shetty was made using hackney ponies and welsh crossed with true shetland ponies, but it still feels odd somehow, like there is miniature horse and then there is miniature horse XL...

Anyway, there were added to the list!

#Tournament Entry

[hippography]

12928 "MEL VALLEY PRINCESS." CHAMPION PONY MARE. LONDON SHOW. 1908.

The Hackney Stud Book, Vol. 26, 1909

#Hackney #harness horse #Hackney pony #Mel Valley Princess #1909 #The Hackney Stud Book

[thehackneypony]

its so hot outside like jfc we're just trying to vibe bro

#its like 93⁰f!!! #thats crazy man!! #i set up like 4 fans in the run-in shed #i hate it here #chalk #friesian cross #paint cross #yoyo #hackney pony #bugsy #belgian draft #draft horse #leaky cup #blm mustang #onaqui mustang #my horse

[adamoromerof]

          a gift for @howlforahookup​,

          There was not much left to speak of for the Tiber legacy, numbers diminished beneath the escape at the prison, what was left absorbed into the aptly named Lupo. As far as Adamo is concerned, he’s related in any measurement of literal blood, to many lycans out there. Elena was his cousin and through the grace of his own father he’d been directed to come help her when they were far younger, at the beginning of this hackneyed pony show that the Senate had pitted against them. He’d watched, near helplessly, as their legacy fell and there was always that sliver of grief that prompted Adamo, grimly, that he could have done more. “I’d say you’ve come to Rome just at the right time,” it’s been a long time coming for Adamo to get up the gall to approach Elena’s kid. Damian was the spitting image of Elena and through that unmistakable visage he approached the lycan with a hopeful bravado.

#damian montoya #c.

[grison-in-space]

Dogblr questionnaire: 26, 27, 28!

Dogblr ask meme! Thanks for sending this, by the way--we had a mildly unpleasant and very frustrating incident last night largely stemming from my cat being a ridiculous adrenaline freak and the dogs having big emotions about him taunting them, and it's nice to think about things I like about the menaces. I've cut my answers because, well, it's me: I got long.

26) What’s your dogs favorite game to play inside?

Matilda loooooooves the flirt pole. Mine is a lunge whip from the local feed store with a quarter of a rabbit hide tied to the end of it: it's lighter and much faster than things like the Squishyface flirt pole I've tried in the past, which means I have a shot in hell at keeping it ahead of the dog. I don't use flirt poles as tug objects, so I like mine quick.

Benton has invented a game we refer to as "object permanence," in which he takes his balls and hides them under or inside various objects, stares for a minute, and then recovers them (sometimes by destroying the object holding them, as when he sticks things in paper bags) and gleefully parades around the house squeaking the ball. Unfortunately he does sometimes hide his balls in places he can't get them out again, like under the sofa, so this game gets real obnoxious real fast.

Tribble has (almost) never had any use at all for toys, except occasionally to pick up a stuffy and wave it around. She does like interacting and moving with me, though, so we often dance together--that is, I'll be silly dancing, and she'll perk up and move into my space, and we'll just dance to the music together moving in and out. At some point this spring I hope to take a formal musical freestyle class with her, but in the interim, we can just be silly together.

27) What’s your dogs favorite game to play outside?

It's currently -7F (feels like -20F) / -22C (feels like -29C) out, so, uh. Matilda has not gotten a lot of outdoor playtime since coming home, because I enjoy not being a popsicle and I'm a wuss. Right now, she seems to enjoy scaling snowbanks and wallowing in the snow. (She is an Australian breed and she was born in SoCal, but no one seems to have told her that she wasn't an arctic explorer.) I am devoutly anticipating spring; this is why no one breeds for winter babies up north!

Benton is a ball fiend and just about loses his mind if you whip out the chuckit. He will retrieve until he falls over unconscious if allowed.

Tribble's one use for toys is that she likes to retrieve specifically from the water. (She swims like a very motivated fish and in her youth often outswam retrievers. She's an awful ball thief if water is involved.) She doesn't care about the things she retrieves once they're in the shallows or out of the water, but she'll swim out to retrieve leaves and occasionally weird things like candles if I don't throw her anything fast enough. I really need to find her a place to go swimming this summer...

28) Something your dog did recently that made you smile?

I love Matilda's little horrible "YEAH I'M GONNA DO CRIMES" face. (She gets like this over toys she CAN have, too.) My office has a big old window that takes up one whole wall on the opposite side from my desk, and there are two grad student desks there that butt up to just the base of that window. Yesterday, Matilda decided she was going to get a better view from those windows and started trying to climb onto them, apparently so she could make herself a little nest on the desk right up where it was cool. I don't even know, y'all.

Benton makes me laugh all the time: he is ridiculous. Whenever he gets excited, he prances like a hackney pony with his knees up in the air around his face, wiggling like the proudest boy in the universe. I thought he might grow out of it but he's two now and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

Tribble got excited enough last night to grab a stuffy and insist on playing fetch with it while Matilda chased her and occasionally yelled. She's on pain meds for arthritis this week, experimentally, and I am really enjoying watching her enjoy spending time with the infant more frequently. One of the reasons I even have Matilda now is that I wanted to have a chance for Tribble, who loves puppies when they aren't making her ouchy, to help raise and socialize my next puppy while that was still even plausible for her to do with her quality of life. I'm really enjoying her enjoying the baby more often now that she's feeling looser and better.

#matilda #15 weeks #tribble #12 years #benton #2 years

[horsesarecreatures]

My first pony was a mare named Stitch N Thyme with a trot faster than most horses could canter, and very flashy. She was an auction pull (not directly by me) and the auction said that was her name. But she did not come with papers or breed info. She was presumed to be a hackney cross. But I've seen a lot of Pryme Thyme descendants move the same way as her, and have that name suffix. Stitch looked NOTHING like an Arab, and it never occured to me until this morning that she might be an Arab cross, but genetics can be funny sometimes, so now I'm wondering...

Unfortunately my old computer was located at the shore house during Hurricane Sandy, and when the house flooded most photos of her were lost. I would reach out to my cousin Claire who I gave her to, but my uncle who is even more narcissistic than my mom ghosted the whole family and moved from NJ to Hawaii about 5 years ago without telling anyone...

I have no contact info for my cousin and her existence, other than an Etsy account, is non-existent on the internet.

If Stitch is part Arab, I doubt it would be more than 1/4. But wouldn't it be funny if it was her that subconsciously started my love of Polish Arabs and not Snappy?

Edit: found a picture of her. Idk am I nuts? I really don't see Arabian in her looks, but her movement matched Basks', and she was very smart and sensitive, though not as cooperative as Snappy and Amba.

[teamyellremade]

arabian unicorns (fancy desert horse unicorns)

quarter horse unicorns (COWBOY unicorns)

hackney pony unicorns (high-stepping flashy unicorns)

clydesdale unicorns (big chunky draft unicorns)

shetland pony unicorns (very tiny, stout fluffy unicorns)

#hey who gives a digit?