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==The Gotham Royal Hotel==
Stairwell: Floor 13
A barbed tendril shot out from behind Jenna; pulling Gar off the railing, it caught him just as he reached the thirteenth floor and threw him at Franco's feet. The flamethrower fell out of Gar’s hand and rolled out of his reach. As he hit the ground, his forehead scraped against the concrete floor. Shocked, Jenna's eyes followed the tentacle back to the source, her mouth open, as the red tendril retracted into Ramsay Rosso's arm.
"In answer to your earlier question, Miss Duffy," Rosso spoke, tilting his head towards Franco. "That's how I healed him."
"Didn’t exactly stick the landing, did he?” Franco chuckled, kneeling beside Gar. “What’s the matter, Firefly? Did you leave your jetpack in your other suitcase? How very careless!" he remarked, clamping a hand on Gar’s chin.
In return, Gar headbutted him. Hard. Blood gushed out of Franco’s nose, and the mobster stumbled backwards, taking a moment to steady himself. "You’ve got a meta on the payroll?” Gar growled at him. “Afraid of a fair fight, you coward?"
“Not afraid, no,” Franco stated, wiping the blood off his face with a white handkerchief. “But I am practical. Why exert myself at all?”
Gar readied himself for a second lunge, eying his fallen flamethrower lying between Rosso’s legs.
"Ah-ah-ah. Think it through, Firefly. Whatever slight lover's tiff we're having is irrelevant. You kill me in cold blood and she'll never love you," Franco goaded him. “Oh, not that you could.”
As he rambled, Gar’s eyes locked with Jenna’s.
“Maybe not,” Gar replied, rising to his feet. “But if it frees her from you, then so be it.”
Franco’s smile faltered. “Shame.”
As Gar raised his fist, something peculiar happened. His arm stopped in mid-air, mere inches from Franco’s face. The rest of his body followed suit, as though he had been frozen in place. His thoughts, his feelings, were still his own, but now his body seemed to answer to an outside force.
“How-?” he gasped, struggling to push the word through his lips.
Rosso eyed the fresh wound on Gar’s forehead, smiling. “That’s a nasty cut, Mr Lynns. And one cut is all it takes.”
Franco grinned, as he nudged Gar’s arm out of the way, and struck his face with a right hook; payback for his broken nose. “What, you thought that hentai thing was the only weapon in Ramsay’s arsenal?” he tutted.
"Davey, stop it, don’t hurt him!” Jenna urged him. But try as she might, she found herself unable to intervene. Her eyes widened; her body was frozen in the same manner that Gar’s was. “Why-? Why can't I move?" she struggled.
Franco stepped away from Gar, and sauntered over to Jenna's side, running his hand through her strawberry blonde hair: "Cause, I don't want you to," he whispered, giving Rosso a nod of approval.
Rosso took a step towards Gar, his brown irises replaced with pitch black eyes. A deep sense of unease washed over Gar as the man's form shifted to that of his true self: Bloodwork. First, his slick black hair fell out; next, his clothing tore apart as his size expanded; Red muscle pushed its way through his skin and blue and black veins rose to the surface
"I can feel your blood pumping through your veins, from your head to your toes," Rosso spoke, a sick sense of pleasure taking hold of him. His throat pulsed as he taunted his paralyzed prey: “The possibilities are endless. I could burst an artery, cause a brain haemorrhage. I can create a blood clot. Give you a heart attack. Or, I could simply do this;"
And then, against Gar’s will, he brought his own right fist crashing against his mouth. His knees buckled, but he stayed upright. The next blow came from his left hand. Then his right again. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. With each punch, more blood shot out from Gar’s mouth. With each punch, his body shook but stayed standing. As the pattern repeated, Franco giggled with childlike glee, placing an overly familiar hand across Jenna’s back. And though she tried to close her eyes, save herself from the heartbreak, Rosso wouldn’t let her.
“Davey, stop him! Please, stop him!” Jenna pleaded, tears falling down her face.
But Franco didn’t care. For him, this was merely a lesson in loyalty, a way to punish Jenna for her ‘disobedience.’ "Oh, Firefly, man, why are you hitting yourself?" Franco snickered. "Why are you hitting yourself?"
"Davey, stop it! Stop it Davey! You’ve got me, let him go!” Jenna shrieked.
“I do have you, don’t I?” Franco’s smile became a bitter sneer and his grip on her back tightened.
“But I can hardly invite Ramsay on our honeymoon, can I? This, is the only way you’re gonna learn.”
At this, Rosso raised his fist and Gar involuntarily stepped forward. His movements were unnatural, haunting; his arms hung limp at his side like a ragdoll and his feet dragged along the ground. Gripping the railing, Gar was forced to clamber atop the bannister overlooking the stairwell. Rosso’s hand shook slightly and Gar’s whole body lurched forwards before regaining its precarious footing.
“Davey, for god's sake, I'll go with you, just stop it!" Jenna screamed.
Franco raised a hand, halting Rosso.
"No tricks?" his eyes narrowed.
Jenna swallowed. "No tricks."
Franco clapped his hands together in childlike delight. “Well, that’s alright, then!” he declared.
Disappointed, Rosso tossed Gar aside and relinquished his control over Jenna.
"Just keep him pinned there for now, Ramsay, then come find us at the rendezvous,” Franco ordered, grabbing Jenna by her arm. “I don't want him following us." Unnoticed by either of them, Jenna kicked Gar’s flamethrower over to his side, before departing with Franco. Though badly injured, Gar mustered all the strength he could to unscrew the fuel tank, and with his other hand, retrieved his lighter from inside his pants’ pocket. He had to fight through the control. For Drury’s blessing, for Jenna’s sacrifice to mean anything, he had to fight this. He stuck an old tissue in the bottleneck of the canister, and flicked the lighter.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rosso chuckled. He could only see Gar’s hands fidgeting, not the weapon he was crafting. “My lifeblood is inside your veins. Your body, your will, is Bloodwork’s, to do with as I please.”
"That's the thing about blood…” Gar grimaced, and with every ounce of strength he had left, he pushed the lit projectile along the ground towards Rosso.
“It boils."
The canister exploded under Rosso’s feet; bathing his body in bright orange flames. Rosso screamed in agony as his red skin burst and popped. Finally, he stumbled over the ledge, falling thirteen stories and as he hit the ground, he popped like a balloon, erupting into a puddle of hot red goop. Gar didn't linger for too long. Whether Rosso reformed or not was unimportant, not when Jenna was still at that maniac’s mercy. Pursuing Franco, Gar swung open the door to the 13th floor corridor, ducking around corner and corner until he reached the passage entrance.
Gar and Franco locked eyes from the opposite ends of the hallway. Franco gave Gar a mocking salute, and then locked the passageway behind himself and Jenna. Gar limped towards the tunnel entrance, pounding his fists against the metal door until his knuckles bled, but it was no use. They were gone.
===The East End: Six Years Ago===
Johnny LaMonica exited the apartment building, blissfully unaware that he was being watched. A huge smile on his face, he clicked his heels and counted his stack of 20 dollar bills. ‘Another successful day out,’ he smirked as he propped up the collar of his leather jacket and ran a comb through his greasy black mane of hair. What happened next was a bit of a blur for LaMonica; a strand of red web bigger than any spider’s latched itself onto his jacket and propelled him upwards into the clutches of a purple and orange figure, dangling him off the fire escape.
“Christ! Look, pal, I got money!” LaMonica panicked, waving his wad of cash in his assailant’s face.
“Drug money.”
“What? Sure, if that’s what you’re into, maybe-”
“No.” The assailant slapped the money out of LaMonica’s hands. “Every week, you hit up this block and sell your skag. It stops tonight.”
“Look, I can’t just up and leave. People… They, uh, depend on me! It’s the False Facers, really, they give me the H! I only sell it, I swear!”
"I don’t care. The East End is off limits. Don't let me catch you dealing again. If I do, I'll drop you from a taller building."
"Taller wh-?"
The Black Spider let go, and LaMonica plummeted two stories, landing on his leg.
"You broke my leg, you psycho!" LaMonica whimpered, tilting his head to his stack of twenties. They had landed in the puddle right beside him.
==Gotham Royal Hotel: Lobby==
Drury sat in the center of the room, surrounded by broken glass and pine needles. Bruce had stripped Carson down to the black undersuit he wore beneath his armour, and handed him over to the GCPD officers stationed outside. He had not yet mentioned Drury’s involvement to them, well aware that Bullock would jump at the opportunity to cuff him personally.
Bruce bent down and offered Drury his hand. Their eyes made contact and a sense of acceptance washed over them both. ‘It was time.’ Drury bit his lip and accepted Bruce’s hand.
"Where's the suit?" Batman asked.
Drury paused. It took him a few seconds to realise that Bruce had meant his Moth costume. "It's in a car around back,” he mumbled. “Was gonna grab it when things got bad, but well, they really got bad."
Batman murmured understandingly, as he escorted him to the awaiting police barricade. A group of men in white hazmat suits were moving the two large cloudburst devices onto a S.T.A.R. Labs flatbed. Drury cast his eyes over to Sharpe and Mayo outside, reluctantly giving their statements to two young officers, and smiled. Sharpe was complaining that Krill’s belt had been confiscated before he had the chance to test it.
“By the way, I won that belt in a trial by combat. I thought you bozos cared about the law!”
Drury turned his head back to Bruce. "I’ll keep my end. Confess to Ra's' murder, to helping Bane, Slabside… And do my time for the GCPD raid. But that means you gotta let Gaige go, understand? You gotta let them all go."
Drury’s lip curled as Sharpe’s echoes of “Police State! Police State!” filled the air.
"Your father in-law is still part of a major criminal conspiracy. There will be an investigation."
"Yeah, and you'll do what you have to. I know. But if Sionis knows he was involved, in any of this-”
"He'll have my protection. And The Wayne Foundation will cover any medical bills."
"Good." Drury turned his head to look at Eric, standing beside Cass at the police convoy. "Go easy on him, alright? He did good. They all did, actually."
Bruce nodded. "The Outcasts will be moved to GCPD, until Jim can arrange for them to be transferred to Blackgate. The Misfits will be kept here for now. Once they can corroborate your story, they’ll be free to go,” he addressed Drury. “Provided, Chancer doesn’t make anyone else cry.”
Drury caught Bruce’s eye and laughed.
Bruce smiled softly in turn. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"Well, if it's easier, I suppose I could just fake my death," Drury smirked back.
Bruce's smile vanished instantly.
Drury rolled his eyes playfully. "Yeah, maybe some other time.”
As they approached the police barricade, Drury stopped. “Wait. My kids. Please, let me say goodbye."
Bruce nodded to him, and at Gordon, positioned at the other end of the roadblock. Drury reached into his back pocket and frowned.
"Sorry, do you have your phone on you? I sorta fell on mine."
==Wist Residence: Gotham Outskirts==
David Wist was dressed in a red flannel shirt, an elegant gold watch around his wrist. Sat on the porch swing, he was watching the sun rise on his homestead, sipping a beer. There was something particularly special about a Gotham sunrise. A reassurance that you had survived the night. A promise that things were going to be ok. Silly, Wist realised, but he did used to rob art galleries dressed like an earth wire. His momentary bliss was interrupted by voices inside the house. No stranger to home invaders, he jumped to his feet and ran inside, stopping in his tracks as he caught sight of the bizarre situation. Sighing, Wist put his hand to his forehead. "Margaret, hand it over.”
“Margaret!" he repeated sternly.
"I found it!" his wife snapped at him, holding aloft a silver prosthetic limb. Axel was chasing her around the room, wearing nothing but a white towel draped around his waist.
"You stole it," Wist stated, crossing his arms. Watching from the landing upstairs, Axel’s sister, Kitten, giggled shrilly. His older brother, Simon, covered his mouth with his hands, trying to stifle a laugh of his own, while his younger brother, Cammy, was laughing so heavily that green bubbles were blowing from his nose
"It was shiny, all shiny and chrome and new, it's mine!" Pye spat back.
"Christ sake... Give me the boy's arm!"
The prosthesis, flew through the air into Wist's awaiting hand.
"Not fair! Not fair!" his wife protested.
"You want something shiny? Here;" Wist opened his coat pocket and pulled out a single silver spoon. No sooner had he waved it in front of her face, had she ripped it from his grasp and ran out the room.
"I am... sorry about her," Wist apologised, handing Axel his arm back. "She's a lovely woman, really, and I do love her. But we do have our struggles..."
"S'not worth apologising over," Axel shrugged as he sat at the dining table and screwed his arm back into place. "I get it. Mom, Miranda, used to complain to Dad about her challenges, something about her nymphomania."
"Kleptomania," Wist said sternly, sitting opposite him.
"That," Axel blushed. "Earrings that went missing and so on. Dad, thought it was funny. Used to, I mean. Never was all that self aware, I suppose. He used to say to me, 'Son, there are two types of people in this world; the tricksters, and the ones getting tricked.'"
"Hence the Trickster, I imagine. Still, we don't all get to choose our gimmicks. Mags’ with her compulsions, that poor fella Karlo, Croc… Hell, I wanted to be a Clock Villain: I used to be a watchmaker, you see. But Slugsy and Tockman swooped in first, and well, the novelty wore off."
The landline phone rang, and Kitten thundered down the stairs, snatching the phone before Axel or Wist had a chance to stand up.
"Daddy!" Kitten squealed into the receiver excitedly.
Drury bowed his head. He had hoped it wouldn't be her. He always did struggle giving her bad news. "Carson and his associates are in GCPD custody. It's over, you can come home," he spoke, almost robotically, his mouth dry.
"Home? To Keystone? Or home home?" Kitten inquired. Her brothers had joined her at the phone, craning their necks so that they could overhear their father.
"If you want to go back to Keystone, that's fine, I'm sure Axel's friends can work something out. But I thought... I thought you would maybe like to come back to the manor?"
"I don't get it. They lifted your exile?" Simon stood up.
"They caught him," Axel stated.
Drury paused. "Uncle Chuck and Mr Reardon are gonna help Mr Wist move you back in. Wayne Enterprises is going to handle the finances and your Uncle Norbert is gonna help with any paperwork. But... you'll be living with Grandpa Gaige for a while."
"But I don't understand! Where will you be?" Kitten whined.
"Kitten... I did some bad things. I need to answer for them. Got to keep you safe. Grandpa Gaige-"
"We don't want Grandpa Gaige, we want you!" she protested, her voice becoming shriller still.
“I know, cupcake, I know.”
Drury moved the phone away from his ear and dropped his arm down by his side.
"They'll understand," Bruce stated.
“You don’t get it… Every missed birthday, every cancelled family dinner, the divorce, Miranda…” Drury wiped the tears from his eyes. "They shouldn't have to understand. They've been forced to their whole damn lives."
===Six Years Ago===
Johnny LaMonica finished recounting his story to his superior, a blond mobster dressed in a lilac suit. The mobster smirked, and took in a deep puff of an expensive cigar. "So, the East End has a guardian angel... I'll be damned..." he spoke, blowing white smoke into the dimly lit office. A confederate flag, hung from the rafters like a banner.
"You’ll be damned?” LaMonica hopped forwards, waving his crutches in the mobster’s face. “We’re all damned! He’s gotta go!”
The mobster swivelled his chair around, and turned to the bodyguard stood behind him, a man dressed in a set of purple and gold, high-tech armour. “You believe this shit?” he chuckled.
Lightning Bug crossed his arms, but said nothing.
“Boss-!” LaMonica protested.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” The blond mobster nodded insincerely, rising from the leather chair. He walked over to the other end of the room, and lifted a loose floorboard; beneath it, was several bags of pure heroin. "You come back tonight, and you take these to your guys on the street. Spread the word; From now on, you only peddle this. Least, until our pest problem is dealt with."
He threw a sample at the dealer, who fumbled as he caught it.
"You think this guy's a junkie?"
"What, you think this guy's a good Samaritan, hitting smack dealers out of the goodness of his heart? In this neighbourhood?"
LaMonica shrugged.
"He's a junkie, alright. Just traded his needle for a mask. And if he ain't, he's sure to know someone who is. That's how we nail him."
===Gotham Royal: Floor 12===
Roman Sionis exited the elevator, a scowl on his skull-like face. He did not appreciate the time he’d spent trapped in his own elevator, nor did he appreciate the irony that it had been the Red Hood who had discovered him and Li, and he certainly didn’t appreciate the Hood’s muffled snickering, as he and Li shuffled past him. Sionis held his smartphone to his ear, in mid-conversation with Warren White.
“Nah, I don’t know who this Carlton guy is,” White explained, standing outside the hotel, dressed in a navy-blue overcoat. “Some Firebug wannabe. Had some kind of beef with Walker, I overheard him screaming his name. Oh, they got Walker too, by the way. Guess the cops didn’t take too kindly to him robbing their precinct.”
"And the Bats?" Sionis asked, throwing a cautious glance in Red Hood’s direction.
“C’mon,” White chuckled. "They got nothing on you. If they had, you'd be in that van alongside Day."
"Thanks, Warren. Send the word out to the capos:"
"The Doc? Already on it. He can't hide for long, we’ll get him. Oh, hey, if you hurry, you can catch the perp walk. Hell, give me a sec and I’ll get you a photo. It's like Abbey Road over here." White snapped his fingers excitedly as the quartet of Krill, Day, Drury and Carson were directed towards the police transport by a squad of SWAT officers.
As Carson was carted away, Paul Booker's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell was that?" he rasped as Big Sir draped a comfort blanket over his shoulders.
===Ground Floor: Lobby===
Joey Rigger climbed down the grand staircase. He had woken up in the hallway alone; Gaige had vanished, Drury and Carson had taken their fight elsewhere and Gar was probably with Jenna, sitting in a tree somewhere. His head still thumping, Joey vaguely remembered a black figure shushing him. Flannegan was already there, his elbows resting on the balcony.
"That's Drury!" he gasped. "What's he doing?"
Flannegan’s nose wrinkled, his thin face lined with disgust. "He cut a deal.”
~-~
Jenna and Franco walked down the passageway, their only light source being strips of luminous tape stuck to the floor. After about a mile of walking in absolute silence, Jenna spoke up:
"You were wrong, you know," she said softly.
"What's that, Jelly Bean?" Franco asked with faux-interest.
"I do hope he kills you."
VILLE VALO from HIM (2nd Prototipe)
Custom Taeyang by Sheryl Designs to Karlfromleads
MODIFICATIONS:
Complette Make Up
Replaced acrylic eyes
©2007-2010 Sheryl Designs Eyemech Modification
Jesus answered and said to her, "If you knew the gift of God, and who it is who says to you, 'Give Me a drink,' you would have asked Him, and He would have given you living water." The woman said to Him, "Sir, You have nothing to draw with, and the well is deep. Where then do You get that living water? . . . Jesus answered and said to her, "Whoever drinks of this water will thirst again, but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life." John 4:10-14
I made this with my own photos and textures. The eye was there in the picture already for some reason, so I added the face of Jesus (as I see Him, you know), as I was making this about Him anyway. Look closely to see the "watermark". View On Black
I like this. I hope you do too. See you later. ;))
It's easy to pick holes in the legend of Thomas the Rhymer. Many of the references to him and his predictions were written centuries after his death, but folklore is not necessarily unreliable just because it's verbal, and there's a good argument that in this case, where there's smoke there may once have been fire!
The problem is that the historical reality of True Thomas has been almost completely submerged in the tidal wave of myth and legend that has grown up around him over the centuries since. While it seems reasonable to dismiss the story that he "disappeared for seven years to live with the Queen of Elfland and returned to Ercildoune with the gift of prophecy", there are plenty of predictions attributed to him that may either be genuine or may have contained some degree of truth.
Popular lore recounts that he prophesied some of the great events in Scottish history, including the death of Alexander III of Scotland in 1286. He is said to have told the Earl of Dunbar:
"On the morrow, afore noon, shall blow the greatest wind that ever was heard before in Scotland."
There having been no significant change in the weather by the time his lordship sat down for his lunch the following day, a "please explain" was sent to Thomas, who replied that the appointed hour had not yet come, shortly after which, news arrived from Fife of the king's death.
Another of the Rhymer's predictions is said to go like this:
"When the Yowes o' Gowrie come to land,
The Day o' Judgment's near at hand"
A "Yowe" in the country parts of Scotland, is a ewe and the Yowes of Gowrie were two large rounded ovine looking rocks in the Tay estuary, just off the shore from Invergowrie, close to the outlet of the Fowlis Burn. Why and how should two large rocks ever come ashore you might well wonder? Well they had been observed over a period of many years to be getting slowly but surely closer to the shoreline! Or to be more precise, the shoreline was getting closer to them! Then in the 19th century they finally did come ashore. The Dundee to Perth railway line was built along that part of the coast line, seemingly just offshore of the yowes, after which the area to landward of the railway was used as a rubbish dump - supposedly burying the yowes in the process. So technically the yowes have "come to land", without triggering the Day of Judgement, although there are parts of Dundee where it probably can't come soon enough!
Perhaps my favourite of the Rhymer's prophecies, concerns Fyvie Castle in Aberdeenshire. He is said to have said:
"Fyvie, Fyvie thou'se never thrive,
lang's there's in thee stanes three :
There's ane intill the highest tower,
There's ane intill the ladye's bower,
There's ane aneath the water-yett,
And thir three stanes ye'se never get."
What does that mean when translated loosely into understandable English?
It is believed that there were three special stones at Fyvie - weeping stones. They remained permanently damp, whatever the weather and the whereabouts of two of them are unknown. The Rhymer's prediction is interpreted as meaning that until all three were located, no eldest son would succeed to his father at Fyvie. The 'Ladye's bower' is the castle's charter room, and the one surviving stone is kept there to this day. Whether there is another one built into the castles 'highest tower', nobody seems to know, but the biggest problem is the one said to be underneath the water-gate. This would place it in the River Ythan, which runs around the castle, and trying to identify a damp stone is a river is of course a difficult task!
So what about the prediction, that no oldest son would inherit? I have known this story, without questioning it, for most of my life, having been solemnly told that indeed, no eldest son had ever inherited the castle. But in the interests of science, I though I would spend some time now trying to find out whether that's true!
Fyvie was originally (before the time of the Rhymer a royal castle. We know that King Alexander II signed charters here in February 1222 and The Bruce stayed here in the early years of the 14th century. Since then, it has been owned by five families - the Prestons, the Meldrums, the Setons, the Gordons and the Forbes-Leiths.
Actually, technically, there were six families! In 1370, King Robert II granted Fyvie to his son and heir John (later Robert III), who in turn passed the castle to his cousin, Sir James Lindsay. However, in 1388 the Scots had a rare victory over the English at the Battle of Otterburn, during which Ralph de Percy was captured by Sir Henry Preston, the brother-in-law of Sir James Lindsay. When Robert III came to the throne two years later in 1390 he purchased the rights to Ralph de Percy's ransom by transferring ownership of Fyvie Castle from Sir James Lindsay to Sir Henry Preston. This would seem rather unfair, although I imagine Sir James would have been adequately compensated, but it does of course set the prophesy off in the right direction - Sir James' heir never inherited Fyvie!
So leaving Sir James Lyndsay to one side, the first effective owner of Fyvie in the post royal era, was Sir Henry Preston. When he died around the year 1433, he wasn't succeeded by his son, because he didn't have any! Fyvie went to Sir Alexander Meldrum of that ilk, who had married one of Sir Henry's two daughters.
Fyvie remained in the hands of the Meldrums for about 160 years, passing through the hands of several (probably five) generations of the family, but as we don't know the genealogy of this part of the Meldrum family, we can't say whether an eldest son ever inherited. Probably yes, but the accuracy of the prophesy can't be disproved! In 1596, Fyvie was sold by the Meldrums to Alexander Seton, later Chancellor of Scotland.
Alexander Seton, 1st Earl of Dunfermline and Chancellor of Scotland, was born in 1555. His first wife, to whom he was already married when he bought Fyvie, was Lillias Drummond and after producing five children for him, all girls, it is said that Lord Seton, blaming his wife for the lack of a son and heir, began an affair with her cousin (and future wife) Grizel Leslie. Betrayed and heartbroken Lillias died not long after learning of the affair, .
Lillias Drummond died in May 1601 and Lord Seton married Grizel Leslie a few months later in October 1601. On their wedding night at Fyvie it is said that they were both distracted by a 'mournful moaning' from outside their bedroom window. A search for the source of the noises produced no results but the next morning the words D. LILLIAS DRUMMOND were found carved into the stone sill outside their bedroom window, in letters three inches high and upside down, the window being over 50 feet above ground level. The letters remain visible to this day and since that time, Fyvie Castle is said to have been haunted by a lady in green, roaming the corridors of the castle, crying at her betrayal by her husband and leaving behind the scent of Rose petals!
How much of that is true, I don’t know, but what is true is that before her death in 1606, Grizel Leslie produced two daughters and a son Charles, and that Charles died young! It was up to Lord Seton's third wife to produce his successor, another Charles.
The eldest son and heir of Charles Seton, 2nd Earl of Dunfermline, also named Charles, died in 1672, just before his father! Alexander, the 2nd son became 3rd Earl of Dunfermline, but dying unmarried, the title passed to his brother James.
James Seton, 4th Earl of Dunfermline, died in 1694, also unmarried - which was somewhat immaterial because, having supported the Jacobite cause in the 1689 Rising, his castle and estate had already been confiscated by the crown. Fyvie remained a crown property until it was sold in 1733.
The purchaser in 1733 was William Gordon, 2nd Earl of Aberdeen. His wife at the time was Anne Gordon, daughter of the 2nd Duke of Gordon and their eldest son William inherited Fyvie from his father. But those that have read this far and are hoping the Rhymer's prophesy will hold true will be delighted to learn that Lord William Gordon had already been married, twice and had two sons by his 2nd wife. So once again, the eldest son and heir didn't inherit Fyvie.
General William Gordon, 1st of Fyvie died in 1816 when, unfortunately for Thomas the Rhymer, who now can never be taken seriously again, was succeeded by his only son William Gordon, 2nd of Fyvie Castle. He died without children in 1847, whereupon Fyvie passed to his nephew, Charles Gordon 3rd of Fyvie.
When the 3rd laird died in 1851, Fyvie passed to his son and heir, for the 2nd (and last) time that we know of in five centuries, William Cosmo Gordon. Either he or his executors put Fyvie up for sale and it sold in 1889 to the 5th and last family to own it.
Fyvie's new owner was Alexander John Forbes-Leith, later 1st Baron Leith of Fyvie. He was a local boy who had made his fortune in the steel industry in the US of A and used Fyvie to house his huge collection of paintings, tapestries, armour and furniture. His only son and heir, Percy Forbes-Leith, 2nd Lt Royal Dragoons, was killed aged 19 in 1900 during the Boer War.
In 1982 Fyvie Castle was once again placed on the market, and in 1984 it was purchased by the National Trust for Scotland.
So could Thomas the Rhymer predict the future? Well it's my belief he could do so every bit as accurately as Nostradamus!
NonViolent...this one's for you :)
This is Kevin. Well, Kevin's back anyway :)
I met him at my niece's graduation party. I asked him if I could take a pic of his back so I could use it for my anatomy class and he obliged. He said he was going to get the organs tattooed behind the bones, but he wants to quit smoking first so he can get pink lungs tattooed under those ribs
:)
About the picture! I had this shot framed. I knew what I was looking for. When I saw it in the viewfinder, I snapped and almost died! My flash didn't fire (This guy was standing at a keg under a big tarp) The ONLY thing that I did to this was brighten it up so that I could share it with everyone! This is the originial shot that I took. yes, I know, it's completely black!
i114.photobucket.com/albums/n247/PurpleGuitar_2006/IMG_15...
"This picture is #4 in my 100 strangers project. Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at www.100Strangers.com"
Met him in the park today. Funny sense of humour. Great fun to talk with.
Original File: john_3103.PSD
My Love is playing with his new toy our granddaughter bought him for Father's Day..
Remember this guy, diagnosed with dementia and could not hardly do anything but sit in a chair and stare down..He was so sick and his wife was so very worried, but they both knew a God who would listen when they prayed....He has been absent from Flickr since 2012 becasue he wasn't able to be here..He lost 50 pounds and had so many things wrong with him, it seemed all hope was gone......But like I said we both knew a God.......OUR GOD...
I have put his camera in his hands so many times in three years, but this summer is different, he has now gained back all his weight and had to go off of blood pressure pills because his blood pressure is so normal.....I could go on about how he had to go off of other medicine's but it would be such a long story....I just want to Praise God and give him all the glory...
PRAISE GOD..
The last couple of days, he has actually wanted to hold his camera and guess what, he actually went to the back yard and sit with me.....I am so very blessed, WE ARE SO VERY BLESSED....
And we did put some of his pictures on....He is such a good photographer...God Bless His Heart..
He is so very proud of this picture...
www.flickr.com/photos/80912594@N00/18317011034/in/datepos...
BIBLICAL CONTEXT: Psalm 24:1-6 NLT
(from biblegateway.com)
1 The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it.
The world and all its people belong to him.
2 For he laid the earth’s foundation on the seas
and built it on the ocean depths.
3 Who may climb the mountain of the Lord?
Who may stand in his holy place?
4 Only those whose hands and hearts are pure,
who do not worship idols
and never tell lies.
5 They will receive the Lord’s blessing
and have a right relationship with God their savior.
6 Such people may seek you
and worship in your presence, O God of Jacob.
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5 MORE THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW:
1. Like it or not, we are ALL sinners: As the Scriptures say, “No one is righteous—not even one. No one is truly wise; no one is seeking God. All have turned away; all have become useless. No one does good, not a single one.” (Romans 3:10-12 NLT)
2. The punishment for sin is death: When Adam sinned, sin entered the world. Adam’s sin brought death, so death spread to everyone, for everyone sinned. (Romans 5:12 NLT)
3. Jesus is our only hope: But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners. (Romans 5:8 NLT) For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 6:23 NLT)
4. SALVATION is by GRACE through FAITH in JESUS: God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago. (Ephesians 2:8-10 NLT)
5. Accept Jesus and receive eternal life: If you openly declare that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. (Romans 10:9 NLT) But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God. (John 1:12 NLT) And this is what God has testified: He has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son has life; whoever does not have God’s Son does not have life. (1 John 5:11-12 NLT)
Read the Bible for yourself. Allow the Lord to speak to you through his Word. YOUR ETERNITY IS AT STAKE!
The Legend of Face Rock
HIYU COLE KOPET KUMTX HOW SEE
(Many years; I forget how many)
Seatka, the evil spirit of the ocean, lived along the coast. No good came from him. All the coast tribes feared him, for they knew how dangerous and treacherous he was. The tribes of the far mountains feared him not and when they came to the coast to trade, they brought with them their families, horses and dogs, and the children carried their pets.
The great Chief Siskiyou was coming that Chinook moon of long ago, bringing with him his beautiful daughter Ewauna. This being a great honor, a potlatch was planned by the four chiefs of the coast. Necomah, being the strongest of them all, was appointed by the three other chiefs manager of the affair.
Because of the determination to show how prosperous the coast nations were, the potlatch of all potlatches was decided upon. The days before the potlatch were busy days for the coast tribes. Necomah ordered great quantities of clams and mussels gathered and placed in huge mounds covered with sea moss and spicy leaves of the myrtle tree ready for the fires. Eight fat bear were ready also for the hot spit. The Elks brought one hundred salmon cleaned and ready for spit of green willow boughs under which glowed driftwood fires, the hot coals of which were best for the roasting. The old squaws tended these. The Sixes brought the meat of a dozen elk; the Rogues twenty cayuses loaded with deer dressed ready for the feast. Under a long arbor of cedar trees the tables were placed – logs split down the middle were used with the flat side up. From cedar bark the squaws made huge trays which were filled with huckleberries and wild honey. Spoons of clam shells, plates of bark and cups hollowed from burnt wood kept the squaws busy, although plenty of time was allowed for the preparations. On the hills back of the camp a lookout was placed to herald the approaching visitors. On the bluff, armed warriors were watching so that Seatka could not cause trouble.
With a yell the runners tell of the coming of the Siskiyou a day and a night off. Into the pit go the bear, elk and deer, covered deep with hot bark. The clams are not cooked until the last hour before the feast.
First to arrive was Chief Siskiyou with the beautiful daughter. He encamped at some distance from the potlatch grounds. Ewauna had never before seen the ocean. To her it was most beautiful for she thought that at last she had found the place where the beautiful clouds were made that she saw each day from her home in the mountains. She laughed at the warnings of the old men to be careful not to wander alone near the bluff as Seatka might see her and claim her for his own. She brought with her her dog Komax and her cat and kittens which she carried in a basket. Her father had bought the cat from a French trapper who had carried it from Montreal. The cat and kittens were great curiosities to the coast tribes who had never before seen a domestic cat. The wonder of the Tenas Puss Puss was passed from tribe to tribe.
In the early morn of the second day came the four chiefs dressed in their magnificent regalia. Necomah with salutations of good will magnanimously presented his gift of wampum inviting the great chief and his people to the greatest of all potlatches given in honor of the magnitude of Chief Siskiyou’s power. This impressed the great chief and he accepted with stoical indifference. The four chiefs were followed by Chief Siskiyou and in single file the men were followed by the women.
The wind wafted the odors of the great vians of the feast. It quickened their steps. Soon all were seated. Necomah gave the welcome talk.
Klakahama my friend;
Klakahama talk to great spirit –
Great spirit talk to Klakahama:
I make plenty sun, plenty grass,
Plenty bear, plenty elk, plenty fish.
I make plenty eat eat.
All day they feasted until drunk with food. They slept where they sat. Ewauna slipped away from the sleeping camp. Calling her dog and taking her cat and kittens she started for the beach. She wished to see old Wecoma, the sea, making the white clouds. The full Chinook moon hung low over the sea – lucid, resplendent in all its glory. Ewauna ran and danced with delight, singing her dance song to the moon. So happy was she with the grandeur of this beautiful Wecoma, she danced nearer and nearer to the water, feeling the wonder at the cool touch of it.
She dropped her basket, telling Komax to watch. She ran out into Wecoma and swam and swam and swam – wild with glee. On and on and on she swam, paying no heed to the dog’s cry of danger. On and on far from shore she swam. The friendly moon became obscured as by a black hand and the next thing she knew, she was being grasped by a fearsome creature who came out of the water near her. Komax, who had failed to make her hear his danger call, swam out with the basket and, as the monster seized his beloved mistress, he stuck his sharp teeth into his hand. Howling with rage he kicked the dog off, causing him to drop the basket. Grabbing the cat and kittens he threw them far out into the sea. Seatka held the girl tightly, trying to make her look at him, as his treacherous power lay in his eyes. This she refused to do, telling him she never never would, keeping her face toward the friendly moon.
At sunrise her father awoke and finding his daughter gone gave the alarm. They all rushed to the sea. Fearfully they gazed out, seeing the dawn break through the white mist, and then they saw the beautiful face of Ewauna lying on the sea smiling up at the white clouds coming from the north. To the west they saw her cat and kittens and near the beach poor Komax baying for his mistress. Behind the large rocks near the shore sits Seatka, gazing at Ewauna still trying to catch her eye. But never, never does she falter. Many, many moons she has been there. Now they have all turned to stone.
-Written by O.K. Kronenberg
Sometimes the only way to high art is through deep pockets.
Perhaps this occurred to Andy Warhol when BMW asked him to paint its M1 Group 4 race car in 1977. Warhol, already a superstar, was constantly fascinated with the melding of the commercial and the artistic. BMW was happily molding America as its largest export market.
In the past 40 years, there have been just 17 BMW Art Cars, on average one every three years. Out of all of its Art Cars, this M1 -- already nearly priceless as an automobile, let alone one breathed upon by the most recognizable name in modern art -- is BMW's most expensive and valuable. Recently, it was shown for just two days at Paris Photo LA at Paramount Studios, the prestigious art festival's first foray outside France.
It was there that we spoke with Thomas Girst, whose official title is "Head of Cultural Engagement" for BMW Group. He earned a PhD in Art History from Hamburg University and studied at NYU, where he focused on the conceptual artist Marcel Duchamp. At BMW, he acts as the curator of its collection of Art Cars. Girst readily admitted that the reason BMW's cultural department exists -- the reason he is able to stay employed -- is purely to further the aims of BMW: "It would be negligent to say that we're doing this for philanthropic or altruistic reasons, it's really about the image, the reputation, the visibility of the brand, as well as, really, being a good corporate citizen.
"Because the way companies are being looked at from the outside now doesn't really have to do with the core business, but what do they give back to society? So, culture is one of these things."
There's an air of validity in such honesty. Girst never was a car guy, but he slowly became one: After watching the engineers and designers in Munich collaborate on BMWs, he came to understand why artists in the early 1900s fell in love with the automobile. A great, tremendous statue, "our sculpture of the 20th century," according to the Futurist Manifesto of 1909, a statement extolling a new artistic philosophy. It was the world's splendor "enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed --" one of the first public love letters to the automobile. Certainly the famed BMW designer Chris Bangle thought so, drawing his inspiration from the Manifesto and citing automobiles as "mobile works of art." One can only help but wonder the discussions Bangle and Girst might have had in the BMW staff-room cafeteria.
Warhol also dabbled in automotive experimentation. His fascination with Pop Art and seemingly innocuous objects expressed itself in Campbell's Soup and Elvis Presley, but he also touched upon cars; much like his work Eight Elvises, he created images of Pontiacs, Cadillacs, Buicks. All of these were created in the early 1960s, just when he was starting to lay the groundwork of his legendary Factory. "The reason I'm painting this way," he said in 1963, "is that I want to be a machine, and I feel that whatever I do and do machine-like is what I want to do … everybody should be a machine."
It's ironic that Warhol himself laid paint on the M1, explained Girst, as his Factory was partially about detaching the artist from the work. The traditional artist was dead, he theorized; painting by hand was a relic, and art could be made on an assembly line.
But then this was a car, a product reproduced perfectly on an actual assembly line. Warhol, painting it by hand and by himself, stood in stark contrast to his work at the Factory. Nick Perry writes in Hyperreality and Global Culture, "confronted with so consummate a work of mechanical reproduction, both Warhol's artistic practice and his verbal response were tantamount to confirming the irrelevance of the traditionally modern conception of the artist … Warhol observed that 'I adore the car, it's much better than a work of art.' "
Prior artists had painted a scale model of the car, then had their artwork laboriously transferred to the full-size model. But Warhol insisted on painting the car himself, dipping his fingers into the paint, daubing it on with a foam brush, smelling its intoxicating fumes, feeling the bodywork with his own hands. His signature is on the car, signed with his finger right by the exhaust.
Warhol needed just 24 minutes to paint the car, in a shop outside of Munich. By the time the television crews had rolled in, he was finished. "Should I paint another car?" he asked, pointing at a brand-new BMW, one that was belonged to the man who owned the paint shop.
"Over my dead body," the owner replied.
"He hates me when I tell that story," said Girst, "because he's still very embarrassed about that -- that he didn't let Andy Warhol paint his car, and turn it into an artwork."
Warhol's paint gleams in the spotlights, its hues contrasting sharply like a cartographer's first draft; streaks of different hues the width of a finger scatter across the solid patches like creased and crumpled paper. "I tried to portray a sense of speed," said Warhol. "When a car is going really fast all the lines and colors become a blur."
Warhol painted some additional body panels in those 24 minutes -- spare bumpers and side moldings, not as souvenirs but for a very specific purpose. Two years later, in 1979, the car entered the 24 Hours of Le Mans with Manfred Winkelhock, Marcel Mignot and Hervé Poulain driving.
We have Hervé Poulain to thank for this intersection of avant-garde -- sometimes as bizarre as encasing the corporate product in a trellis of ice -- and corporate governance. Poulain loved contemporary art as much as he loved racing; he was already a successful art collector an auctioneer. In 1975, he had approached BMW motorsports manager and father of the M1 Jochen Neerpasch with an unusual proposition: What if they raced a BMW that was painted by a great artist? Neerpasch, it turned out, was just as crazy on the idea as Poulain. In 1975, the sculptor Alexander Calder painted the first BMW Art Car -- the 3.0 CSL, known affectionately as the "Batmobile." Calder was already a sculptor, the man who invented the mobile, in fact -- and what was the BMW if not a kinetic sculpture of another kind?
Poulain personally drove Calder's Batmobile in Le Mans that year, along with Jean Guichet and Sam Posey, the latter a legend in himself. The car suffered driveshaft issues and was retired early, and was never raced again. Calder died a year later, in 1976; the BMW was his last work.
Warhol's M1 was more successful. With Poulain, Winkelhock and Mignot behind the wheel, the car successfully completed 288 laps at Sarthe -- coming in 6th overall, and 2nd in its class. During the course of the race it made contact numerous times, which is when Warhol's spare bumpers came in handy. (Primered bodywork on the M1 itself would be as a mole on the Mona Lisa.) Next to Roy Lichenstein's Group 5 320i. It finished first in its class, also driven by Poulain -- this was the most successful Art Car to date.
There was something special about the first four Art Cars: They were based exclusively on race cars raced at the grueling endurance level, and always after they were painted. Priceless works on parade in the quickest way possible, they captured the public's imagination before the public would bicker loudly about what truly constituted art. They fueled a discussion kicked off by Girst's beloved Duchamp.
Poulain continued to be a successful art auctioneer and race-car driver, penning five books on the intersection of the two. Neerpasch went on to manage Sauber-Mercedes during its Le Mans conquests, where he discovered a young, obscure upstart by the name of Michael Schumacher.
That brings us neatly to today. When the Warhol M1 was brought to Hockenheim in 2009 to celebrate Thirty Years of the BMW M1, artist and Art Car alumnus Frank Stella drove the M1 in an homage race. Girst was aghast. "I said, 'look, we shouldn't drive that car because it's worth so much and it's such a great artwork. I'm going to tie myself to the car like how Greenpeace ties itself to trees.' "
But the cars belong on a racetrack, after all, something that Girst eventually acknowledged. Still, what's the value of Warhol's M1? We asked Girst. "Well," he laughed, "we would ask you to estimate that."
The car still runs, its mighty 470-hp M88 inline-six intact, but there are ignition problems and the car hasn't been fired up since that 2009 outing. Not to say that it's not busy: Inquiries for Art Cars come worldwide. It is shipped from museum to museum depending on which curator organizes an artist's retrospective -- no dealership displays here, Girst stressed.
Maybe that ignition remains broken for a reason. "Can you imagine someone driving off with it?" Girst smiled. "It would be the greatest art heist of the century."
[Text from Autoweek]
autoweek.com/article/car-life/close-andy-warhols-bmw-m1-a...
This Lego miniland-scale BMW M1 Procar Racer - Art Car #4 (1979 - And Warhol), has been created for Flickr LUGNuts' 90th Build Challenge, - "Fools Rush In!", -
to the subtheme - "Art Car 2015!". The 90th build challenge presenting 13 different subthemes to choose to build to.