swordandflame

[swordandflame]

MEANWHILE, Tove and Fiel are out stomping through the snow like WHERE ARE YOU, YOU GLORIOUS DUMBASS

[swordandflame]

Too Close to the Action

Imke slowly opened her eyes. It took several minutes before she identified the Vanguard's infirmary by the gilded ceiling. It didn't help that vision in one eye was still a little blurry.

She felt like a munched cog, for sure. Her body ached, and going right back to sleep sounded tempting--but so did drinking an entire lake.

Someone had been on alert, because the slightest rustling of her sheets had Ambrosine shuffling over.

"You sure do know how to pick your seats at these events, don't you, Imke." Ambrosine pressed the back of her hand to the engineer's forehead, and then slowly helped her sit up.

"Guess Lance explained." Imke had, by sheer dint of luck, chosen a seat on the very edge of the stage at a charity dance. A bomb had been placed underneath. Everyone closer had been killed, and it was no small amount of luck that had Imke hearing a strange noise and diving some feet further away.

"Yes. He's been fairly glued to your side as soon as he was free--I have him sleeping in one of the other beds right now, in fact." Ambrosine pressed a glass of cold water into her hands, then carefully lowered herself into a nearby chair. Imke felt a twinge of guilt for hauling the heavily pregnant woman out of her home.

"Take it I was a right mess?" Half the glass was gone in seconds.

"The druid--at least, it felt like druid healing--who tended you at one point did a good job. But I noticed that the levels of chemicals in your system were at toxic levels by the time you got to me." Ambrosine squinted suspiciously.

Imke weakly waved a hand. "Whatsit's triage programmin' will take calculated risks."

"I see that." Ambrosine folded her hands in her lap. "I had to find traces of the other healer's magic to guess at the full extent of your original injuries. You ruptured your tympanic membrane, had ossicular disruption--"

"Wha?"

"You done fucked up your ears, girl. And one of your eyes, plus you fractured some bones in the arm you landed on--I presume. Damage to your lungs, burns..." A sigh. "Like I said, the previous healers who saw to you did a decent job for field healing, on top of whatever alchemical nonsense you pumped into yourself. I just had a lot of cleanup and fine detail work to take care of. You are to rest, you understand? I will tell Lance every restriction you have, because I trust him to see that you follow them."

"Fighting dirty," Imke muttered darkly.

"Damned straight."

"...he was really upset, wasn't he?"

"Twisting himself into knots."

Imke started to say, I've been worse, but then closed her mouth. No she hadn't, actually. "...well. Am I well enough t' go home, at least?" And get out of Ambrosine's hair. And sleep in her own bed, preferably with said worried, pretty boy.  "An'...like, you fixed stuff, right? In time? I ain't gonna have any problems?"

"You should be fine, although some things will take awhile to re-calibrate, as it were. For instance, you probably haven't noticed that I've been talking louder than usual. Your eye might be a bit fuzzy for a couple of weeks yet. You'll be tired. Eat a lot, drink a lot, sleep a lot. Those are your orders, okay? I'll clear you to go home--once Lance wakes up. No sooner. He escorts you home or your ass stays here. Got it?"

"Yes'm."

Ambrosine leaned over and gently flicked Imke's shoulder. "Don't yes'm your...aunt. I don't want to feel that old right now."

Imke scrunched her nose. Right. On paper, that was their relationship now, even if--much as with Jim--it felt more like she'd just picked up another older sibling.  "Yes'm," Imke said blandly, because Ambrosine's wrath was necessarily blunted.

"Twit. Go back to sleep. I'm sure Lance'll be at your side as soon as he wakes up." Ambrosine refilled Imke's glass from a nearby pitcher, then heaved herself out of the chair. "Tove'll be on duty here in a minute.

Imke sighed and settled back down in the bed, tugging the covers up under her chin. She wished Lance wasn't out of site, but at least he was around, and the blanket was soft, and the fountain in the background was....

She slept, and Ambrosine lingered a few more minutes before leaving.

[swordandflame]

Somewhere, Imke frowns.

[swordandflame]

#5: The Rider’s Parade +#6)

It is the day of the Scorpio Festival and I am having none of it.

I have already been asked a dozen times why I let Bloodletter go, and that’s on top of the fifty times I’ve been asked during training, and honestly at this point I’m just ready to sock anyone who opens their mouth in my vague direction.

“But you won on him last year!”

Yeah, and if I’d had my way, he’d have been given to the waves the night of my brother’s funeral, but anyway. 

After shoving a November cake at a bewildered looking Brent, I simply wait by the rocks. I will be the first to pledge this year, as night draps her mantle over Thisby.  One of the boys--it’d be an insult to men to call him such--tries to shove past me, but I simply wedge myself in front of him.  The person conducting the affair this year deigns to look faintly amused. “Willow Flick. Ichor. By my blood.”  I squeeze the cut until the blood flows freely onto the rock, and stare at the impudent whelp the entire time. Once he’s properly cowed, I stalk off. 

SEA WISHES In the past, my only enemy has been myself. This year, however, I can tell that everyone is going to be gunning for me. I consider myself somewhat lucky that I’m on Ichor, then--her foibles aren’t known to this lot. Bloodletter was far easier to distract and goad into fighting, what with his tendency to think with his balls. I brush my fingers across a bloody scrape on my shoulder, bandaged now but still stinging like I’d hugged a jellyfish. Ichor was more sly that Blood had ever been, and it was not in my favor. The golden capall is quick. I’ll have to use that to keep away from everyone else. I really don’t feel like being eaten this year. Speaking of, she is dancing restlessly in the circle I drew. I turn a sharp eye on her, gauging her reaction to my new mix of bits of bobs. I’ve had to skew gentler with her than I did with Blood--no iron aside from the iron rod always in my pocket. Sea grass and silver thread kept her mane in a neat braid--facing the sea. Silver bells rang merrily near her ears on her black bridle. Seaweed wrapped her legs.

Ichor was as ready as she’d ever be. “Alright you golden bitch,” I murmured, grabbed the bridle before I smudged the circle. “Let’s run you up and down this beach a bit and see how straight I can get you.”

(( @thescorpioracesfestival ))

[swordandflame]

#4: A Friend

I find Faith; we've been friends since my first race and just kept up the habit. She has a new mount--she let the pied go into the sea the first year, and lost her bay the second. Now it’s a black mare that killed her previous owner, but well. Cassidy had been an idiot, anyway. (Is it thinking ill of the dead if it’s the truth?)

Faith has a light touch with Evening and that’s what she needs. 

“Willow! I’ve been chatting up a tourist. Meet Brent.”

I eyed the entirely too polished stranger, before nodding and extending my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same. Faith was telling me you were tried to breed more capaill, but both mares lost their foals?”

I shrugged and sank into a chair. We’re out on a crowded patio with our tea, but it beats being in the crowded indoors. “I thought maybe it’s just a quirk of trying to breed them on land, but then my neighbor told me she had mares--normal mares, mind--lose their foals this past season. Got sick, she said. I didn’t notice the mares being particularly off, but who knows if they are effected the same way, if they even caught something? I don’t know. I’ll chalk it up to misfortune and maybe try again later. Trick is keeping them from fighting each other, let me tell you.”

I sipped my tea and grimaced. It was still too hot. ”It’s not all bad. Means I’m riding Ichor instead of letting her play nursemaid.”

Brent made some I’m-paying-attention-noise and we turned the conversation to the race. We good naturedly helped him make his betting picks (us, of course), and let him ramble on about some of his favorite capaill.  “...the big gray mares is really something. Runs like the dickens, when she wants to.” “That she is.”  I watched Faith and Brent thoughtfully. The island was setting its hooks in Brent, and Brent was setting his hooks in Faith. Interesting. “You gonna come back and ride one next year, Brent?”

He looks at me sharply. “Does that happen often, with tourists?”

“More than you’d think.” They were also the least likely to actually make it to the races proper, but I don’t mention that part.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

I shrugged. “Start with me. I do have two, after all. Can’t race ‘em both at the same time.”

I saw the wheels start turning, but the look Faith shot me was decidedly mixed. “What?”

Faith drummed her fingers on the table. “If you thought that mare could win, you’d be riding her.”

“True, but she’s less likely to kill her rider than some. And she isn’t bad, she just isn’t Ichor.”

I’m not sure why I offer, other than a stray thought: even as I see the island trying to claim Brent, she seems to be loosening her hold on me. (( @thescorpioracesfestival ))

[swordandflame]

The Beach (#2 & #3)

I fulfilled my brother’s dream--I won the race with the thrice-cursed capall that he caught.

So why, exactly, was I doing this again? Ichor is two years out of the sea but I simply don’t know her as well as I knew Bloodletter. I’ve spent the last couple of days testing her reactions to the tricks and tools I’d inherited from Ash--my sea grass ropes braided with silver, bells, rods of iron, saddle pads embroidered with counterclockwise whorls in gold. In the end I braid sea glass beads into her mane, slide a red belled bridle over her head, and ditch the embroidered pad for something blandly black. I walk her towards the sea, iron bar against my thigh, tap tap tapping. ----- Bloodletter had been fast. Ichor was faster. And more nimble. Lest you think that’s a good thing, let me just say that my life flashed before my eyes at least three times in just the first morning alone. 

When a slower bay obstructed her run, Ichor darted to the left so fast I was left scrambling to throw my leg over her back where it belonged. It took me another full minute to realize that the bay was screaming because Ichor had bitten her as well. Blood flecked froth landed on my hand. “Well this bodes well.” Ichor tolerated other horses in front of her about as well as she tolerated not being allowed to eat me, which was to say: with poor grace, indeed.

[swordandflame]

Willow Flick, Ichor. ( https://swordandflame.tumblr.com )   

TSRF2018 SIGN UP POST

Riders: Reblog the Gratton’s Chalkboard Post with your character’s full name, your capall’s name, and your url.

Origins: Reblog the Gratton’s Chalkboard Post with your url, the word “ORIGINS,” and your character’s name if you’re creating one.

Have you reblogged the Intro Post? :)

RULES

[swordandflame]

Rider Challenge #1

I have had any number of people call me an idiot lately. That’s fine, they’re just salty that I won last year and they didn’t.

But they’re also right--releasing a capall that had won, that was four years tamed was foolish. It hadn’t been about intelligence, but rather about letting the past go and keeping my brother’s promises.

And winning hadn’t magically meant I felt okay keeping the horse that killed my brother, either. I look for Bloodletter out in the waves. Sometimes I think I hear his scream, especially while I work the palomino mare. He’d always been fond of that one. (I had tried breeding them. In the end, the pregnancies hadn’t stuck--perhaps there’s something about being landlocked that renders the mares unable to carry to term. Hell if I’ll ever know.) And now I have two mares, this golden thing of death and a bay, and I’m struggling to pick to pick which beast I’ll keep and which I might try to rid myself of.

The bay. The bay I’ll pawn off on some scrub. I won’t even feel bad about it--for a capall she’s tame as a kitten.

(Think about what kittens do to you, though.)

I’m also afraid, because the palomino is fast and strong and can run for days, and so this surely means that something will go terribly wrong.

“I should probably name you.” I send her to the back corner of her stall with a flick of a sea-grass whip, then place down the buckets of meat and blood.

I stare at her a moment, taking in her long, sleek lines. She pins her ears at me and returns every second of the look.

“Ichor,” I say at last. An ugly name for a beautiful animal, but I must never forget: They’ll kill me.   (( @thescorpioracesfestival ))

[swordandflame]

THE SCORPIO RACES FESTIVAL 2018: INTRO POST

GETTING STARTED

Reblog this post! Make sure you’re following​ @thescorpioracesfestival​ and @welcometothisby​.

Sign up by reblogging Gratton’s Chalkboard Post.

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Tag each post with the official tags (#TSRF2018 and #thescorpioracesfestival) and mention @thescorpioracesfestival.

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Complete Rules.

[swordandflame]

With Imke dressed as....er. Something “Spooky”. For her, not being in her usual all encompassing trench coat, it was very spooky indeed.

Lance in his Son of Svanir costume on a Mad King’s Day date.

[swordandflame]

Jander is very excited about this baby. This is the first drawing I’ve done in far too long, done to commemorate the first time any of my characters have had any children. The baby’s name is Kiladris and she’s a half night-elf.

[swordandflame]

The treehouse swayed as someone came in hot, slamming into the branch hard enough to make the wood creak. Mina’s head snapped up, especially once she caught a flash of translucent purple outside the window–netherdrake wing.

​Jezrynaku.

Mina heaved herself off the couch, letting the caving she’d been working on fall from her fingers. The door flung open before she could reach it, revealing a familiar slim outline, backlit by the sun.

“Thera?”

“You and Jander need to get out of here.” Jamethera stepped inside, her left leg trailing behind her slightly. Her long hair had been hastily braided, but it was stiff with blood.

“What-?”

“I was patrolling with Lyestra, since I was in the area.” Jamethera let Mina sit her down on the back of the couch, wincing. She raised her voice, having heard Jander’s familiar tread on the stairs. “The horde are invading, Mina. Or the damned banshee bitch is, at any rate. They’re already well into Ashenvale. We didn’t…it’s not going well.”

Mina stilled, even as her magic kept doing its work. Thankfully, most of the blood was not the hunter’s own.

“Shit. Fire.” Jander froze at the bottom of the steps, a wild, bewildered look in his eyes. It only took a moment of frozen panic before he spoke again. “Alright… alright… shit… fuck… alright.”

His recovery was relatively swift and decisive as soon he launched into disaster mode. Deciding to live in Ashenvale had meant that he’d emotionally prepared for this eventuality for years, but he still didn’t feel comfortable abandoning the place just yet. No steps had been taken to actually pack a go-bag either. “Okay Mina, you just… you keep doing that, I’ll get the essentials.”

Before another second passed (or he could hear Mina’s response), he raced back upstairs to start filling several canvas bags with all the important things he could think of. Clothing, weapons, and battle gear were the immediate priority. The mage tore through their bedroom with little regard for the mess made as clothing and supplies flew out in every direction. The next objective had been the most potent bottles of potions and flasks from his alchemy workstation.

Years of adventures had left quite a few sentimental trophies piled up in their storage area. There was no time available to worry about them (or the beautifully carved structure itself that Mina had put so much of herself into building.) The only precious item he decided to grab was a little wooden statue of a bear, the first thing Mina had ever carved for him. That and their cat.

“I’m not fleeing,” Mina said, absently fixing Jamethera’s braid.

“Like hell you’re not,” Jam blustered, but something about the stare leveled at her brought her up short. It was so easy sometimes to forget that her soft, giggling friend was also the woman who had once ripped out an Orc’s throat with her teeth.

…more than once, if you counted the times she was shape-shifted.

“We’ll leave the house,” Mina said, glancing back up the stairs. “As much as that pains me. We’re right on their path north, if that’s where they’re going. I’m not stupid, Jam. But I also know that Jander and I will be needed, so we won’t just shuffle off into hiding.”

Jamethera frowned…and then turned and yelled up the stairs. “Jander! Your wife is being unreasonable–ow!” She frowned at the imprint Mina’s teeth had left on her wrist.

Jander reappeared moments later, toting several overstuffed bags over one shoulder while carrying a squirming cat under the other arm. He spent a moment relaying all of the items that he had gathered before speaking again.

“I’m taking us to Westguard. We need to rally the Templars before coming back and finding our way to where we can be the most use. As of right now, we don’t even know where the front lines will be.”

“See? A solid plan. Now go.” Jamethera took a step away, tossing her braid back over her shoulder. She wasn’t aware of how like her mother she looked in that moment, but Mina was.

“Come with us.” Mina put her hands on her hips.

“No,” Jam said, shooting them both an apologetic look. “Jander’s plan is the right one–for you. I’m a scout, so I’m going to do scout things. We need good intel on what we’re facing if we’re going to come out of this anywhere near okay.”

“I don’t like the idea of you running around blind and by yourself.” Jander dropped the bags and handed the cat to Mina before standing up at his full height again. A stern, concerned expression was leveled Jamethera’s way as he continued speaking. “Mina’s right. You should come with us. You’re a Templar too, just as much as we are.”

He glanced around the room for a moment, wondering if there was anything else important that they needed to bring. “Has anyone contacted Unaara?”

“You’re right, I’m a Templar. And my report will go to the Templars, too–once I am done scouting.” Jamethera pulled both of them in close for a hug, and kissed each on the cheek. “Go to Westguard. I’ll send Unaara that way for you. Now I need to go before my sister and her idiot husband do anything irrevocably stupid, okay? Love you, don’t die.” And she fled before anything else could be said–but not without shoving a baffled Schneeflocke through the door.

Apparently the aging snow leopard had been with her, and now that the patrol was anything but routine, she was deemed unfit for duty.

Mina had at least twenty things of sentimental value she wanted to grab and only one she possibly could. After snagging the pot with a certain feisty plant in it, she turned to Jander. “Activate the wards? And I’ll…do my thing.” She walked out into the porch, taking a deep breath.

Jander watched his wife walk out the door with a worried sigh, knowing just how incredibly trying it would be for her to leave so much behind.

Shoving his own unpleasant knot of emotions into the background, he steeled himself and walked around the room activating the various destructive security runes that he’d constructed there. Over the course of several years, those runes had been added to and built upon to create a rather nasty network of traps. With a little bit of added effort and malicious intent, he was able to crank their capabilities up to a lethal level. If anything managed to make it past Mina’s botanical defenses and into the house itself, they’d encounter a deadly dose of raw arcane energy rushing to greet them.

After priming all of the necessary alarms, Jander then opened up the portal to Westguard, taking a little bit of extra time to be absolutely sure of its destination and stability. They had some very precious cargo with them, after all. The telltale hum of arcane energy signalled the portal’s completed manifestation, and a rush of Northrend’s frigid drafts rolled out from it. Familiar scents of the cliffside fortress followed it.

Before grabbing up all of their gathered belongings and preparing to make their final exit, Jander walked over and used the burning tip of his finger to write “FOR THE ALLIANCE” in huge letters on one of the walls. It was a parting gift. For any horde agents caught in their traps, it would be the last thing they’d see before meeting the cold embrace of death.

Mina slowly backed into the house once more as vines laced their way across the door. “Okay.” She swallowed and then turned towards Jander and leaned into him a moment.

(The cat, confused, wriggled free…only to get scruffed by Schneeflocke.)

“This sucks,” she said, dropping into Common, because it was just not a sentiment that flowed well in Kaldorei.

The only answer that Jander felt fit to provide her was a warm, tender kiss. It wasn’t exactly a romantic moment, but it was an important one nonetheless. This would more than likely be the final moment they could share in the home they’d loved so dearly.

Without any further hesitation or parting words, they bid a silent farewell to the treehouse and departed together.

[swordandflame]

In Which I Belatedly Write Everything Else: Willow and Bloodletter

((Past the deadline, but I told myself I was finish the Willow/Bloodletter story this year and GOD DAMN IT I’M DOING IT. I’m ignoring the given finishing order for Story Reasons.))

HOME AND FAMILY

This year, no one steps off the boat and heads in my direction. My mother must be done with me. I don’t blame her--bad enough I had kept the capall that murdered my brother, but now I was making more of them, to boot.

(I didn’t even tell her how long it had taken me to get capall to breed. About the third mare I’d lost when she’d told Bloodletter no and he hadn’t liked that answer. The scars up my left arm. The only information I’d had to go on had come from crossing capall with land horses on occasion, and a lot of those accounts ended with ‘and then the horse was eaten and/or horribly maimed’.)

I putter around my too-large, too-empty house. I’ve closed up the unused rooms: my old room, and Ash’s. I moved into my parent’s old room early on because they had a fireplace and, quite frankly, I’m not an idiot. 

I should sell it and buy a smaller house, but then I’d have to pack up and move Ash’s things. It wouldn’t be the same.

Bloodletter screams out in his barn. The mares answer from theirs.

I think about getting a dog.

THE MAINLAND

I don’t know what to do with myself without mother taking up my time pleading with me, trying to convince me to move to the mainland. I can only spend so many hours of the day training and fixing up noxious buckets of meat, bone, and blood. I’ve filled notebooks with my theory on the proper feeding of capall. 

I’d visit for their funerals. Maybe. Dad’s, for sure.

Cookies won’t bake themselves, so I fill my time making myself fat instead. It’s better than thinking.

I should definitely get a dog. Maybe two. 

OBSTACLES

Bloodletter is capable of achieving Ash’s dream, but am I?

I try not to think about how we got jumped by a capall from the sea last year, and how we had inadvertently led to someone else’s death. I never thought I could hate myself for having a good seat and a nimble horse, but sometimes I did.

Father had sent me a book about meditation. I’d tossed it aside at the time, but now I dug it out. I flipped to the chapter about anxiety, marking the one about regret for reading next. There were worse things to do.

WEAKNESS

We stand on the cliffs together. Bloodletter’s breathing was steady and his hide cool, but his head hung between his knees. I’d pushed him to his limits today, certain that I’d need to know where those finite edges were. He’d get a large meal tonight, with extra blood and as much liver as I could muster. And bones for him to gnaw on--those made him happy.

I saw Faith down on the sands. I was glad she’d gotten rid of her wild-eyed pinto, but her current mount just didn’t have it in her. I knew it. Faith probably knew it, too.

I wondered if she’d work with me and the mares. I had no plans on breeding them again--not any time soon at any rate--and one or both would be excellent mounts in their own right.

((THE RACE to follow because tumblr ate what I had and I’m an idiot and mad about it.))

[swordandflame]

“You’re right there, at least. Far enough away to see all the action, with none of the detail.” 

She gave two gentle tugs on Bloodletter’s lead, asking him to move. He lifted one foreleg, put it down, lifted it again, and started to sidle sideways. Willow rapped his shoulder with her seagrass whip before he even took half a step. He snorted softly and backed away, giving Kai more room.

No need to make the visitors more nervous than they already were. 

“Probably won’t be too many of us running up here today, though. Most will be down there,” Willow said, flicking the end of the lead in that vague direction. “But this idiot likes to think with his testicles, so we’re up here avoiding the crowd. For now.”

She paused, remembering something called manners. “Willow, by the way. The murderhorse is Bloodletter.” She paused again. “He was caught years ago. I know his tells by now.” Four years ago. Two years with Ash, two with her. 

Ash had known his tells, too.

The stallion was paying no head to either human at this point. He arched his thick neck and peered down at the capall below. Or perhaps it was the sea just beyond them that called his attention. He quivered but didn’t dare move his feet. 

A Chance Meeting ( Scorpio Races Festival RP - OPEN)

Scorpio Races Tourist Challenge #4 Make a Friend

From the tops of the cliffs, Kai could look down and watch the riders spread out on the beach below. She had considered going down to the beach to get a closer look but the idea of accidentally getting trampled by one of those beasts seemed a very real possibility, so she’d settle on watching from her current vantage point. From where she stood they all looked so small, like miniatures on a museum diorama, but when the horses cried out their voices reached her all the way up on the cliffs. They screamed like the wind, like something  that swam out of a fisherman’s nightmare, and she was starting to hesitate on calling them horses. Their distant forms looked were horse-like but they smelled otherwise. The wind that blew up to the cliff tops carried the capaill’s scent, a mix of shoreline carrion, rotting seaweed, and blood. There was still the ever present smell of salt and a metallic something in the air that put a weird feeling in her bones, like standing next to a church bell as its rung and feeling the sound move through the body. With each wave that pounded against the shore, she could almost feel it, the heartbeat of the ocean…

[swordandflame]

Rider Challenge #6

It’s not hard to identify this year’s threat.

Threat, not enemy, My enemy is, as always, the stallion I choose to ride, and perhaps my own fear. 

But the threat is a woman on a stocky black stallion. 

Problem one: Bloodletter hates him and wants to fight every gods be damned time he spots him.

Problem two: The black’s not the fastest horse on the sands but he is both nimble and amazingly biddable, for a capall. It’s not about being the fastest, it’s about staying out of trouble, really. And this is a horse and rider pair that should be good at both.

My only choice, really, is to make sure I get ahead of them. That way Bloodletter’s tendency to think with his testosterone won’t be the end of me. 

So we run especially hard on the sands when we can, sprinting through the spray. 

(( @thescorpioracesfestival ))

[swordandflame]

Rider Challenge #5

This year, I walk slowly throughout the festival.

It still hurts. I still see things I want to share with my brother. So...I do. I keep a running dialogue in my head, pointing out this bewildered tourist and that sad attempt at painting teapots the way Puck did.

I have one of her pieces, actually. Many of the women who ride in the races do. It’s like a good luck charm.

I laugh when a tourist is startled by a cappall puppet at one of the stands. 

I have found some small bits of joy.

----

The November cakes still taste like ash in my mouth. I still eat two, one for me and one for him. I get a third to bring home to Bloodletter, because it seems like the sort of weird thing my brother would do.

----

Rider without a name. Horse without a name. By his blood.

I look away as the sheep’s blood is poured out. Again. I just don’t like seeing it this time of year.

I push forward, because some of the boys are still idiots about women riding and drag their feet about getting out of my way.

“Willow Flick. Bloodletter. By my blood.” I thrust out my hand and stare at the bonfire when the cut is made. This time I let the blood drip slowly, rather than flinging it away.

We’ll do better this year. We’ll do you proud, Ash.

(( @thescorpioracesfestival ))

[swordandflame]

((@wanderingmercenary | @thescorpioracesfestival))

“You’re only somewhat safer up here, you know,” Willow said. Bloodletter was standing quietly at the end of his (silver belled, silver threaded) lead rope with disarmingly good manners.

Willow never took both eyes off the buckskin stallion, not even for a second. This also meant that all of her conversations with other people were conducted somewhat sideways.

A Chance Meeting ( Scorpio Races Festival RP - OPEN)

Scorpio Races Tourist Challenge #4 Make a Friend

From the tops of the cliffs, Kai could look down and watch the riders spread out on the beach below. She had considered going down to the beach to get a closer look but the idea of accidentally getting trampled by one of those beasts seemed a very real possibility, so she’d settle on watching from her current vantage point. From where she stood they all looked so small, like miniatures on a museum diorama, but when the horses cried out their voices reached her all the way up on the cliffs. They screamed like the wind, like something  that swam out of a fisherman’s nightmare, and she was starting to hesitate on calling them horses. Their distant forms looked were horse-like but they smelled otherwise. The wind that blew up to the cliff tops carried the capaill’s scent, a mix of shoreline carrion, rotting seaweed, and blood. There was still the ever present smell of salt and a metallic something in the air that put a weird feeling in her bones, like standing next to a church bell as its rung and feeling the sound move through the body. With each wave that pounded against the shore, she could almost feel it, the heartbeat of the ocean…