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ariadnew · 10 months

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CTJL 2021: FINALE, PART I

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

2021! I have become aware that it is now 2023, yes, thank you. I promise I am sufficiently ashamed of myself. But not a lot happens in my game these days, which means big things need to be celebrated bigger than usual... which, if you’re me, means you end up confusing your ambitions with your capabilities and end up squashed and discouraged beneath the weight of all the visions you couldn’t achieve, with several painful WIPs relegated to your blackest, backest project folders to show for it.

Fun!

Story-related stuff below the cut, if you’re into that.

Despite missing the opening show in Rio de Janeiro, the little Lowmax team managed to end the 2021 season with two riders on the podium! (Nobody was as shocked as I was) Archie & Speakeasy were awarded champion of the 1.30m class and second place overall, while Agatha & Poquelin won the 1.50m class and were hot on their heels in third place overall. Considering they were pipped by Elizabeth Howell, the face of the tour and arguably, the current face of show jumping itself, being the first losers wasn’t too tough! Archie (who was almost as tall as Liz while she stood atop the towering first place position, much to the amusement of the press) was ever the professional- and frankly, ever himself- graciously shaking Liz’ hand and offering sincere congratulations, as well as the promise of a celebratory drink at the gala later on. Anyone who can manage to perform so well so consistently is deserving of as much in his book, but the fact Elizabeth (because you know he’s calling her ‘Elizabeth’ and not ‘Liz’) is managing it while still so young is rather impressive. As for Agatha...

There would be those who’d say she was jealous. But there are those who say a lot of things about Agatha. (”She looks like a hair yanker.”) (”Speaking to her is like a near-death experience.”) (”She’d eat him alive.”) (”I’d never want to meet her.”) (”Officially terrifying.”) (”Her favourite food is probably crisp charcoal.”) (...) In truth, yes: being beaten by someone younger than her wasn’t exactly thrilling, and being beaten by Archie again was adding insult to injury (even if it had privately been expected) But Agatha’s comparatively subdued demeanour had little to do with envy, and everything to do with her self-expectations. Self-expectations, and a hollow sort of feeling where there should have been excitement.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Big thanks to @calveroterranorasj for collaborating with me, and for allowing me to participate in the CTJL in the first place! I genuinely had a blast travelling the globe with the team and rubbing shoulders with the different characters out in the world.

Fun bit of trivia for you: all those things ‘said’ about Agatha are all real things said at some point by my so-called friends. I’d be offended if I didn’t find them so amusing. The charcoal one in particular- courtesy of @kullabergs, who has a unique talent for insulting Agatha- has a permanent place in my head. Makes me smile every time. Ridiculous. I can’t even be mad about it.

Finally, I’m just going to say before anyone else asks: contrary to popular belief (the popular belief being that held by 3 out of the 4 people who’ve seen these photographs) Archie is not, in fact, proposing marriage to the 2021 CTJL Champion, Elizabeth Howell.

IT’S A GENTEEL HANDSHAKE, GUYS.

Honestly. 🙄

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Simblr #Equus-Sims #CTJL #Competition #Show Jumping #Lowmax Stud #Agatha Foskett #Archie Vandover #Elizabeth Howell #One of my favourite things about these pictures is the fact Archie is almost as tall as Liz and she's standing on a GIANT podium #Also it might interest you to know that I did more editing on a bridle for half a horse's head than I think I did in the entire CTJL #Folly

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ariadnew · 3 months

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CTJL SYDNEY, FINALE: PART 2

At a bar table for three by an extravagantly large window thirty-two floors above Sydney’s Darling Harbour, a pair of figures settle upon the seating, uncork a bottle of champagne, and pour it.

They immediately get to arguing.

The first voice is warm, masculine, as clipped as the greens at Lords in London. Low and slightly husky, it bears barely perceptible notes of mirth, as though the speaker feigns a sang-froid greater than he feels.

The second voice is abrupt, feminine, unyielding as a locked door. Sharply American— east coast, but suggestions of time spent abroad— something about the timbre suggests, on a good day, it is as capable of sweetness as it is smoke.

The present tone would suggest today is not one of those days.

The first figure lifts his glass from the table with easy grace and holds it aloft.

‘To you.’ ‘No.’ ‘To your victory.’ ‘Third place isn’t a victory.’ ‘You won your class.’ ‘So did you.’ ‘Top of the leaderboard in a global tour,’ continues the first voice. ‘Top of a leaderboard, not the leaderboard.’ ‘One could rightly celebrate—.’ ‘You placed higher than me.’

For a moment, the first voice is silent. The figure it belongs to remains motionless, long legs tucked beneath his chair, jacket sleeves rolled to the elbows, glass frozen in partial toast. The second is likewise still, but her glass remains on the table. Her posture is tall and proper. Her hands are folded neatly upon her lap.

Eyes are held. The silence stretches. ‘Alright,’ concedes the first voice. ‘We won’t toast to your accomplishments.’ A nod. ‘We’ll toast to what a hundred other riders didn’t achieve, which was top of their class and a podium finish overall.’ Unfazed by the humour twinkling in his voice and his eyes, the woman leans forward and picks up her glass. ‘Why don’t you just call it what it is?’ ‘And what is that?’ ‘Us being good, but not good enough.’ ‘Mm.’ The first figure inclines his glass toward his companion’s and says, in the gentle echo of glass meeting glass: ‘How unlike you to be dark.’

They take the first sip in companionable silence, the thin band of orange at the horizon fading faster, faster; early southern starlight beginning to prickle the lush black-blue of night above. *

When Dorothy Lawley arrives at their table, Archibald Rothersay-Vandover— champion show jumper, lifelong idol, object of her involuntary and wicked affections— is telling a story about the first time he came to Australia, and Agatha Foskett— generous employer, sort-of mentor, mistress of nightmares— is smiling. That is, smiling as much as can be considered smiling where Agatha is concerned, which is usually capped at a kink in the corner of her mouth and a certain lustre to her eyes. Archie pulls out her chair and Agatha offers her a glass of champagne, which Dot declines right as Archie picks up the bottle and begins pouring it.

It sits, bubbling, golden, probably expensive, taunting her as Archie catches her up with his story.

The Mugler syndicate, in their infinite wisdom and eccentricity, had sent him Hong Kong for a competition. This, he reminds them, was before it was fashionable, profitable, and practical for riders based in Europe to compete in Asia. The latter is of particular importance to the story, he points out, though his explanation as to why is derailed after he begins detailing the highs and lows of modern Cantonese political history, and Agatha cuts him off partway through to tell him– bluntly– to get back to the point. As Dot listens, she finds herself becoming enthralled by a world vastly different to those she has previously seen and conjured. She imagines the heritage property he describes, three hours from Sydney. The old homestead, the stockyards, the corrugated iron sheds. Cattle drinking from old bathtubs; the steel groan of a weathered windmill; a stock saddle with a string girth thrown over a worn wooden fence. It smells of dry and horses and sweat; feels like dust and scorching December sun. Archie continues, and Dot’s mind follows, walking to a clearing on a mountain ridge. One of the farmhands— clad in paddock boots, bootcut jeans and an Akubra— turns chops and steaks on a rusted plough disc set over a campfire, a beer in his free hand. Another brushes ash and embers from the lid of a cast iron camp oven and peers within before replacing it and nodding, satisfied. The evening air is fresh and clear, scored with the smells of sizzling meat and baking damper, smoking wood and iron, and the dry, grey-green scent of gum trees enduring the summer heat. Can she see, there, the wraithy-white branches of the ghost gums? Yes, there, those ones, hauntingly beautiful with their thin limbs and smooth pallor. She listens to the relaxed, twanging chatter about her; the snap of the fire; the song of insects; the sudden and frantic screeching of unknown birds in the hot, still, otherwise peaceful dusk. A horse stamps its foot. A fly whizzes past her ear. The valley unfolds before her: sunburned grassland and bush-covered cliffs, vast unlike vast ever was before it; the sky burning lurid orange and apocalyptic red as the sun lowers itself to the horizon and beyond.

At a bar table for three in an air-conditioned lounge overlooking Sydney’s Darling Harbour, Archie Vandover continues telling a story. Dorothy Lawley hears him distantly, in his BBC radio voice, mentioning a string of things that don’t make sense. Polocrosse. The distance to Zurich. Something about wine; someone named Peter. He’s left the unfathomable beauty of the bush behind. But Dot hasn’t. She remains by the fire, staring at the view.

The dizzying, terrifying, entirely bewitching view. *

The darker the night grows, the more the harbour glitters.

The lounge has somehow managed to ever increase in the number of people present, and, courtesy of the efforts of the person in charge of music, a high-spirited and convivial mood grips the room. Madonna pumps through the sound system at present: Beautiful Stranger. Dot quietly bobs her head side to side with the beat. She’s barely touched the champagne, but she has touched it. Timid sips, here and there, taken with all the poise of someone who has clearly never had a champagne flute in their hand before— it’s a wonder it hasn’t yet trembled all the way out of her hand and ended in a flood on their table. She seems brighter than usual— more confident than usual, more forthcoming with questions and wordier in her responses. Whether it is due to the victory, the vibe or the alcohol, Agatha cannot say, but she can’t imagine Dot has had much practise holding her liquor. Archie is livelier than usual, too, indulging Dot’s questions and sharing stories of his own accord. It was always difficult to explain his particular balance of introversion and extroversion to people who did not know him. He is sociable, but he has his limits; reserved, but by no means dispassionate or uncommunicative; honest, but not necessarily open. His genuine interest in people coupled with a quick wit and miscellany of interests tended to make him a capable and popular conversationalist; what it did not make him was forthcoming with his own experiences. On the contrary, he seemed perfectly content to listen, ask questions, and otherwise take the conversational backseat unless invited (at times, coaxed) to do otherwise, often to the effect that new acquaintances walked away from conversation charmed by a man they had learned next to nothing about.

Him openly sitting at the table offering pieces of his life for their pleasure, therefore, is a rare– and honestly, rather interesting— occurrence.

He’s in midst of telling Dot another story about his time riding for the Mugler syndicate (a story Agatha has already heard) when they are approached by a smattering of excited young people. Their presence evokes visible surprise in all three of them, but only Dot bears traces of recognition. They’re a collection of predominantly grooms, apparently, whom Dot has managed to charm sufficiently enough over the course of the year to earn herself an invitation to join them on the dance floor. Her face is, at separate points and sometimes simultaneously, a picture of surprise, confusion, doubt, elation and hesitation, but she ultimately allows herself to be spirited away.

Archie, very deliberately, turns to Agatha.

‘Will you dance with me?’ ‘No.’ ‘Not even in celebration?’ ‘We’re celebrating right now.’ She lifts her near-empty glass. ‘The end of the season.’ ‘Special occasions call for special celebrations.’ ‘This is a special celebration.’ ‘Champagne? Hardly. You can drink it any time.’ ‘What, you classify dancing as “special celebration”?’ ‘With my team mate and third-place getter, yes. Quite. There’s something rather poetic about second and third place dancing together, don’t you think?’ A beat passes while Agatha appears to consider this, holding his eye all the while. Eventually, she leans closer. It is a calculated movement. Slow, serious. Decisive. To any observer it might seem she is about to reveal a thought of pivotal importance. This includes Archie, who, apparently surprised, leans slightly forward in anticipation.

Her voice, when she speaks, is low and rich and velvet.

‘Third place doesn’t want to dance with you,’ she says. ‘I think you’re being a bit of a sore loser.’ ‘And I think you’re dangerously close to being an asshole winner.’ His mouth curls into a hearty smile, his eyes crinkling to match. Agatha leans back. Archie does the same. ‘We’ll bet on it next year,’ he says. ‘I’ll beat you next year.’ ‘Then you’ll have nothing to worry about, will you?’ He rests an arm down the back of his chair. ‘What do you intend to wager?’ ‘Your employment status.’ ‘If you want me to sign on another few years, Agatha, you need only ask.’ Her response is the unimpressed arch of a brow. ‘Was that not what you had in mind?’

Ignoring his feigned innocence, Agatha takes her glass in hand and turns to face the view. The waters of Darling Harbour shimmer in the midst of the dark: silvers, blues, greens, golds; rippled and restless in the wake of evening ferries and returning yachts. They had not discussed what would happen when Archie’s contract ran out. Joked and jokingly made threats, respectively, but never spoke about it seriously. Hadn’t so much as indicated it existed. Not a word, not a breath. Was it even real, that contract? The day Archie had all but sank to his knees asking her to let him keep his job, if not on his merits, then for the sake of his little girl? It’s not just me, Agatha. I have a daughter to think about. She can still hear the words in his voice. She remembers almost everything about that day when she looks for it. Her shock; his manners; Eva’s awkward backtracking. Speaking in private. Not being able to look him in the eye. Listening to him petition her, earnest and unashamed; Eva waiting in the courtyard, watching surreptitiously through the window. Not wanting to cave in; the self-loathing when she did. His vow that she wouldn’t be disappointed. Her retort that it was too late for that.

It was strange to think of it, now. Hard to fathom.

‘I’ll find you someone to dance with.’ ‘Hmm?’ ‘She looks like she’d be up for it.’ She nods at a lithe-looking woman by the bar in turquoise gossamer skirts. Taller than average and Bondi blonde, her legs are tanned two shades beyond plausibly natural, but the athleticism they speak of is authentic. The fact she’s wedged between three men in their thirties and apparently lapping it up suggests she might be the kind of person who’d relish being the centre of attention, which equates to further points in her favour. Clearing the floor of a large party to dance with a six-thousand foot tall man who knew how to move around a dance floor was probably right up her street. ‘It’ll be better than dancing with me. You won’t have someone periodically crushing your toes and clawing your coat around.’ He rests his chin in his palm, a smile playing at his lips. ‘Crushed toes are a key part of the experience. If my dance partner isn’t going to crush my toes, what’s the point of it at all?’ She lifts a stilettoed foot. ‘Is a trip to the ER also part of the experience?’ ‘Not as a rule, but it does happen.’ He reaches again for his drink, peering a moment into the glass as if there is something foreign floating in it. Agatha resumes her survey of the room, thoughtful. ‘What about first place?’ She turns in place, scanning the room over her shoulder. ‘Little Elizabeth Howell. She’d dance with you.’ ‘You think so, do you?’ His tone is indulgent rather than interested. ‘Sure. You could put her on your toes and waltz around the room.’ ‘Mm.’ ‘You’d still have a solid foot clear to see where you were going, too.’ ‘Hotly desired in a dancing partner.’ She picks up her glass. ‘Didn’t you promise her a drink?’ ‘I did, yes, but I expect every man and his dog will have made a similar offer.’ ‘You think she fobbed you off?’ ‘I think she’s a lively young person who’d rather be celebrating with other lively young people, not the old fellow who’ll stop after drink number two so he can put himself to bed by eight.’ She smiles. ‘It’s after nine.’ ‘Then we’re alarmingly behind schedule.’ He tips back the last mouthful of his champagne, sets down the glass, and picks up the bottle. He does not need voice the question aloud: Agatha holds out her glass, and Archie begins filling it. ‘The deal was a drink,’ he continues as he pours. ‘She has to work harder for a dance.’ He lifts his gaze, his eyes bright with humour. ‘Aim for the illustrious third place next time.’ ‘A downgrade.’ ‘Not at all,’ he says, leaning back and filling his own glass. ‘Think about the effort it would take to consciously achieve a specific place in the middle. One knows what must be done to finish at the top or the bottom, but how can you account for the movements in the middle? The real talent, when you think about it, is intentionally achieving a specific place in the middle.’ ‘There was no talent involved in my third place, if that’s what you’re working toward.’ He sets the bottle down, smiling.

‘We'll argue that point in a minute,’ he says. * The first thing Archie notices when their table re-enters his view is that Dot has returned from her adventures with the other grooms. It seems premature. He hopes they haven’t done her dirty.

As he makes his way back to the table, he gradually discerns that Dot is wearing a different dress. Not only that, but a different hair-do. And, it seems, a different face. In the simultaneous process of drawing closer and realisation, Agatha turns her face in his direction. She, at least, is the same as when he left her, albeit wearing a suspiciously amused expression. Aware that he is now too much in view to raise his brows in question, he smiles, takes his seat, and begins telling Elizabeth Howell, who is newly seated at their table, how delighted he is that she has managed to join them after all. * When the final glass is finished, the three of them stand. Presumably, Liz will head off to the next party; Archie will head to bed; Agatha's activities are anyone’s guess. He and Elizabeth exchange cheek kisses, an endeavour which requires stooping on his part and tiptoes on hers. Agatha offers a handshake which, judging by her expression, she has found fantastically uncomfortable. He tries his best not smile, but his best is not enough, and he has to look over his shoulder and compose himself.

Goodbyes said and done, the celebrated Miss Howell slips off into the crowd. Agatha and Archie stand in front of the window together, observing the view in silence.

After a beat, he says:

‘She did not mention dancing.’ The ensuing pause is brief. ‘No.’ ‘Did you mention dancing?’ ‘No.’ She turns to look at him in profile. ‘She didn’t earn it.’ ‘Mm.’ He holds in a smile. ‘So how, exactly, did you lure her into joining us at the ‘not-good-enough’ table?’ Agatha turns back to the window as he turns to face her. There’s a dark sort of mischief in her eyes.

Concerning. ‘Agatha?’ Darker, deeper. Delighted. Archie opens his mouth, but there are no words at the ready. ‘You didn’t threaten her, did you?’ ‘Don’t be stupid.’ ‘Then why are you standing there looking like the cat who ate the cream?’ ‘Because I told her there was a tired old man who’d go to bed heartbroken if he didn’t get to have a drink with the exciting young talent of the tour.’ She turns. ‘And that you’d love an autograph. She signed a napkin for you. I think she may have drawn a heart on it, too.’ It is Archie's turn to pause. He holds his hands behind his back and watches the lights of a helicopter blink across the sky. ‘What a flattering portrait you painted.’ She lifts a shoulder in a languid shrug– and the corner of her mouth, in a languid smile. ‘She must have thought so.’

A young woman swishes by and clears their table. Agatha turns again, this time to face the exit. She seems about to leave when a sudden wash of hesitation fills her air.

‘I didn’t actually congratulate you,’ she says. 'Oh— Well. Thank you. No need, really. But thank you.' 'You're shocked.' ‘No.' 'You are.' 'I suppose I wasn't expecting it.' 'Were you expecting me to be a bad sport about it?' 'No— No. Not at all.'

The moment feels like the first steps on untested ice: tentative, quiet; unnerving, ready to crack. Agatha's gaze is unhurried, dark and direct; her scrutiny obvious, her conclusions unreadable. Archie presses his palms together. Looks at the floor; bites his lip; looks at her again. Smiles, gentle.

'Goodnight,' he says.

She lingers a moment longer. Finally, Agatha nods, turns, and follows Elizabeth's lead, vanishing into the crowd. *

(Hastily writing the last few sentences at one AM; no way I'm going to regret this later!!!)

I did say of my CTJL Sydney collaboration with @calveroterranorasj that it was part one. You've probably forgotten about that post. If that's the case, (1) no judgement, and (2) lucky you! I almost never get to forget anything, and as such unfinished projects hang like swords over my head while I battle with the axis powers of an easily distracted nature, crippling perfectionism, and an ungodly amount of artistic self-loathing. Some applaud this as dedication or tenacity, but I don't think this is necessarily a good thing, because some things in life are better forgotten or abandoned. Otherwise you just keep them around like relics and end up sort of tethered to the past, and that's decidedly not a good thing. But that's enough late night philosophy; there's already too much nonsense on this blog.

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Sims 3 Story #Simblr #Writing #Narrative #Collaboration #Um #Agatha Foskett #Archie Vandover #Elizabeth Howell #CTJL #Location: Sydney

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ariadnew · 2 months

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Thank you, Tumblr preview, for blurring the big one. I definitely didn't want it to look good or anything. You're a real stand up guy. 👍

Anyway. Back on my eternal 'emptying my screenshots/projects folder so I can delete everything and move on' kick, this time with photographs I took for Maggie's High Fashion challenge last year. (almost to the day!) Pretty speedy for me. They're not terribly exciting but I like them enough not to immediately have deleted them. I have discovered that I miss doing artsy photographs. The distinct lack of artsy photographs is probably [partly] why I've been steadily resenting this hobby over the last few years, so maybe more pointless vaguely arty things like this is just the ticket?

I never published these for the challenge, by the way, because in no universe can I canonically justify Agatha posing for a high fashion magazine like this. (Can you see it? I can't.)

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Sims 3 #Simblr #Sims 3 Character #Sims 3 Portrait #Equus-Sims #Don't know that I should be tagging this Equus but YOLO I guess #Agatha Foskett #High Fashion Challenge #Sort of #Pointless arty photographs #Cleaning out my drafts

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ariadnew · 1 year

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CTJL 2021, ROUND 7: PARIS

PARIS, FRANCE

These are the last CTJL Paris pictures you’ll see from me. Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, et cetera et cetera.

Competition day might’ve been at the mercy of a dark and threatening sky, but the team’s trip to Paris wasn’t all misery! Both Agatha and Archie won their respective classes, and the sun even popped out during down time- a nice reward for Poquelin and Zee, who got to spend an afternoon relaxing in the Champs de Mars. Archie was happy to be back in Paris, a place which harbours fond memories of youth; Dot was happy to be in Paris for the first time, let alone at the side of one of her idols. Even Agatha was happy*! She managed to get away from the pair of them for a day.

Travelling with the same two people for several months on end isn’t great when one is an introvert.

(That’s why she’s missing in the last picture, FYI. She’s probably off raiding used-book stores in search of more beautifully bound early editions to add to her collection, or at the Louvre falling in love with the statue of Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss, or sitting incognito with a book at a bistro in Montparnasse simply enjoying some alone time. In case you were wondering.)

*Possibly? It’s Agatha. Can one really be sure?

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Continuing on my quest to finish photo sets + subsequently delete folders + clean out my Tumblr drafts.

Yes yes yes, I do know the relevant event ended literally more than a year ago and you’ve forgotten about it and don’t care anyway. I swear I am sufficiently ashamed of myself. But not enough ashamed of myself to delete it all and forget about it!! My need for closure >>>>> my shame. Always.

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ariadnew · 1 year

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CTJL 2021, ROUND 7: PARIS

The waiter who appears at their table is charming and he knows it. He serves Archie his café au lait and croissant au beurre with a practised flair; he winks at Dot as he sets down a glass of orange juice and a chausson aux framboises oozing burgundy juices and the aroma of late-season raspberries.

Then, he angles over to Agatha.

Et pour la belle femme, he says, his voice deepening a notch and smokening two. And for the beautiful lady. Espresso and a pain au chocolat, the pastry brown and lustrous as a celebrity tanning on a St. Tropez beach. He hovers longer than expected at her side, eyes glimmering unctuously in the daylight. Although what comes next is delivered in French, it is clear even to Dot’s monolingual ear that he is addressing Agatha. But Agatha appears to either not have noticed, or be choosing to pretend as much. The waiter waits, making eye contact with Dot for a fleeting second. Naturally, she begins shredding her pastry into nervous tufts. Archie picks up Le Figaro and casually flicks it open to the first page. ‘He’s speaking to you, darling.’ ‘You are English?’ The charming waiter flashes a perfect smile. ‘My apologies. Your ‘usband spoke very good French and you look like a Frenchwoman. You have the same beauty of Frenchwoman. Same je ne sais quoi.’ Agatha lifts her teeny cup of espresso with her finger and pauses. Taking a moment to unpack everything, apparently. And doing her best not to grimace. Behind the paper, Archie is smirking. ‘Thank you; no.’ ‘Americaine?’ The way he says American makes it sound infinitely more alluring than it is. ‘New York City? San Francisco?’ ‘Neither.’ ‘Ah non?’ The charming waiter is undeterred and, if not genuinely interested, a master at feigning it. ‘Miami? Los Angeles?’ ‘No again.’ Before he has a chance to sling more guesses, she flashes him a fantastically false smile and asks, with impressively feigned sweetness: ‘Would you bring me some sugar? S’il vous plait?’ The charming waiter dips and flurries away in search of le sucre. The copy of Le Figaro across the table lowers to reveal a pair of crisp blue eyes. ‘You’re taking sugar now?’ She gives him a pointed look. ‘Sweet enough and all that,’ he adds. Agatha switches from pointed look to pointed ignorance. Archie reaches for his coffee cup and takes a sip, then settles it back in its saucer, thoughtful. He seems about to resume his reading when he pauses. Dot can see the smile restrained in his lips- ‘You’re speaking French now too, apparently.’ ‘I can’t speak French.’ ‘It would seem you can.’ ‘One word doesn’t equate to fluency.’ He tilts his head. ‘I think you’ll find that was technically four.’ Agatha sips her espresso again, slowly. If she hopes it will end the exchange, she is wrong. ‘It was very good.’ ‘Don’t.’ ‘Parlons Francais aujourd'hui?' ‘No.’ ‘Pourquoi pas?’ ‘No.’ ‘Toi ne-’ ‘No. I told you, I can’t speak French.’ ‘C’est pas v-’ ‘Spouting it at me at every opportunity is not going to make me fluent; it’s going to make me angry. I don’t know what you’re saying. Speak to me in English, or not at all. Preferably not at all.’ ‘N’abandonne pas.’ ‘You’re wasting your time.’ ‘On verra.’ ‘Give me that paper if you’re not reading it.’ Her voice is as impatient as a tapping foot. Archie smiles broadly, suddenly. The paper is gently folded and extended across the table. His fingers are still grasping the end of it when he says, in his crisp, perfect English: ‘As you want.’

Le Figaro is open for all of a second before it is thrown back on the table in disgust. Agatha stands up and throws back the rest of her espresso, angrily muttering something about wanting to breakfast in peace as she scoops up her pastry in a napkin and barges for the exit. The charming waiter stops in his tracks, newly unsure what to do with the pot of sucre he has heroically procured (and possibly unaccustomed to the feeling of seductive failure) They watch her bluster across the pavement, through drizzle and pedestrians, until she is out of view. Archie turns his eyes from the window and smiles. He reaches again for the paper, which sits in an inelegant heap on the table. Feeling brave, Dot ventures a joke. ‘I guess she didn’t like what it had to say?’

‘No indeed, Dottie.’ He flicks a page over, eyes glistering with mischief. ‘This is a French paper.’

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Equus-Sims #Writing #CTJL #On Location #Travel #France #Paris #Dorothy Lawley #Agatha Foskett #October #Scenic #Archie Vandover #Please don't judge my French too harshly #I already know I'm not very good #Queued

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ariadnew · 1 year

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CTJL 2021, ROUND 7: PARIS

Archie had lived in Paris once, when he was eighteen. He and three of his closest mates, newly graduated, living out of a predictably small, predictably bohemian apartment in Montmartre while they spent the summer making pocket money teaching English to French kids and exploring their newfound adult freedom to the fullest extent they dared.

All of this is, naturally, entirely new information to Dot.

Much to her delight, he continues on the Metro. One of his best friends, he tells her, got a job peeling vegetables and washing dishes at a restaurant governed by an Escoffier-trained chef, just to line his pockets. He fell wickedly and firmly in love with the world of the kitchen that summer. They barely saw him. He’s a sous-chef at one of London’s swankiest hotels now. And they still barely see him. Another spent those months honing his already prodigious talent for the social. Their apartment, he relates with a smile that is half-nostalgic, half-bashful, was frequently stuffed to the brim with strangers and friends alike; people found in clubs, markets, parks, cafes, galleries, streets; artists, actors, dancers, dreamers, and anything in between. On particularly notable occasions, their guests included a thalassophobic carcinologist, a Viennese piano technician, a professor of film studies, a diplomat’s (alleged) former mistress, and a fascinatingly cheerful mortician. Mostly, however, he recalls women. Lyndsay had a new girl on his arm every time they saw him, it seemed. Sometimes two. Sometimes two on each arm. Two on each arm, and a few in tow for his single friends. He was- by his own testimony- “unerringly generous” in that regard.

– But those, Archie says, as abrupt as the gentle appearance of colour in his cheeks, are stories for another time. His tone and his haste to depart the Metro tell her that another time is likely code for never.

* It is to Montmartre he is taking them that morning, to a small cafe tucked between a fromagerie and a shop crammed as ambitiously as it precariously with ceramics. It’s a street of vibrancy, filled with colour and quirkiness and life. Awnings flutter bright against the grey Parisian sky; the numbing autumn air is tinted with the warm, wheaten smell of a busy bakery. They pass a record store painted red and a glacier in shades of orange and ice; beneath signs announcing costumières in flamboyant strokes and bric-à-brac with scraps of rusted metal. Tables and chairs are arranged dutifully outside eateries and are occupied by equally dutiful locals taking their morning coffee and smoking in the drizzle. The gutter underfoot trickles and glistens with overnight rain, crumpled with sodden copper leaves and cigarette butts. A middle-aged man looks away in a display of feigned ignorance while the Bull Terrier at the end of his lead hunches over the pavement. A woman in a long skirt flies by on a bicycle hurling words Dot doesn’t understand but cannot possibly be complimentary. A leaf flutters to the pavement; a distant horn blares. Weak morning light gleams in the wet of the cobbled road.

Agatha has agreed to join them for breakfast, though it is not because she has any real desire for their company.

She has taken the seat to Dot’s right, where she currently sits tall and aloof and dabbing a stray rain drop from her cheek with her sleeve, eyeing the eclectic decor and commenting on the oddly tart-sweet smell of baked, borderline-burned apricots. Clad in stiletto boots and an elegant designer coat that’d cover Dot’s rent for the next five months, she does not look like a woman who frequented colourful cafes squashed within a city’s most offbeat streets and ate crooked, bleeding pastries for breakfast. She looks like a woman who’d be more at home dining in the Four Seasons’ breakfast room, or at one of those famed Belle Epoque brasseries Dot read about in a tourist guide, one of green glasswork and gold and all things art nouveau, with prices as impossible as its waiting list. She imagines her briefly, the heroine of some Jazz Age novel, svelte and sparkling in an evening gown and elbow-length gloves with a cigarette holder perched in a languid, elegant hand; smoking Turkish cigarettes and listening to jazz while men in sharp suits and dapper haircuts line up to bring her expensive champagne and beget her elusive attention. It is not an altogether difficult image to conjure. But Agatha is not at the Four Seasons, nor at one of the most coveted tables among the city’s brasseries (nor, indeed, in another time period). Agatha is here, looking as out of place as a Vermeer hanging in a kindergarten classroom—

And she is here, it turns out, because this is not her first time in Paris.

Parisians, she has found, are frequently afflicted with sudden and violent bouts of amnesia where the English language is concerned. Manners, too. Thus, a companion fluent in the language whilst in the capital is an incomparable advantage. How convenient it is, then, that Archie– as he has frequently reminded them over the course of their stay– is able to speak the language fluently! It also happens that he is in possession of an unnatural amount of patience, and- even more convenient!- is already on her payroll. Why wouldn’t she take advantage of that? Agatha isn’t in the mood to handle Parisian attitude. True, she isn’t really in the mood to handle English attitude, either, but the devil you know and all that. He might as well work for his wage. Make himself useful. Be worth the trouble. For once.

It is for this reason alone she has deigned to keep Archie around, even if the cost is having to endure a morning of him flaunting his irritatingly good French, being irritatingly nonchalant about how irritatingly good it is, and being around Archie in general.

Dot knows this, because Agatha has just finished telling her.

Archie must also know this, because she has not waited for him to leave after handing him a fistful of euros and telling him to order for her. Now. Please. (It makes him go away faster, she’d explained) (again, right in front of him)

Archie looks at Dot, the picture of sangfroid, and holds up Agatha’s euros.

‘Care to join me, Dottie?’ His tone is cool and smooth as the inside of a luxury car; his eyes spark with hidden humour. ‘Order what you like; Agatha’s just offered us our breakfast today. Awfully generous of her.’ ‘I put up w-’ ‘Awfully generous indeed.’ Agatha lowers her phone and looks Dot square in the eye. Having been in her employ longer and more closely than most, one would think she’d have grown accustomed to the unnerving, burning darkness of her mistress’ eyes.

She has not. (... If anything, it’d only gotten scarier)

‘Go with him, Dot.’ Agatha turns her eyes back to her phone, her voice low and bored. ‘And make sure you take your time.’

If Archie is similarly unnerved, he doesn’t show it. He meets Dot’s eye, flashes her a smile, and gestures with a sweep of his arm toward the register, as unconcerned and cheerful as ever.

* Part II of angry breakfast tomorrow. 👉 😎 👉

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ariadnew · 2 years

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CTJL, ROUND 9: SYDNEY

SYDNEY, NEW SOUTH WALES AUSTRALIA

=====================================

I did start writing a bit about Agatha & Co.’s adventures in the sunburned country but-

(isn’t there always a ‘but’?)

- the scene I was writing had them out of Sydney and in the bushland. Which was nice, actually: it’s the first time I’ve been able to write about these characters in my homeland, and knowing the setting innately enables a person to worry less about research and details and just let loose, write evocatively of scents and sounds and every manner of sensation experienced countless times over.

The problem with that, however, is that if you’ve ever tried to capture the essence of the Australian bush in The Sims, you’ll be acutely aware it’s... not readily done.

So TL;DR: I thought it’d be weird to pair this writing up with indoor competition shots, but couldn’t make the photos I needed. I’m disappointed, to be honest with you. It involved lurid sunsets and the smell of the bush in summer, Australian slang and the woes of flies and Agatha being hit on by a jackaroo who was probably (definitely) very, very sexy.

Oh well!

Anyway- the last entries of the 2021 season. Thanks for a great year, @ctjumpingleague. <3 (and let’s all pretend the photos aren’t being squished into Tumblr and are displaying as I intended, okay? Okay.)

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Equus-Sims #CTJL #Competition #Show Jumping #Agatha Foskett #Archie Vandover #Poquelin #Speakeasy LX #Lowmax Stud #Simblr #These have been in sitting finished in my drafts for six months #For no reason whatsoever

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ariadnew · 2 years

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She’s elegance, she’s grace; she has croissant crumbs on her face.

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Simblr #Equus-Sims #Lowmax Stud #CTJL #Erh...#Forgotten My Tags #Agatha Foskett #Character(s)#Sims 3 #Travel: France #On Location #??? What else??#Photo Set

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ariadnew · 2 years

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Breakfast in Paris / Petit dejeuner a Paris.

Feat. Agatha, Archie & Dot whilst on the CTJL tour. No, that wasn’t in October last year; I don’t know what you’re talking about.

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Simblr #Equus-Sims #CTJL #On Location #Scenic #Travel: France #It was in October last year #But #You know me #Agatha Foskett #Archie Vandover #Dorothy Lawley #Lowmax Stud

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ariadnew · 2 years

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CTJL 2021, ROUND 4: CREMA

CREMA, ITALY.

Where you can smell the sun and taste the light and the air is heavy with history. @ctjumpingleague

Believe everything they tell you about Italy. It has its own gravity. Like you can feel the weight of ancient stories and three-thousand summers as you walk.

On a bit of a project-finishing kick lately; hope nobody minds being bombarded with my productivity! It’s unlikely to happen again for a long time, hah.

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Simblr #CTJL #Competition #Show Jumping #Agatha Foskett #Archie Vandover #Poquelin #Speakeasy LX #Travel: Italy #Lowmax Stud #Scenic #Don't mind me keeping up with the draft clean-out #No this set wasn't meant to be posted in July last year? What are you talking about?#I miss Italy so much

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ariadnew · 2 years

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CTJL 2021, ROUND 9: SYDNEY

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

‘Please don’t tell anyone, Poquelin.’

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A mini-photo set for you today! I call this one “Gawk.”

We can’t blame Dot for being alarmed at seeing her teenage idol/awkward older crush in a state of undress in her very presence! Too shocking. Button your shirt, Archie; you’re offending delicate sensibilities everywhere. And inflaming the indelicate ones.

(Meanwhile, spot Agatha being completely unfazed)

PS. You can bet your last dollar Poquelin would absolutely dob her in if he could talk. Little bastard oozes ‘don’t trust me’ vibes.

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Simblr #Equus-Sims #Photo Set #Story #Dorothy Lawley #Archie Vandover #Agatha Foskett #CTJL #Show Jumping #Behind The Scenes #Lowmax Stud

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ariadnew · 3 years

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CTJL, ROUND 2: VENICE BEACH

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Agatha watches a combination from Australia go clear and does not look over at the connections shouting and clapping at the bar. She doesn’t need to. Their reflections jump and celebrate in the window in front of her, bejeweled and tipsy, overlaid upon a solitary figure on the course.

She turns her eyes back to the water.

She’s been sitting here overlooking the beach since she finished with Poquelin, sipping champagne and hours. The sapphirine sky of earlier has weakened into a pallid, duck-egg blue and a golden-soft haze is beginning to diffuse along the horizon, courtesy of the tumbling sun. It glows behind a cluster of palms, throwing toothy shadows across pavement and sand, glinting in windows and metalwork; it bathes distant concrete in the warmest of light, and ripples bright in the ocean beneath.

Behind her, the roar has returned to din.

Agatha is not technically supposed to be in this lounge. This particular area was intended to be exclusive to competitors and connections of the 1.60 class- the class going on right now- and the lean, jet-eyed Latino stationed by the entrance attests to how serious the organisers were about keeping it that way. She’s glanced over a few times and seen him turn away several lots of hopeful partygoers: silver-haired men in smartly-cut suits; cosmetically enhanced women swathed in Valentino and Dior; young girls with long legs and clothing choices as questionable as their sobriety. It has not mattered: the door is closed.

But not to Victor Foskett’s daughter.

Few doors in life were closed to Agatha and if they were, she was typically- and hastily- assured it was an oversight before someone flung it open, paving the way through with flourishes and smiles and flattery smarmy, slimy or stammered. Generally, though, the door was open before she was aware it existed. In those cases, somebody always made sure she knew it was there. That it was open, ready. For her. For Victor Foskett’s daughter.

Agatha absently circles the base of her glass with her thumb and index finger, watching as an American rider aboard an amberish chestnut canters easily into the ring.

She isn’t stupid. She knows why officials and sponsors keep making exceptions, keep insisting. They might like to pretend otherwise and in doing so extend her a dignity that isn’t there, but she knows. She and her fellow competitors. They used to like reminding her of it back when she was new on the pro circuit. In rumours, in taunts, in whispers. Not just riders. Trainers, grooms, representatives, show crew. Anyone. Everyone. Dirty glances in sponsor tents, unshaken hands at award ceremonies; logistical mishaps and clerical errors that were impossibly coincidental and localised. Equipment damaged, or missing altogether. Unkind things written wherever the opportunity arose. Hushed words, sinister smiles. Purposely averted eyes. A few times, worse. There were never any witnesses. The past begins to seep vivid and violent into her thoughts so she clenches her jaw and lifts her glass to her mouth. It presses a hard chill into her lower lip; her tongue erupts with tingling. She turns her eyes as far as the window will allow, where a sliver of downtown LA hums and shimmers in the distance. She thinks of Dot and Archie out in the grimy, thronging heart of the city, eating street fusion, admiring the neon, dodging people, counting stars. Dot had been so eager to see it, experience it, and despite his fatigue and personal feelings on LA, Archie hadn’t the heart to let her down. They’d invited Agatha to join them. It’ll be nice, Archie had said. Our little show jumping family, out together.

Agatha had declined.

She peers at the last mouthful of gold fizzing quietly in her hand. The room smells of gloss and roses and money. Bar lights seem brighter; the darkness, darker. Booze sloshes, chatter unwinds, egos inflate and fall. Below, a Swedish rider on a hulking black horse coasts over the final fence. Applause ensues. Toasts. Congratulations. Du Gamla, Du Fria. The sun continues to tumble. Shadows shift and lengthen. The ocean writhes, restless.

Agatha drains her glass and leaves it on the counter.

The world feels heavier when she stands.

================

(I snuck a few sneaky references to other simblrs whom I knew entered this class in here- full points to anyone who can guess who they are!)

#The Sims 3 #TS3 #Equus-Sims #Competition #CTJL #Show Jumping #Writing #Agatha Foskett #What Am I Doing With My Life #Simblr #I am never painting a beach again #Don't look too closely at these #Please

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