#it’s very clear she’s grooming him if nothing else but she’s so wildly taking advantage to his naivety and bluster

[ladylingua]

Rand: Poor Selene! I can tell she’s just so delicate and innocent! She’s counting on me, the big strong man, to protect her from the horrors of the world because she’s just so wholesome!

Selene, constantly manipulating Rand to get him to use the one power for dominate and murders: Violence turns me on 👁️🫦👁️

Rand: Just so fragile and without guile Selene is.

[frogfacefinn]

Scorpio Races Festival 2017

@thescorpioracesfestival

Rider Challenge #1 

The Thisby ferry wheezed to a halt next to a decrepit looking dock. The wind smelled like fish and brine and carried the shouted words of vendors along the pier, peddling local merchandise. I stood alone on the top deck of the ferry and stared out at the island. There was a small cluster of buildings that passed as a town— Skarmouth is what the crumpled ticket in my hand told me. The town didn’t have set city limits, it just fizzled out the farther inland you got.

    The hand that wasn’t clutching my ticket was holding onto the guard railing with a white-knuckled grip. I could clearly picture staying still on the abandoned deck and letting the boat haul me back to the mainland where I would catch a plane back to Canada and land, broken and defeated. The fact that I could envision my failure so clearly made my decision to get off the stupid boat a little bit easier. I slowly let go of the rail, my hand stiff from holding on so tight and lowered myself to the gangplank. The pier was bustling with people, tourists and locals alike, scattered among the vendors and their ratty tents.

There were a couple stands that caught my eye; brightly painted teapots beneath a sign that read AUTOGRAPHED BY THISBY’S OWN KATE CONNOLLY in bold yellow letters. There was also a booth set up that was oozing the smell of cinnamon and honey. As I walked past I could see the rows of cinnamon twists and brightly coloured cakes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple coins. I had a loonie and three Canadian quarters. I stared longingly at the bakery tent for a moment longer before plowing my way through the crowd again.

It wasn’t until I got to Main Street that I had realized that I had no idea where I was going. I stopped on the cracked sidewalk and turned a slow circle, taking in the buildings around me. There was another bakery, a tack shop advertising racing colours, and a butcher shop. I couldn’t bear the smell of the bakery any longer and the tack shop looked nearly deserted. A single bell chimed as I opened the door to the butcher’s shop, but the sound was quickly drowned out by shouts of orders and the clanking of buckets.

There was a girl about my age behind the counter with long red curls pulled into a high ponytail and a thick black apron with GRATTON FINE MEATS stitched in block letters on the front. She was carrying a metal pail that I could smell from where I stood. As she handed the bucket over to the man beside me I could hear her say “only the best for the horses sir” before quickly turning to me and asking in a harsh tone born of weariness, “what can I get you today?”

“Directions,” I said. It sounded more like a question.

“Where to?” she asked, clearly believing that I was yet another tourist wasting her time. I probably was.

“The Holly Stables.” She finally looked up at me from where she had begun scrubbing the counter.

“What business do you have at Holly’s place?” She asked before making a point of looking me up and down. I suddenly felt self-conscious about the ratty duffel at my side and my second-hand clothes. “You don’t look like you’re in the market for a racehorse.”

“I’m the new exercise jockey. Now, will you give me directions or not?”

She eyed me again, but this time with a sort of grudging respect. She reached into her apron and grabbed a pad of order paper before writing out directions in tall, sloping print. I took a minute and examined the shop around me. There was a short line of men waiting for their orders and another group standing in a disorganized clump, yelling about something on the chalkboard behind the counter. I glanced at the chalkboard. It was divided into a chart with Riders written on the left and Mounts on the right. There were five names scrawled on the riders list, but only three names down in the Mounts list. At the very top of the lists were Adelaide and Vim. I brought my attention back the girl behind the counter as she pushed the order sheet across to me. I noticed distantly that she had blood caked under her nails.

The directions she gave me led me right to the stone gates at the end of a wide gravel driveway. The drive curved up a sloping hill towards a stately stone house. In the distance, I could see a massive structure that must be the barn. Grooms shuffled about, kicking dust into the air. Horses called to each other over expanses of browning grass. I trekked cautiously up the driveway, taking in the sheer amount of activity buzzing around me. To my left, there was a huge round pen, much bigger than the one we had at home. A groom stood in the center with a man, trotting a tall bay stallion on a lunge line. It was clear that the man in the center was a buyer, his white shirt like a beacon among the muddy barn clothes on everyone else. The horse bronced at the end of the line and the groom jumped to correct him, flailing a lunge whip at the horse’s hindquarter. Idiot should’ve realized he was standing too far forward. On my right, was a stretch of soft dirt track. A few grooms were gathered around the fence, laughing and leaning on the railing. Out of curiosity, I made my way towards them and leaned as casually and inconspicuously as I could with my bag slung awkwardly over my shoulder. At the other end of the track, a pale mare pranced and pulled under her jockey, frothing heavily at the mouth. She was breathtakingly beautiful, even at a distance, with long legs, a thin, sinewy neck, and large intelligent eyes. She was gigantic, maybe 18 hands of pure muscle. The jockey tried to hold her back as she strained against the bit and fought her tie downs. Every time she took a step, the bells tied to her pasterns jangled sharply across the track.  A starting bell rang and the mare burst into action.

I have spent most of my life at the racetrack. I’ve seen some of the world’s fastest horses, but they were nothing compared to the speed of the white mare. She streaked past the crowd at the fence like a bolt of lightning, gone before you could blink. The horse made a lap in what must have been record beating time. Beside me, the grooms at the fence were making bets about the fate of the jockey.

“Ten pounds says she eats him before the end of the second lap”, Said one

“Twenty says she’ll throw him before he makes it around once”, replied another. I had no idea what they were talking about but they hadn’t noticed me yet and I wasn’t about to draw attention to myself. I found it impossible to take my eyes away from the sight in front of me. She was so breathtakingly fast, she looked like she was made of wind. As they rounded the straightaway back towards me for the second time, I could tell that something was wrong. The jockey was distracted, cheering something along the lines of “two whole laps”, and the horse was clearly about to take advantage of his distraction. I could see the reds of her nostrils, the way her ears were pinned tight to her head, and how her neck was arching dangerously to the to the side.

I suddenly understood why the grooms were placing bets.

I launched myself over the guardrail before I registered what was happening. The mare threw her head up so hard that the tie downs snapped, then swung her head to the side to catch the jockeys leg in her mouth, hauling him from his precarious perch on the saddle into the air before throwing him hard into the dirt. She reared up, causing the bells on her pasterns to chime as she struck against the air with her hooves. I sprinted across the track and managed to catch hold of her reins before she could take another piece out of the jockey.

Up close, I could see a patch of brown above her eye and where she was losing hair on her nose from rubbing against a halter. I had taken her by surprise, but I saw the moment her eyes flicked towards me and she bared her teeth into a gruesome grin. I  could distantly hear the yells of the grooms from behind me but before I could think, I had taken off my flannel shirt and thrown it over her eyes, tying the sleeves together under her chin. She instantly pulled back and shook her head wildly, trying to get the offending fabric off. I grabbed hold of the reins again and pulled down sharply, letting her know where I was and that I wasn’t to be messed with.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” yelled someone to my right. The mare turned sharply towards the noise, nearly ripping my shoulder out of its socket. I put my hand up behind her ears and rubbed soothing circles, like I did with antsy thoroughbreds back home.

I turned towards groom who had spoken.

“Stopping her before she eats you idiots,” I spat. Now that I was closer, I could see all of the contraptions they had layered on the mares hide. There was a thick cloth braided with metal hanging down her flank and pieces of iron strung through the bridle, digging into the thin flesh of her face leaving bloody gashes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing to this horse?” I asked harshly. “It’s no wonder she’s losing her mind on the track, she’s covered in more bells and whistles than a freaking Christmas tree.”

I turned around sharply to see that a crowd had gathered around the fallen jockey. There was an older man with an older battered hat standing on the edge of the group, looking at me with a small smile on his face.

   I didn’t have time for this.

   “What do you want?” I snapped, “I’m a little busy.”

   “Oh, I’m just wondering how you managed to calm my horse down.”

I spun around quickly, taking in his appearance, although the clothes were older and worn, they were clearly expensive, and definitely not made for someone who mucked out his own stalls.

  It took me a moment to realize that the trimly dressed man in front of me was George Holly, the world-famous breeder. And my new boss. If he decided to keep me in after this disaster of a first day.  “Mr. Holly I’m so sorry!” I tried to reach my hand out for him to shake before remembering that it was holding the reins of a horse that would sooner eat me than look at me. “This is not how I wanted to meet you! I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have just-” Holly cut me off

“Calm down, if anyone should be apologizing it should be those ones,” he gestured over his shoulder to where the jockey and his friends were standing and staring. “They know Russa is off limits.”

“Russa,” I whispered.

“Anyways, I’ll lead you to her stall— she’s very specialized you see— then I can talk to you about your job.” Holly seemed excited, like a puppy or a small child. He began to lead the way, past the cluster of grooms, who all stopped their furious whispering to watch us pass. Russa’s saddle had slid sideways and the snapped tie-downs hung limply towards the ground. Her bells jangled as she walked and she looked completely docile, but her ears still moved rapidly under the flannel over her eyes and she quivered slightly where my hand was on her neck. I wasn’t fooled by the illusion. She followed behind me easily, the flannel forcing her to give in and trust me. She left a trail of blood droplets and foamy sweat behind her.

We made our way to the ancient barn. The building was made with gray stones that had been worn smooth from the weather. There was moss growing between the cracks and massive oak rafters loomed in the arched ceiling. The tall stained glass windows cast red shadows over the dusty floor. Most of the stalls had been renovated and had thin walls raised through the center to make more room. Near the back of the barn, the stalls were larger and more heavily fortified. We passed several shiny, expensive looking horses. Most of the time, when horses walk past other horses in the barn, at least one horse will call out to greet them. They are social animals; they like to interact with each other. When we passed with Russa, every single horse backed away and pinned their ears in fear. I couldn’t help but wonder why Russa had such a reputation, with both horses and people.  I led Russa into the last stall on the end. The stall was larger than most with a big window and thick stone walls. I hooked Russa to the cross ties in her stall and noticed that the ropes were threaded with thick iron chain and bolted to the stone walls.

I gently took the bridle off and turned to hang it up outside the stall. As I turned Holly’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Turn your back on her,” Holly replied.

I turned back to Russa and stared at the blood dripping down her nose. The more I looked at her the more I realized that she didn’t look like a horse. Her neck was too long and skinny and so were her legs. Her head was strong and fine but her eyes were too deep set to be natural.

“What breed is she?” I asked. I had never seen anything like her, she was new and unnatural and I was, unfortunately, obsessed.

“She isn’t a horse,” said Holly. “She’s something else entirely.” I didn’t turn to look at him, instead, I ran my hands along her hide until I reached the where the saddle sat haphazardly on her back. I unfastened the girth and let the saddle fall into a lifeless heap at her feet. She started at the noise but didn’t come any closer. Her ears flicked towards me beneath the flannel.

“I don’t know how much you know about Thisby, but every year, around mid-October, the Scorpio Sea begins to spit out these vile, horse-like creatures, the Capaill Uisce. For some reason, a couple thousand years ago, some fools decided to start racing them. That’s why the island is so busy and why I need to hire more grooms. They all want the fame that winning the races will bring. That’s why they all want to be the one to ride Russa.” I thought of the unbridled speed as she pushed herself down the track. It hadn’t even looked like she was trying. “She’s the fastest thing on this island, but no one has been able to stay on her back long enough to be a contender. I’ll probably sell her once training starts. Or I’ll let her go back to the sea.”

The entire time he was talking I was brushing down the mare. She didn’t smell like the horses I was used to, of sweat and dust and Cowboy Magic. She smelled like salt and rot and the Scorpio Sea. I gently unclipped her from the ties and removed my shirt from her eyes. When I took it off, she leveled a cold brown eye on me. It looked like she was deciding whether or not I was a worthy meal.

I exited the stall and stared hard at Holly.

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked. Why was nobody on this stupid island taking me seriously?

“It’s not funny at all miss—”

“Murphy,” I answered his unasked question. “Charlene Murphy.”

“Well Charlene, I assure you it’s no joke. Ask anyone on the island. Hell, go down to the beach tomorrow and see for yourself. All of the hopeful riders are beginning training down there.”

As we turned to leave, Russa neighed. But it was less of a neigh and more like a scream. It was ancient and dangerous and it called to something deep inside of me. It stirred the horses around me into a panicked frenzy. I looked back to Russa and saw that her ears were pricked and her eyes were fixed out her window towards the turbulent sea along the horizon.

That night I fell asleep with my flannel pressed against my chest. It no longer smelled like home. It smelled like salt and rot and Russa.

Also massive shoutout to @ho-onthego for being my beta because I don’t actually know how to write.