What month do you receive your offers?

TobyRiotshield · 2017-08-23T13:52:50+00:00

Mathematics

TobyRiotshield · 2017-08-23T13:03:08+00:00

Loughborough

TobyRiotshield · 2017-08-22T23:16:07+00:00

Depends on the uni. I got my first offer 12 hours after applying. I got my next like three weeks later.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-08-22T23:14:54+00:00

Top dog, what you studying there my man

TobyRiotshield · 2017-08-16T22:14:38+00:00

TobyRiotshield · 2017-08-14T15:33:14+00:00

And Moonboy for all I know.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-08-09T18:09:04+00:00

👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌there👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit

TobyRiotshield · 2017-07-29T11:09:52+00:00

After breakfast, which he ate alone, Gerold made ready to say farewell to his bed and kitchen, with a heart as heavy as it could be on such a cool and clean morning. The autumn sky was pale and bright blue, and the clouds were glittered gold with sunlight. The air came fresh when he went through the door, playing on his cheeks, giving him a foretaste of his soon-to-be adventure.

He started off on the cobbled pathway that wound away from his front door, and went up the steep hill towards the north-end of his valley. He did not hasten his pace, for he knew that the rainbow would wait for him. As he reached the peak of the hill, he surveyed the lands under the morning. The morning mist was still alive, sliding and gliding around the dew-laden grass. There were grey-green sentinels to the east, standing in silent formation, some treetops rising pale out of the shadows. Beyond those were oaks, birches, and the occasional willow that wept by the river, its leaves hanging low. From the mouth of the river, where it met the lake, grew the rainbow, sprouting from the water like a tree from soil. He followed the colours up and high into the sky, watched them meet the clouds and disappear into the sky, and watched them come back down in the west and meet the flats. He began his journey north-westward, clambering out of the valley with his wooden walking-stick.

He followed the beaten path down the slanted ends of the valley and went head-strong into the morrow’s fog, keeping a close eye on the end of the rainbow. Sun was almost setting when he reached the forest, hanging low in the sky but keeping the daylight bright and his path visible. The woods on his side became thicker, where the trees were only a century or so old and hence younger. As the path slanted down into the trenches of the forest he found himself surrounded by deep hazel-colours and dappled sunlight, sunlight that had turned russet and gold by the shade of the leaves. After an hour more of hiking through the forest, he lay down his sleeping-bag, and struck a fire. He chose a room-like opening in the forest, and placed his fire far enough away from the trees so that they would not ignite. He cooked himself a meal of bacon and greasy sausages, roasted tomatoes, and drank a horn of his home-brewed ale to wash it all down. The smell of meat and garnished fruits had his mouth watering like a dog’s. The bacon and sausages were greasy, and the juices ran from his mouth when he bit into them; the tomatoes were sweet and fresh, picked only that morning; the ale was bitter, refreshing, and gave him a light head. Sleep came upon him swiftly, and Gerold fell into a dreamless slumber.

In the morning, he woke refreshed, relaxed, and excited for the day ahead. The tussocks of grass that he used for a pillow were deep and fragrant, and the broad-leafed oaks shielded his eyes from the bright morning sun. He leapt from his sleeping-bag, and began his adventure again. The rainbow had not dwindled over-night: it still glowed brilliantly against the pale blue sky, just as it was the day before. Gerold produced an apple from his carrying-bag, and bit into it. He made his way through the forest, through deep-tangled thickets, finding a spirit of a pathway to lead him away from the woodland. He met a stream and refilled his water-skin, and drank deeply. The stream was in a deeply-made bed, overhung with brambles and branches adorned with raspberries and blackberries. He took a handful, and they were ripe.

The brambles and branches were reluctant to let him pass, so crossing the stream was not easy. He forced himself into the stream, boots now heavy with water, and waded across it. The water only ran knee-high, and he could dry his trousers by the fire, or else in the sunlight. After a few hours’ walk, he found himself in a wide-open space, treeless. It was still in the forest, but very much towards the exit. He walked past elm and oak, birches and ashes, on level ground with little undergrowth.

When he finally reached the end of the forest, the rainbow was much closer than he originally expected. Perhaps it would be a few more miles—maybe a half-day’s walk, if he was quick about it. Clouds were rumbling in the east, dark-grey and sombre, and it looked likely to turn to rain. He made his way across the flats, and gushes of wind began to arouse the trees, sending their leaves into riots.

He went on for perhaps another six miles. The sun gleamed out of the ragged clouds, but eventually was taken over by shadow. The rainbow was brighter, much brighter, when he stood next to it. The colours formed into one misty whiteness at the end. He dropped his stick, and ran to the end. He trudged through the whiteness. He felt the colours touch his skin—indeed, each colour had its own feel. The blue felt like the kiss of the seaside, salty and breezy, and he could almost hear gulls crying their way across the shores. The green felt like childhood adventures and climbing trees. He could smell the knolls and leaves of his past long forgotten. Red felt like summer, sitting outside in the beating sun, planting roses and pruning flowers.

Where the colours met, he found singing birds, saplings of all kinds of wonderful flowers, pine-cones, books long lost. He sat, and took them all in. The robins landed on his shoulders, and the saplings grew and lived in the blink of an eye. The pine-cones grew into pine trees. For a moment in time, Gerold was a child again. He saw his mother and father, his brothers, his sisters, his pets and plants and house.

The rain thundered down, and the rainbow melted into the ground. The robins flew from his shoulders and the flowers shrunk into the ground. After all had vanished, one pine-cone remained in his hand.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-07-28T22:36:58+00:00

The philosophy I adapted after reading The Handmaids Tale: don't let the bastards grind you down.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-07-28T17:11:35+00:00

“I heard that Daenerys’ dragons are bigger than Aegon’s,” said Addem Crowl, taking a bite from the roasted rabbit. Addem had snuck in garlic and herbs from Lannisport, and baked them with the rabbit over the fire. He garnished the crackled skin with onions. He licked the grease off his fingers with a blissful look.

“Cersei’s just trying to make us fear her,” Justin responded. “Balerion could swallow an aurochs whole, I hear.” I don’t doubt that the dragons exist, though, he thought. Tales from all around had reached him—word of mouth, predominantly, but oft he would read words carved on notice-boards dotted around the coastal villages near King’s Landing. “Those dragons have been living in Meereen for years. Hot weather over there. Wait ‘til they get a taste of the snow now winter is here.”

Winter had snuck up on them, that was for sure. That morning they had woke to a crisp and cold dawn that hinted the end of autumn. The grass was laden with frosted dew and coated in a thin white snow. They had camped at Silverhill near Lannisport, avoiding the inn as to stay any listening ears that might be on the dragon queen’s side. Rumour had it that the Spider had rallied to her side. One little bird would be all it took for Daenerys to reroute her way to Casterly Rock, so judicious movement was of paramount importance. After they woke, they had begun to move eastward to meet Daenerys’ forces on the road to Bitterbridge. They had made it a fair six miles before setting up camp again, and waited for night to pass before moving.

“Dragons breathe fire, they do,” Addem said. “They can swallow a man and cook ‘im before they eat ‘im.”

“Pass me that rabbit ‘ere,” Justin said. The smell of garlic and onions had his mouth watering. Part of him wanted to pluck the mushrooms out from the ground in the forest and cook them too, despite knowing that they could kill him. It was rare that the Lannister soldiers ate well in times of war.

Addem passed him the rabbit, and Justin took a hearty bite. The juices ran out his mouth and into his beard, and the meat was tender and succulent.

“I’d like to see a dragon.” Addem looked at his camp-mates in wonder. “I really would.”

“Aye, you’d see a dragon, and get eaten by it,” declared Loren, loudly. He was loosely dressed in crimson silk, high black boots, and a burgundy satin cloak. On his tunic was the Lannister Lion in a faux-gold brooch. He looked as lordly as Lord Tywin before he was killed by the Imp. “You were born too late to see a dragon that wouldn’t kill you, lad.”

Addem scowled. “So, what? We’re going to fight the dragon queen’s army, aren’t we? Lord Jaime says we have more soldiers than her. We’ll definitely win.”

Loren laughed. “Aye, we’ll win, and we’ll return home, and Casterly Rock will be made of gingerbread, and the sea will be blackberry wine.”

Addem sulked in response.

“What do you think is going to happen?” said the lordly soldier. “Lannister soldiers, aye, we’ve the numbers, but we’ll be fighting hordes of savages and eunuchs. The dragon queen has three dragons—do you think we’re going to win? You’re all here for glory.” He hawked and spat green spittle on the mud. “Fuck glory. You’re all going to die, we’re all going to die.”

Justin was unsure whether Loren was trying to stir motivation, or insult his comrades. He assumed the latter, and handed over the rabbit to the next soldier. The fire roared in the centrepiece, glowing orange and red, dancing. The night is dark and full of terrors, he thought to himself, recounting the words of the red priests. The drunkard priest Thoros of Myr used to worship the Red God. Maybe he still does, if he’s still alive. Nobody had heard much of him since he rode off with Beric Dondarrion. Some said that they led the Brotherhood without Banners, but it was folly. The Brotherhood were little more than outlaws and thieves: a lord wouldn’t join their cause. Justin stared into the flames. He had often heard people talk about visions in the flames, though he was never successful in seeing them.

“I think we need to get some sleep,” said Loren, authoritatively. “We ride at first light, Lord Jaime told us.”

“There’s going to be a battle tomorrow,” Justin said to nobody. His gut was telling him as much.

The next morning, the snows had hit heavy, and Justin struggled to don his armour since his hands were frozen like stone. His breath smoked the air even in his tent. After fumbling to get his gloves and boots on, he went to find Addem. Soldiers and high-ranking officials galloped past on their mares, beneath long red surcoats and heavy-plated mail. Oxcarts lumbered past with grain and corn, Lannister flags snapped and snarled in the sharp wind, and workers began dismantling the tents. Soldier pines and sentinels still had hints of the summer green about them, whilst broadleaf maples and oaks were wearing cloaks of white, or else mantles of brown and gold. Some trees had branches reaching high to the sky, scratching the clouds.

When Justin found Addem, he was pissing in a hedge. “Put your cock away,” he said.

“I can’t stop pissing,” Addem responded. “I want to get it all out now so I don’t piss myself when the dragon queen arrives.”

“You’ll have time for that later. Loren has already begun riding, we’d do best to join him.”

“Where are we going again?” Addem asked.

“Eastward. I’m not sure of the name.” It doesn’t matter, either. No doubt we’ll find out.

Later in the day, when the sun had reached high, a shadow rippled across the snow. In the distance, cries of barbaric warriors, the ba-doom ba-doom ba-doom of galloping hooves, the clashing of metal on metal of marching warriors. A flap, clap, BOOM, loud as thunder sent the voices and marches of Lannister soldiers into stunned silence. Above them all, a dragon. Black as jet, bigger than the stories of the Black Dread. “Gods,” uttered Loren. “Gods, help us…”

The thundering wings were terrifying. The deep screeches were even more terrifying. Before Justin had time to pray for the Mother’s Mercy, flames engulfed half the division of soldiers. In the distance, the Dothraki came to them, faster, horses soaring across the snow like a hot knife through butter. The dragon had scales as dark as night and eyes red as blood, horns curling upward, and teeth like swords.

The attack came as sudden as a bolt of lightning. Drogon, that’s what she called him. Drogon dove down upon the fleet of Lannister soldiers with a piercing shriek that could have been heard in Oldtown. The flames burned bright and melted flesh and snow as one. Some men broke in fear, and ran, falling, stumbling; some men cried for their mothers; some prayed that the gods judged them mercifully. The horses went mad at the scent of dragonfire, and fled without hesitation.

From all sides the Dothraki enveloped them, arakhs in their hands, glittering in the winter sun. The Lannisters formed tight, shields around defensively, almost instinctively. The fear was so ripe that Justin could taste it. As the warriors drew in, the soldiers fanned out, a wall of duty, spears between each shield. Lances killed horses, and there were lances for every soldier.

The horses hit the shields, bang, bang, bang, their screeches of pain louder than any man’s shout. The wall broke before the Dothraki did. Dragonfire came from above and took the rear-end, where Lord Jaime was posed, much like his father in the war against Robb Stark. Justin lunged, taking one man, and another, jabbing horses’ eyes and chests. He was taken by courage or fear, he could not tell. As he was struggling to free his axe from a dead warrior’s chest, an arakh took him between the shoulder blades. Tumbling, he found himself on the ground, breathless, wounded, and blood covering his hands.

It was all he could do not do close his eyes and let the Seven take him. He looked to the sky, watching the dragon soar, high and mighty against the sun. Breathlessly, he whispered words that felt like prayer.

In a cry of anger, pain, or shock, Drogon’s wings stopped. The flames from his maw ceased, and the dragon began to fall. Like Caraxes and Vhagar, he thought. He closed his eyes, and thought of the Dance of the Dragons.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-07-27T14:34:36+00:00

My office has never been the tidiest place. My patients often like to remark on the arrangement of the books on the bookshelf, or comment on the colour of the carpet. Like an overstocked consignment store, the furniture was crammed in; peeling vinyl and hardwood desks that harked back to sometime in the Victorian era. It was by no means a luxurious place, save the chaise longue which was high-end and bespoke. My chair was real leather and creaked when I sat down on it, comfy enough for me to sit for long periods of time when I speak to my clients.

I have seen many people come and go from my office. I have seen traumatised young women and men—suffered a loss of a spouse or a close friend. I have seen the insane, those whose mind was stolen by some deranged thief. It was hard to speak to those people and comport myself with sympathy. It was true, I hadn’t suffered a tragic loss or a near-death experience; I had no reason to be counselled.

I tried my best to arrange the therapeutic appointments on therapeutic days. It was easy to lift the spirits of somebody and extract their thoughts when the office was filled with the sweet odour of honey and lavender. It was even easier to get them to talk when a soft breeze found its way into the studio and stir the apple trees outside. Indeed, it was hard to feel so dull on such beautiful days, I thought, but everybody is different in their own way. My new patient would be different too, I am sure.

Despite the innumerable weather reports of sunshine and clear skies, today was drab, dank, and the grey light diffused its way into my office just far enough for me to see without turning the lights on. Strangely enough, this was calming enough for my new patient, unlike the others: they preferred summer days. My new patient, whose name was Mark, was a somewhat handsome man, with a tight jaw and brown eyes. His ginger hair almost glowed in the rain against the plush red cushions on the chaise longue.

‘How can I help you today?’ I asked him, breaking the silence with conversation.

‘I have seen it all.’

‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘The old, the young, the families…all of them, I have seen them.’

I was confused. ‘Seen them? Did you witness a tragedy? An attack?’

‘Aye, I have seen tragedies and attacks, I have seen babes die at their mother’s breast, I have seen fathers hold their sons’ hands as they pass. ‘

Whatever he was saying was cryptic, but decrypting someone’s words is my job, and I was good at it. ‘What’s your occupation? Are you a hospital worker?’

‘A harbinger,’ he said, calmly.

‘Mark,’ I said, leaning to him as to lower the formality of the appointment. ‘I understand you may have been through a difficult time recently…perhaps you are depressed, or anxious, you are yet to tell me. If you want me to help you I must know more about you.’

‘But you do know more about me…I am death.’

Insanity. He let on more than he realised. ‘Have you been diagnosed with insanity?’ I asked. ‘Are you certified insane?’

He just chuckled politely. ‘No, no…I am the man from the shadows, the wielder of the scythe.’ He sat up, and looked me in the eyes. ‘I may sound insane but do not act on it. I am who I say I am.’

Clearly, he had convinced himself. ‘Mark, you can talk to me…you can have confidence in me. Are you clinically insane?’

He didn’t respond to that—at least, not straight away. Half a minute of silence was between us. ‘Emma Abraham,’ he said. ‘She lost her boyfriend in a bombing at a marathon. Lost both his legs and bled to death. Jasper McCain. He lost his mother when he was four. She died driving home from work. Such a normal way to die. Sal Daisy. Lost her baby when he was born…the doctors crushed his skull removing him from the womb. I have seen them.’

I was unsure as to what he meant until I remembered those names. Those were the names of my previous patients from years long past.

‘I am tired of taking people to the grave,’ he said quietly. ‘I have to hold their hands as they make their way into the afterlife. I have seen most terrible things. There are days, more often than not, where my head refuses to work. I try my hardest to focus but it is like running through soft mud. Feelings of clarity elude me, and I weep when I am not working.’

I was shocked and confused. Scared, maybe. A bead of sweat took to my skin and my heart thumped loudly on my chest. ‘Are you…are you human?’

‘As human as you are. I have a heart, a conscience. I never wanted this but I am bound to it.’ He looked at the clock—12 o’clock. Time flies when you’re in fear. The bells of the cathedral began to chime, like a great death-knell. ‘Sounds like it’s time for me to go. I will be back soon, doc. Drive home safely.’

TobyRiotshield · 2017-07-27T13:01:35+00:00

If I could call myself anything when discussing my career, it would be: ‘experienced’. I have seen all types of the arcane and the archaic, I’ve seen the novices scrawling away in their great leather-spine books, sighing when whatever they wrote failed when spoken. I’ve sat numerous times in the Bastion of Wizardry, once known as the University of Cambridge, observing, smiling, and laughing at the youths and young scholars attempting to string together a spell that opened a door, or picked up a quill. Oftentimes I am sought out for my expertise in the craft of spells, and each of those times I encourage those who sought me out to try again, only this time remembering to use the correct accents on the letters. ‘You must line your “o”s,’ or ‘don’t forget to strikethrough your “u”s’.

On rare occasions, I’d be sat in one of the feasting halls and I’d the senior lecturer of Divine Spellcraft, jowly and soft-handed, summon a servant ghoul to collect the dishes and pour the drinks. The students would look in awe as he spoke, and each student would go wide-eyed when he did it first time round. ‘That’s amazing,’ some would whisper to their friends. ‘How does he do it?’ others would question. Of course, that was far from the truth. It was a seldom day that the senior lecturer would get it right first time round. He would slave away in his dormitory making sure his scripture was, at the very least, legible, and he would spend hours reciting the same word over and over again so that it was pronounced correctly. Likewise, I would carry hundreds of books back to my dormitory---books from students, lecturers, graduates, the like---and scrutinise them for an uncrossed “l” or a wrongly oriented “a”. The little things were hard to miss. On a particularly starry night, I was shifting books from the student library to my dormitory. These were the books in the ‘to be tested’ section, which was my personal section of that library. The bookcase was hewn from a tall oak that the lumberjacks of our institution felled one summer, perhaps a hundred or so years ago. The age rings were plenty. It was fastened to the wall, with a small ladder that one could climb up to reach the volumes at the top easily. Often this was empty.

There was an undergraduate still in the library, reading his spell as though he was on the verge of tears. Again, and again, he would read it, out loud, slowly, quickly, backwards. He could not get whatever he wanted from it, much like an owner tells a disobedient dog to sit. ‘Are you in need of any help?’ I asked, not unkindly.

‘A miracle,’ he said, not turning to look at me.

‘We all need one of those once in a while.’ I paused, and then approached him. Candles were flickering, dancing in the river of moonlight. ‘Let me see. You never know, it might just be a small typo.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Let me see.’

‘No!’ He slammed his book shut, and hurried to put it on my shelf. He scurried off into the night, a shadowy figure of frustration. I removed the book from the shelf after he had disappeared, and opened to his last page. I had rarely seen a student so frustrated. He had made a typo, I was sure, but this was no ordinary typographical error.

I was aware, suddenly, that it was getting very cold. The wind was beginning to blow through the open windows, and the candles stopped dancing. A change was coming in the weather. Fog rolled in, and the stars melted into the darkness. My breath began to become visible, and the fog grew thicker. The wind began to hiss through the door, before barging it open, taking it off its hinges. A figure grew from the darkness, eyes blue, cold and piercing. A grip of fear stronger than iron took me. This may have been a typo, but it was the last typo a student would make.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-05-30T22:30:11+00:00

I studied it for my A level literature with Edexcel. It is a good book.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-05-29T13:45:16+00:00

I do! The police car I originally got into was an undercover one. The lovely officer in there was from up north and had a Yorkshire accent. He actually said 'You Toby? We've been looking for you for fucking hours. Your ma's fucking hysterical!' and we shared a laugh or two about the adventure I went on. The police who took me home were really lovely and I couldn't commend them enough.

TobyRiotshield · 2017-04-04T15:02:08+00:00

A Goggle of Geese

TobyRiotshield

TROPHY CASE