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#chalk horse
autoneurotic · 3 months
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folkestone white horse 🎠
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misterpuca · 1 year
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Brass Pendant - Chalk - Westbury White Horse
Inspired by memories of passing chalk horses from train rides.
I've been lately inspired by textures of historic jewellery, I like to imagine these are old coins dug up from a remote meadow, paired with contemporary design.
This pendant is hand made with one of my original designs on a recycled brass disk, each one unique.
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didoofcarthage · 9 months
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Sketch for the mosaic of Minerva by Elihu Vedder
American, c. 1895
graphite and chalk on paper
Library of Congress
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lepucide · 1 month
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Got some chalk
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gwydpolls · 9 months
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Time Travel Question 9: Ancient History II and Earlier
These Questions are the result of suggestions from the previous iteration.
This category is for suggestions made too late to fall into the correct grouping.
Please add new suggestions for this category below if you have them for future consideration.
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greyhavenisback · 1 year
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In a change from fanart, have a snowy landscape!
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Tags -
@ohhalefire @all-or-nothing-baby @blue-eyedbeta @halinski @fairytales-and-folklore @kikiroo @rosieposiepuddingnpie @savileho @exlibrisfangirl @fanfics-fix @nerdherderette @jmeelee
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k00296574 · 4 months
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Chalkboard Animation
With how much I was enjoying working on the aninmations I wannted to create a bigger piece this time and challenge myself to see what I could do. This time depicting the mule tied to the cart.
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Probably could do without accidently kicking the camera out of focus for nearly 30 minutes but I'm happy enough with how it turned out, even if I was a bit constrained by time.
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norisus · 2 years
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MORE chalk art
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thehackneypony · 1 year
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i survived chalk's first show with a thankfully average score despite it being a total mess
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love-chx · 1 year
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“all the damage i got isn’t ‘good damage’. it’s just damage.”
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dexaroth · 1 month
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first its 'lets go to a nutritionist, losing weight would help you move around better!' which apparently did help but I personally can't notice and now it's 'you're looking a little bit too thin -_- lets go back to eating smiley fries and chicken nuggets like we did when I was like 7. if you truly care. 😑
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messyyythoughts · 2 years
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the sands of Zion, part 1.
fallout: new vegas Joshua Graham x female courier reader
author’s note: OBVIOUSLY WILL HAVE SPOILERS FOR FALLOUT: NEW VEGAS, HONEST HEARTS DLC! summary: you need more time to think, being the decider of the fate of the Mojave and the Strip, and what’s one way to get more time? run away! you assist a small caravan to New Canaan, and everything is going smooth, until you enter Zion. warnings: typical fallout nv violence, what did you expect? ••●••••●••••●••
being the infamous Courier of the Mojave Desert was not something you often enjoyed. it came with more challenges than rewards, and caused more mess in your life than ever before. you wished you could remember back to when you weren’t holding this stupid platinum chip, that pretty much made you the sole deciding party in the fate and future of New Vegas. it felt as if the entire Mojave Desert was holding its breath in anticipation of your decision. well, you weren’t going to make that decision, at least not yet. you weren’t ready, you didn’t think you’d ever be ready, but a small part of you was pushing you to make that final decision soon. you had told yourself that this excursion to New Canaan was the last thing you did before getting your hands truly dirty with the dust and sweat of the Mojave. even as you met with Jed and sorted out your affairs before leaving, your mind was barking at you to turn around and sort out New Vegas first. but, you persisted, and found yourself on the road with no chance at turning back until the return journey. it was a good few weeks, there had been a few close calls but you had all banded together and protected one another admirably. late night campfires and early morning hikes created an unspoken bond within the group, and you found yourself enjoying it. you didn’t enjoy many things these days, being the person you were, so it was actually nice to forget temporarily about the stress and responsibility of New Vegas. it seemed as if reaching New Canaan was going to be achieved, much to Jed’s satisfaction, as the caravan descended into a canyon of red and orange rock, and dust. you had mistaken it for sand at first, a lingering reminder of your business back in the Mojave. with a sigh, you were the last one out of the cave, and fell behind to shake numerous amounts of rocks from your well worn leather boots. just as you had comfortably slipped the boot back on, shots rang out up ahead, and you heard Jed call out. you whipped your rifle from your back, looking down the sights, and seeing what could only be described as a tribal up on the cliffs raining gunfire down on the caravan up ahead. settling behind a rock in a crouched position, you aimed, and took down at least three before they realised where you were hiding. much to your annoyance and horror, they scrambled across and down the cliffs towards you, gaining ground steadily. you took down the rest, but one had slipped your sight, and scaled down the cliff to land behind you, landing a blow to your head and sending you sprawling forwards to the dust, or sand. your rifle clattered out of reach, setting your nerves on edge, as you only had a few other weapons on your person. the tribal was shouting, and you knew that it was not a language you had encountered before. the Mojave shared its collection of people who had their own dialects and accents, but this was entirely alien to you. a struggle ensued, with you pinned to the dust, and the tribal on top, fighting to get another blow to your head. you were too stubborn to let that happen, and too angry to think straight, so your adrenaline fuelled strength overpowered that of the tribal and you slammed them into the rock. they were shocked, but you didn’t give them time to come around, you landed several perfect blows to their face and threw them back to the dust, switching to your booted foot. precise kicks landed on the tribal’s back and ribs, and eventually they went still. you snatched your rifle up, and put one well aimed bullet in between the tribal member’s eyes for good measure. you happened to have first hand experience with surviving ambushes and shots to the head, so you did another to make sure. having narrowly escaped with your life, and not much else, you surveyed the damage done by the tribespeople. every single member of the original caravan was dead, they lay in the orange dust with bullet holes, and there was no saving any of them. with a heavy heart, you dragged their bodies out of view and took what you could scavenge from them. you went to walk back through the cave, and turned to your Pip Boy, only to see that the screen was dark. you gave it a few knocks to check it hadn’t just randomly turned off, and then sank to your knees when you realised it was truly busted. you let out a steady exhale, and stood back up, walking past the bodies of your caravan members, and crossing a rickety wooden bridge. still looking at your Pip Boy in utter dismay, you failed to notice a lone tribal about to take a shot at you, but before they could, another tribal took them out. you raised your rifle, steadying the scope, but saw that the surviving tribal had their hands up in surrender. you slowly watched them approach the end of the bridge, calling out to you. your gut said it was okay to lower the rifle, so you did, slowly. “hoo! that was close, you should be more careful.” that was your introduction to Follows-Chalk, a young member of the Dead Horses tribe in Zion, and a scout. it took some talking, but he had somehow convinced you to join him at his camp, and to meet his leader. he did not speak his leader’s name, which both intrigued and terrified you, but you had to assume there was a reason behind it. you exchanged conversation with Follows-Chalk as you went, listening to his advice, and warnings, of how to survive in Zion. nothing he said, however, could have prepared you for meeting his leader. ••●••••●••••●•• after reluctantly making polite and staggered conversation with the Dead Horse members, Follows-Chalk guided you into what he called Angels Cave. he did not take you all of the way inside, instead he waved you on all on your lonesome. with your rifle over your shoulder, you cautiously walked on, keeping an ear out for anyone up ahead. only one sound found your ears. the repetitive noise of guns being loaded. as you rounded the corner and entered the cavern, not a single thing on this scorched, God forsaken hell hole of an earth could have prepared you for the sight you faced. a man covered in bandages, wearing a white shirt and an old world police SWAT vest was sat at a table, meticulously inspecting .45 automatic pistols. the individual had blue eyes, not a striking blue, but a clear blue. it then occurred to you just who this might be. you’d heard the tales, the stories, the myths. the whispered warnings of what happened if you failed the Legion had been passed around for years. the reported NCR sniper shots of this man had been in the dozens, yet they had all been false. his only failure his entire life had been Hoover Dam, and that both amazed and sickened you. it was him who spoke first, to your surprise. you hadn’t expected him to give up any words without first pressuring you into speaking a few. “we should’ve given you a better welcome on your first visit to Zion, but from what I hear the White Legs beat us to it.” that voice. you could hear it for a hundred times and it would still send shivers right through you like you were made of glass. you hadn’t expected the voice of such a feared and legendary man to be so... bedroom like? there was simply no other explanation for it. “White Legs seem to be the only visitors we have these days, and I wouldn’t have expected anyone from the Mojave to come looking for us.” finally, he took you in. “and you’re a courier, no less.” that he was right about. “not the one I was expecting, but I suppose he wouldn’t have come with a caravan.” he added, a bit more solemn. you realised with a great crushing weight that he was giving you time to talk yourself. what was the best course of action here? explain yourself, greet him casually, pretend you had no idea who he was? surely he’d have some inclination that a visitor from the Mojave would know about him, so it wasn’t smart to lie. “I am a courier, but not the one you were expecting?” you finally said, trying not to sound as unsure as you felt inside. “I was expecting someone from Caesar’s Legion, he has sent them before. but, you don’t appear to be affiliated with them. are you?” he asked the question like it was a test, and you supposed it was. “I have no interest in Caesar unless it involves expelling him from New Vegas. he’s causing a lot of problems, as it would happen.” your heart was beating faster than you liked it, your body betraying your fear response. this man could put a bullet right between your eyes from where he was sat, and that would be the end of your second life. but, something told you it would be against his best interests to suddenly shoot you. he had the air of someone who held importance here in the Dead Horses camp, and you had an idea of why. Follows-Chalk had filled you in on the recent events in Zion with the White Legs being hostile and attacking the other tribes in raider fashion, and had informed you unknowingly that Joshua Graham was their acting war chief. “I see he continues to make enemies wherever he goes.” ‘well, you got that right, Joshua.’ you thought silently. you had to fight the growing urge to outright ask about the history Joshua and Caesar shared, what had really transpired after Hoover Dam, but held your tongue. that wasn’t important, you needed a way out of here and back to New Vegas, the Mojave, as soon as humanly possible. “I hate to be this way, but I’ve got some urgent business back in New Vegas. if someone could be kind enough to show me the way back, I’d be grateful, and I can compensate them.” Joshua did not pause for a moment in his process of checking his pistols. he simply gave you a single look before his eyes went back to what his hands were doing. “Daniel, another New Canaanite, has made many maps of the region. the bad news is that we can’t help you right now, not with everything that’s going on.” your heart sank, and you waited for the explanation as to why not a single soul in this vast place could show you to an exit that would bring you back to New Vegas. “even though you made your way in, there is no easy way back. without a map, you’ll die in the wilderness.” you glanced at your dead Pip Boy and realised he was right. even chancing the long journey back with the help of your Pip Boy would see you taking longer than if you had a guide, or a proper map of the area. you let your bag drop to the cave floor, and took off your worn brown cowboy hat. Joshua’s eyes flitted back to you, you had his attention. “I’m assuming that the White Legs tribe are the ones causing you trouble here in Zion, yes?” you asked, approaching Joshua’s table as you spoke. “well, seeing as you aren’t going to outright ask for my help, I’ll offer it. I will do what you need me to do in order to resolve the situation and get some assistance in returning to New Vegas. do we have a deal?” you were on the opposite side of the table to Joshua, palms flat and resting. Joshua’s eyes were fixed on your scarred hands, which you quickly pulled off of the table. “you are a good neighbour to us.” he said, nodding in agreement to your offer. a deal had been struck, and you were about to do anything to finish your end and get the hell out of here. ••●••••●••••●•• it had been a week of pure hell. there was no other way to accurately describe it. you’d trekked all over Zion on Joshua’s orders, with the occasional company of Follows-Chalk, to retrieve this and carry that. you’d met with Daniel and the Sorrows more times than you could count, too. your home base became the Dead Horses camp, but you were also welcome to sleep at the Sorrows camp if need be. you rarely spoke to Joshua for longer than a few minutes each evening to debrief him and receive your orders for the following day. it became a very professional relationship, partly because you were still wary of him, and partly because he was unsure how to approach you. you became close with Follows-Chalk, he often showed you shortcuts and hiding places around Zion. you taught each other tricks of survival each day, and when you weren’t together, you honestly missed his company. whenever you returned to the Dead Horses camp he welcomed you with a friendly hug, and you even took off your hat to talk to him, a rare gesture on your part. you didn’t even take your hat off to talk to Joshua, which he had noticed one evening when you finally emerged from the Eastern Virgin river, carrying a bag of things he had requested that you find. Follows-Chalk walked straight on over to you, and you stuffed your hat in your hand to welcome his hug. you neatly perched the hat back on your head, and filled Follows-Chalk in on your day. Joshua came to the conclusion that he hadn’t made much of an effort in getting to know you, and that was entirely his fault. truth be told, he was thinking about you sometimes when you were out in Zion, carrying out his orders. since he’d laid eyes on you, he knew you were someone special. maybe it was the way you looked, or your presence, or even your voice. that voice could talk to him for hours and he’d never tire of it, he thought. this thought often applied when you were exchanging stories with Dead Horse members around a campfire later into the evening, using Follows-Chalk as a translator. you were doing this very thing tonight, in front of Joshua. after you had finished telling this story, and left the members in entertained amazement, Joshua found a suitable spot next to you by the campfire and opened his book. you glanced over, and then he finally heard that voice speaking to him. “not that I’m being purposefully ignorant, but what exactly is that?” you asked, resting on one elbow on your side to escape the chatter of the others. you were completely facing him, attention drawn to his book. Joshua closed the book and placed it down in front of you. it read ‘The Book of Mormon’ on the battered leather cover, and you reached out to trace the lettering, the original colour long faded from use. “but what does it say inside?” you asked, to which Joshua flipped open the first few pages until it landed on one that was well thumbed. he obviously liked this one a lot. “will you read it to me? my eyes are too tired to focus on those tiny letters.” you said this with a warm smile, and surprise went across his face, but luckily you didn’t see it. you rested your head on your arm, and waited for him to start reading it. he did, and carried on at your request. he got through several pages until the campfire light became too low to see the words properly, and you thanked him for sharing his book with you. it was something simple, but it made his chest feel different, and it wasn’t the burns this time. as you settled into your sleeping bag for the remainder of the night, he found a question lingering on his tongue, but swallowed it instead. that was too forward of him, he’d only been in your company for a week, no less. if you happened to be here longer, maybe he would ask his question then. ••●••••●••••●•• despite the first week being hell, you carried on. you set a brutal pace, working like a dog, day and night. you reported everything to Joshua and only took breaks to hydrate or sleep. not a single person complained of your work, so you took it as you were doing a good job. that was until you were ambushed with Follows-Chalk, and you felt guiltier than ever before. you’d just finished looting an old world cabin, in the middle of nowhere, but obviously Follows-Chalk knew where you were. you had a bag full of things needed for the Dead Horses and Sorrows, and you were almost home, when Follows-Chalk went still and silent. you ceased all movement and your talking, reaching to your back for your rifle. Joshua had actually inspected it recently and given it a free once over. you found that it worked very well now, even better than before. Follows-Chalk went to signal something to you when a shot rang out, and blood splattered across your face. you grabbed Follows-Chalk, throwing him beneath you behind some shrubs, and saw a clean bullet wound through the shoulder. “it’s gone through the shoulder, but don’t move. I’ll get us out of here.” you had your rifle in hand, and spotted who had shot at you. White Legs, camping up in the cliffs, waiting. they’d been getting bolder and more violent with each encounter, it felt like, and the other Dead Horses scout reports seemed to feel the same. you started picking them off, one by one, as they revealed themselves. Follows-Chalk covered you from behind, but the White Legs had positioned themselves poorly in one concentrated mass, supposedly for a large ambush once you two had walked underneath them. you were in the process of reloading when a few lone White Legs started cropping up, having scaled down the cliffs to search for you and Follows-Chalk. you crawled deeper into the bushes, covering Follows-Chalk with your body in case they started firing, but they walked straight past. you were about to whisper something to Follows-Chalk when the bushes shook and a White Legs grabbed you from behind, hauling you out of the shrubbery and into the open. there were three of them remaining, and one of you. your rifle was still in the bushes, and with Follows-Chalk’s injury he wasn’t in any state to be using a rifle accurately. knowing this, you made an effort to escape the hold of the White Legs member who had a tight hold of your hair and the back of your neck. you managed to hook one of you legs behind theirs, and sent them sprawling across the dust. in the confusion, you charged at the other two, taking one down with you and then flipping them on top of you to use them as a human shield. it worked, as the other White Legs open fired at you. blood splattered and leaked all over you from the bullet holes, and the heat making the blood run quicker. that familiar tang of metal filled your senses, and you felt that switch into fight or flight finally happen. fight was obviously the chosen mode. you kicked the body of the White Leg member away, and tackled the next one who held the gun. you wrestled for control, and you were pointing the barrel to the sky when the White Leg fired several times and ran out of bullets. you wrenched the empty gun free, threw it aside and resorted to beating the White Leg down with your fists, sending small splatters of blood across the dust, or sand (you still hadn’t decided if this stuff was dust or sand yet). you felt rough hands haul you up, and you made hard contact with the ground, facing the White Leg who had found you in the bushes. they went to bash your head in with a club, but you rolled, and they missed. on your knees, you dug your small knife from your boot and plunged it into the White Legs torso. they stumbled, dropping the club, which you grabbed and swung upwards with. it made a sickeningly loud crack upon contact, and knocked them out cold. they might’ve died on impact or they might die later from head trauma, you didn’t have time to stop and check. you retrieved your knife, and held the club steady in your other hand. blood that wasn’t yours ran down your face, sticky and hot. the remaining alive White Legs member was writhing on the ground in pain. you had knocked out several of their teeth, after all. you sheathed the knife in your boot, and raised the club, bringing it down once with a crack and watching the blood pour from the broken nose it left behind. with all three White Legs dealt with, you abandoned the club, and ran back to the bushes where Follows-Chalk was hidden. you slung your rifle over your back, and helped him up, but the blood he was losing was worrying you. he leaned on your for support at first, but by the time you had reached the entrance to the Eastern Virgin river, he had completely passed out. your heart was loud in your ears like the rush of your feet in the river that disturbed the still nighttime air. you carried him determinedly all the way, cursing the White Legs as you went. the water seemed to be fighting against you as you waded, but when you rounded the corner and saw the camp alight with campfires and burning torches, you called out. several Dead Horses members came rushing to you, and took Follows-Chalk out of your arms. there wasn’t much else you could do but stand there in the river, watching as they carried him inside the cave in a flurry of shouts and cries. you removed your hat, and before you could stop yourself, fell to your knees in utter guilt and shame. he’d been hurt because he was with you. if he was on his own, or here in camp, he might’ve lived through tonight unharmed. water was soaking your lower half, but you couldn’t find a reason to care. something that surprised you was the tears that came to your eyes, you wiped them away but they kept coming. you hadn’t cried in a... very long time. even back in the Mojave there wasn’t time to cry, not even for a moment, but out here in the expanse of Zion, there seemed to be just a few moments where you let the tears fall. you looked up at the sound of water splashing, meaning footsteps, and saw Joshua approaching. you realised with a start that you had left the bag behind! you swore internally before going to get up and return to the scene of your crime. “are you alright?” Joshua reached you in the water as you stood, and you remembered the blood. “it isn’t mine, it belongs to a group of White Legs that ambushed us.” you cupped your hands in the cold water and splashed it onto your face, knowing that it wouldn’t do anything to wash it all away. your hat was lying abandoned in the water somewhere, probably about to float downriver. your body stilled as you lost all motivation to move. if Follows-Chalk died tonight, that was on you. Joshua took a few steps closer, and then bent down to you, dipping his bandaged hands into the water. not a single word could explain the feeling of his fingertips lifting your face to the moonlight, as he scrubbed the blood away. your eyes caught for a moment before you forced yours closed, shame filling your face. neither of you spoke words, there was just the sounds of the river around you that filled the heavy silence. sometimes your breathing got heavy as the adrenaline left your system, but Joshua never commented on it. he pulled his hands away from your face once it was clean, and damp with river water to cool you down. you hadn’t moved an inch as he’d held your face, a small part of you wished you had more blood and dirt for him to scrub away so he would stay a bit longer. “are you alright?” he asked again, not letting his earlier question go unanswered. “no, I’m not.” you answered truthfully. “I want to kill them all.” you said softly, almost like it was a dark, dirty secret. but he understood you completely, and sympathised with your mindset. “I... also left the bag behind.” you added, letting out a tired sigh. “will he be okay? the bullet went through, but the blood loss was...” Joshua offered you a hand and you both stood up in the river, water sloshing around your feet. “they will do everything they can for him. the bag isn’t a concern now, you both being safe is.” you nodded, looking around for your hat, and realising that it had definitely escaped downstream. “come to the cave, be by his side.” Joshua said, before letting go of your hand from his. you hadn’t even clocked that he’d been holding it since you’d stood up. “my hat went downstream, I’ll be right back.” you gave him a smile that hid your intentions as you started wading down the river to retrieve your hat, and then find the rest of those White Legs. ••●••••●••••●••
messyyythoughts © 2022 do not translate without my permission, give credit if you repost, support always welcomed <3
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burdellen · 6 months
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vale of the white horse, september 2023
the oldest white horse chalk carving in england, created in the late bronze age or early iron age.
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bomb-proof · 4 months
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Cantered for the first time....his canter is an absolute dream. He reminds me sooooo much of my heart horse Rugby. Even some of his mannerisms on the ground remind me of young Rugby. If this guy is even a fraction of what Rugby became i'll be ecstatic but for now i'm just so excited to enjoy the journey with a sweet young horse who is willing💜
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cat-appreciator · 8 months
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It’s cold and I don’t wanna get out of bed so fuck it, let’s talk about the White Horse of Uffington.
There are a lot of hill figures in the south of England, in places where the topsoil is a thin layer of grass on top of a thick layer of Upper Cretaceous chalk. You just peel back the sod and there it is, ready to be a regimental badge, a horse, or a guy with a giant dong. In the case of the White Horse of Uffington specifically, there’s a bit more soil underneath the sod, so you dig a ditch and fill it with crushed chalk.
Most of these figures aren’t actually all that old, ~500 years old or less, because grass is an incredibly tenacious plant and it grows back over the chalk. If you want to keep a hill figure around it requires regular maintenance. The White Horse has been dated to the late Bronze Age or early Iron Age, meaning it could well be three thousand years old (there’s a technique called optically stimulated luminescence where scientists can tell when a thing was last exposed to light; they dug down to the bottom of the chalk filled trench and tested the soil underneath. The Horse dates to between 1300 and 550 BC).
Again - and this is the part where I get emotional and weepy - a hill figure requires regular maintenance. Without it, the White Horse would be invisible in a few decades. So every seven years, the villagers of the surrounding communities get together with their baskets of chalk and hammers (and, in more recent years, knee pads) and pound fresh quartz into the trench to prevent it from being overgrown.
With some interruptions during modern times (the Horse was covered in sod during WW2 so it couldn’t be used by the Luftwaffe for navigation) the scouring of the Horse has taken place every seven years for three thousand years. The original builders spoke a Celtic language, or possibly a lost pre-Indo-European language. They didn’t have the same culture or religion or worldview or anything to the people preserving the Horse today. We don’t know what the Horse meant to them. And yet for three thousand years, every seven years, Roman Britons or Saxons or medieval peasants or Clive from down the way have faithfully got together to scour the Horse, to carry it forward from an unknown past to an unknown future.
It’s a tradition even more remarkable for the fact that there’s no point for the Horse’s existence except the fact of the Horse’s existence. This isn’t some high ritual (like the rebuilding of the Ise shrine in Japan, which is connected to the imperial family) it’s a bunch of farmers crushing up rocks. Empires have fallen, gods have faded out of memory, but the Horse continues.
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verathena14 · 10 months
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had to make a poster for a current issue we were passionate about for art class~ so ofc i made a queer unicorn
also this is the first time i'd used chalk for anything other than drawing on sidewalks lollll
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