#tsrf2018

[thescorpioracesfestival]

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

[horseinthewaves]

[novelsandknittingneedles]

"he is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me."

the scorpio races

creative challenge no. 1

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[roseravenkey]

The Scorpio Races Festival Mood Board #1: Sleipnir

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[skaldofskarmouth]

On the farthest shore falls foam from waves which crash with the rhythm of the sea’s heartbeat The water horse’s song soft wailing and whinnies a saltwater elegy sung in the waters of the Scorpio Sea of men they eat, wet brine they drink blood and salt pass through knife teeth dragged under, no wonder what happens to those dragged off their boats their bones wash ashore wave washed, sun bleached white like the chalk cliffs the capaille uisce for long they remained untamed as storm waves frothing and raging tearing onto the land some claim that the coming of Saint Colomba, fatal saint who our ancestors cast from the high cliffs of Thisby they say that his blood was a baptism of both land and sea that when the capaille uisce ripped and ate his remains shortly after, the first capal was tamed

A Tribute to Thisby by skaldofskarmouth 

@thescorpioracesfestival

[wickedlittlecritta]

November cakes!

[highmarshalvivennaazure]

Origins: The Mare Goddess

@thescorpioracesfestival

URL: @evi-kholin

Rider: Daisy O’Reilly

Capall: Orion

The origin of the Mare Goddess is hardly spoken of anymore. Only a few still whisper of the early days, before St. Columba’s martyrdom. The island of Thisby was a cruel and unforgiving place in those days—perfect conditions for the cruel and unforgiving capaill uisce to thrive.

The Mare Goddess was the island’s original inhabitant, and the capaill were her subjects and charges. She is a fearsome to behold, even more so than her subjects.

There are some myths and legends, most lost to time, that claim the ancient Greeks happened upon Thisby, and that the Mare Goddess was mistaken for Aphrodite. Well, some claim She was mistaken for Aphrodite, while others claim she was the inspiration for Aphrodite. She was as beautiful as She was fearsome, rising out of the waves and sea foam. The Greeks trembled as they beheld this steely, unforgiving goddess. They left offerings to supplicate her and left. Later, some say, the Greeks returned to find the Mare Goddess again, but She did not grace them with a second viewing.

Despite common belief, the Mare Goddess has not left the island. Oh sure, She is portrayed by an islander during the Riders’ Festival, but make no mistake. She walks among us, as surely as the sea spills forth capaill uisce. She is the reason they still come, for without Her, they would cease to exist. She is in the sea and the air and the land. She is the one who grants boons, and while people think receiving the boon from the “Mare Goddess” during the Riders’ Festival is the significant moment, it is really the true Mare Goddess that grants them. She directs who the boon is given to, and she weighs both the supplicant and their wish to decide their worth.

She is with those that love Thisby, and those favored ones feel a peace about the island, a connection with it. Some can hear her in the shhhhhh, shhhhhh of the the sea. Others, those less fortunate, want to leave, and the Mare Goddess sometimes helps them on their way—sometimes benevolently, sometimes not. She could help them start a new life on the mainland, or drag them into the depthless dark of a watery grave.

[horsesbythesea]

Rider Challenge #6: Sea Wishes

Ava O’Connor and Volano

I sat on the cliff side alone, listening to the crashing of the waves and the low hum of the breeze. Today was a day to just think, with the races so close my mind has only been focused on training and the races.

“Ava! Whatcha up to?” I hear a voice from my left and turn to find Damon coming up to the edge.

“Thinking.” Was my short response as he sat down beside me.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“How absolutely annoying you are Damon.”

“Yeah but since when has that stopped me from getting answers? What’s on your mind buttercup?” He asked softly, a smirk playing on his features.

In reality I had no idea. Trying to sort out my thoughts was like a blind man trying to find his way out of a maze, nearly impossible. My mind drifted to my parents. If only they could see me now, about to play the most dangerous game on the island.

“My parents. If dad could be here now I think he’d be proud. But my mom would probably stop at nothing to make sure I didn’t race.” I had told him a bit of why my parents aren’t here, thanks to his constant prying. “The races have basically pushed all of my friends away, I barely even see Stephen anymore. He thinks I’m being reckless and stupid.”

During my whole little speech Damon hasn’t taken his eyes off the ocean, silent. The quiet shocked me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Damon serious for more than 5 minutes. Not counting the day we met on the beach of course.

With a sigh he spoke, “Well, even though you may not have your d friends you’re not getting rid of me” He bumped my shoulder with a smirk “and you’re definitely not getting away with leaving me to race by myself. Plus, what would happen to Volano if you jut decided you were gonna drop from the races?”

He was right. I had too much on the line to quit now, and I wasn’t going to no matter who tried to stop me.

@thescorpioracesfestival

[henriettablues]

Rider Challenge #1: Your Capall Uisce

henriettablues

Gwendoline O’Carroll

@thescorpioracesfestival

November was right around the corner, and you could feel it. As Gwen made her slow way across the dew-damp field towards the stable, wrapping herself tighter in the brown duffle coat that she hadn’t bothered to button, every single nerve in her body was thrumming with it. The autumnal ache that settled deep in your bones, the bones of the island, warning you of the danger. But Gwen had become acclimated to the feeling by now. On Thisby it was as seasonal as falling leaves.

She shifted the pail she was carrying from one hand to the other. It thumped unpleasantly against her leg as she walked, and she had to be careful not to let the contents slosh over the edge and onto the pants of her well loved coveralls. As she walked she whistled a tune that her father used to sing to her.

Oh king of the sea

King of the sea

By the time Gwen reached the small stable, the mist that often clung to the early morning air was dissipating and the rising sun bathed everything around her in burning yellow light. The whole island turning to gold right before her eyes. God, she thought wistfully, I love this place.

She let Ophelia out to graze, patting her side affectionately before making her way to the other stall. Castor’s stall. The harsh scent of salt permeated the calm air as she stepped towards the door. It got worse and worse, stinging her nose and eyes as she got closer. Capaill uisce, while never being normal or safe, are always far more docile in the summer months. But it was autumn now, and Castor could smell November magic on the breeze.

Castor screamed from inside his stall, a sound that could turn all the grass for miles to ash. She reached inside her pocket for the bit of iron that she always kept there, not because she thought it could keep her safe. She just felt better when she had it on hand. Gwen had always held a backwards and peculiar affection for her father’s capall, but she was smart enough to understand that now, with the Scorpio Sea singing it’s siren song, she was no more friend to Castor than the meat in her bucket. Just before she unchained the stable door, she caught a glimpse of Ophelia out of the corner of her eye. The black mare had stopped grazing and gone dead still, her muscles taught, ready to run. Pheli was not a timid creature, but still, she looked like a rabbit who had just heard the yip of a nearby fox. There had been a time when Castor and Ophelia had actually been quite friendly — well, as friendly as any island horse can be with a bloodthirsty sea creature. But that had been before Arthur O’Carroll had died. Nowadays their relationship had become something more akin to a butterfly’s relationship with a chainsaw.

The morning had gone so quiet that the sound of the last bolt on the door opening could be heard all the way on the mainland. The honey light that graced the island turned lifeless and cold as it reached it’s hands into the darkened space. Castor stood against the back wall, bone white coat gleaming like broken seashells, his crimped mane hung limply around him in such a way that it resembled some kind of rare albino seaweed. He looked like a monster.

With caution, Gwen placed the pail of blood and cattle meat in front of the beast, but did not let him out. She had gotten it from the Gratton’s butcher shop the night before. Their families were old friends, and Thomas had been trying to convince Gwen not to ride for months. To throw Castor back to the waves and be done with all of it. His efforts, however, proved fruitless. Gwendoline O’Carroll was going to ride this year. For her father, if nothing else. She was going to ride, and she was going to win.

As Gwen walked back to her house, planning all the things she had to do that day, the rest of the song she’d been humming came back to her like a tide. The lyrics made her sad as she remembered her father vocalizing them, more whisper than song, tucking her into bed. She began to sing.

Hail the hero strong and true,

who fought the fight and saw it through,

who swore he'd ne'er would be a slave,

and gave his life our land to save.

[novemberseas-novemberskies]

Riders Challenge 12: Reflection

John’s Perspective

           Gwen and I cheer wildly as we see Whiskey’s lithe form come screaming across the finish line yards ahead of the second rider. He’s done it! Somehow, some way he’s done! I wait for him to pull up, to pump a fist in the air, to come riding back to us to celebrate. But he doesn’t. In a second our elation turns to horror as Whiskey turns to the sea, and I am off down the sand, running and slipping and desperate to reach him. But my speed is no match for a capall uisce hungry for saltwater. I reach the water just as Whiskey rears his head back and disappears under the water with barely a ripple.

           “No!”

          The word tears itself out of my throat and I am now waist-deep in the sea, charging forward. I’ve got to get to him, I’ve got to pull him back to shore. I take a deep breath, preparing to dive into the icy water. But then Gwen’s got her arms wrapped around my waist, holding me tightly. I fight her, thrashing in the water, scanning desperately for a sign, any sign at all, of Will. He can’t be gone. I can still get to him. I can still save him.

       “John, John, it’s too late. He’s gone, John. Please come back to shore.”

       Gwen’s tears mix with the seawater dripping from her face as I turn to her, searching her eyes wildly for any hint of hope, begging her to let me go. But she just shakes her head and grabs my hand, pulling me toward shore. Chaos is all around us. Fights have broken out at the finish line. Injured and dying riders litter the sand. All around us capaill uisce break free and charge toward the sea. There is blood in the water, I can smell it, taste it, and allow Gwen to lead me to safety. There is no cause for more needless death today.

           I don’t realize how cold I am until I am sitting by the stove in our cottage wrapped in three blankets and Gwen in forcing a second mug of very hot tea into my hands. She is still dripping wet, her long braid slicked to her neck and lips blue, and she shivers violently as she moves about the kitchen.

           “Gwen, Love, come sit by the fire. You’ll catch your death.”

           “John, I love you, and I love the care you have for me, but if I stop moving now I will not get up again. I will sit and I will break and I will not be able to get up again.”

           So I let her do what she must, and I stare into the fire. Will is gone. Just like that. He’s gone and he is not coming back. I will not see him come swaggering off the ferry again next year, nor reminisce about our days in France. I will no longer be comforted by the knowledge that he too carries the memories that are easier to bear when there is someone with whom to share that burden. That knowledge crushes me, and I place my head in my hands, shoulder shaking. He at least can go to his peace now, put down that burden, and if there is any goodness at all in this world, he be with the man he loves.

           Finally, Gwen comes to sit beside me, and I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the cold island air on her skin.

           “The war killed him the end, I think,” I murmur through numb lips. “His spirit’s been broken for years, since we came home from France, I think. Maybe longer. I knew it the moment I saw him two years ago. I hate to say that I was surprised to see him still with us this year, but… I’d hoped, really hoped that I could help him, that being here would show him that even our worst war wounds can be healed. I’d hoped… Jesus I don’t know what I’d hoped for. But not this. Anything but this.”

           Gwen just holds me tighter. I know she doesn’t know what to say, know that she’s seen and known loss as intimately as I have, and her presence is the only thing preventing me from simply collapsing. Around us, the festivities of Race Day continue, but we want no part of them. I’m not sure I’ll want any part of them every again.

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

           There is no body to bury, so Gwen and I say a simple prayer over the sea and toss a wreath of holly into the waves. Gwen sings ‘The Last Post’ so sweetly through her tears, and we watch until the wreath disappears beneath the surface as the final words ring through the clear, cold air. There’s nothing more to be done. And so we make our way back up to the cottage, silently, solemnly. All I want is to curl up in bed and let sleep carry me away from the grief, but there is someone standing on our doorstep. A race official, looking very uncomfortable with his bowler hat in one hand and an envelope in the other.

           “Can we help you?” I ask. It comes out much more rudely than I mean it too, but I have no energy for courtesy.

           “I’ve, uh, I’ve got the winnings for you.”

           “The… what?”

           “The winnings, Mr. Goveny.”

           “What winnings?” The words aren’t making sense.

           “Mr. Lackland left very explicit instructions for what was to happen to his winnings were he to er, expire in the course of the Race. It’s very unorthodox but-”

           “I don’t want,” I snap, opening the door to the cottage with every intention of slamming it in this man’s face, but he has the audacity to follow us inside.

           “W-Well, it was a legally binding document. Signed, witnessed, and notarized. All on the level.”

           “Bloody lawyers,” I sighed. “Fine. Give it here then.”

           The man hands me the envelope, and then very quickly backs out of our cottage with an odd, awkward little bow a tip of his hat.

           I don’t need to open the envelope to know what’s inside, and how much. I was handed an identical envelope two years ago. I toss it onto the kitchen table, wanting to forget about this blood money as fast as I can. But a second envelope flutters to the ground, smaller and thinner than the first. Picking it up and tearing it open, I shake open the single sheet of paper, and begin reading.

Dear John,

           I know that money is a poor apology for what you and Gwen must be experiencing at this moment, but I felt it necessary to leave you with something. It was never my intention to die today, but knew it was quite a distinct possibility, and as we both well know, it’s far better to have a plan in place than to simply hope for the best. So here we are. Don’t blame yourself, John. I could never forgive myself in this world or the next were I to know you were living with the guilt of my death. You or Gwen, bless her kind soul. I made my choices and they led me here. And am grateful for it. Because the time I have spent in your home and on your island has been the best I could ask for in my final days. You have shown me kindness, and hope, and warmth. You have given me comfort, and strength, and family. Something inside me has been healed, even as I am no longer among the living. I go to my Maker, or to Hades, or to Valhalla with a lighter heart than I have known in many years. Thank you.

           So please live well, the both of you. Use this money as you will to make your lives a happier, easier existence, as you did for me. Think of me fondly.

           I remain, forever your brother in arms,

           William Lackland

           I hand it to Gwen and she reads it with a trembling hand to her lips and tears in her eyes. To the very end, William Lackland was, and is, the kind of man I aspire to be. We will honor his memory as best we can, and I will always raise a glass with sadness, fondness, and love for the man I am honored to call brother.

@thescorpioracesfestival

[thescorpioracesfestival]

Hello, all! I just wanted to let you know that The Scorpio Races Festival 2018: ORIGINS (!) is in the works and I hope to have an official announcement about it this coming week! Look to the seas!

[horseinthewaves]

[novelsandknittingneedles]

a small scorpio races playlist

[roseravenkey]

Mood Board: Thisby

@thescorpioracesfestival

[compellawriting]

Rider Challenge #1: Your Capaill Uisce

@compellawriting

Rosalyn Paige

@thescorpioracesfestival

The day before the start of the festival, I sat in the worn wooden chair by the window, overlooking the barn and paddock. To the richer eye, the view was unremarkable. The paint on the barn had faded years earlier from the harsh, salt-licked wind off the sea and relentless storms battering its sides. It was also small, only large enough to fit a single capaill-equipped stall and a small storage room for food and tack. Beside the barn, the paddock was well-maintained but still relatively small, the solid ten-foot tall walls held together with iron nails to keep its eerie inhabitor contained.

It was from this exact spot I first laid eyes upon my Fireheart. I had barely been tall enough to climb on the chair and peek out the window, but even then my determined, rebellious spirit had taken root. Instead of staying in the kitchen with my mother, I had sprang to the window the moment I heard the scream of the capaill uisce. In the yard below, I had seen my father and another man wrestling with the smallest, most beautiful, most dangerous capaill uisce I had ever seen. Her red coat darkened to garnet from her effort to break free of her handlers, she was only the height of a small horse, yet the disproportionateness of her head and legs to the rest of her body indicated she was no more than a year or so old. She was the youngest capaill uisce ever caught, yet her fierceness was equal to that of five full grown capaills.

From that day onward, to my mother's chagrin, I was obsessed with the capaill uisce. My grandfather had trained them for decades, but when one killed him years before I was born, my parents sworn off the lethal sea horses. That is, until my father spotted Fireheart on the beach one October. His belief was if he trained her from a young age, she would be more mellow than her fellow capaills. His plan backfired; her wild instincts supplimented her size and age. She was even more difficult to train, and remained unpredictable, at least to my father.

My mother had always kept me away from the "deadly water horses," but when she died when I was ten, nothing could keep me away from them, especially not the one twenty feet from my house. My father was reluctant to let me work with her, but I had watched him everyday for years and knew how to handle a capaill.

The moment I laid my hand on her neck, watching her head so I would know if she was planning to take a chunk out of my arm, something in me stilled. Despite the chaphony of bells ringing throughout the barn from where they hung by the entrance and on her stall door, a sense of calm washed over me as I locked my eyes with hers. I felt like this enormous animal that could kill me in under six seconds understood me, and I began to understand her. She didn't need to be layered with iron or bells, or have knots of threes and sevens tied in her mane. What she needed was someone who used her instincts instead of fought them.

I told my father as much, but he wasn't convinced. So I began training her in secret, not forcing her to submit to me, but compelling her to follow me instead of the sea. In little time, I could ride her around the iron-bound paddock with relative ease, only needing to rub counterclockwise circles on her neck if she acted up. However, I always had some iron in my jacket sleeves, at the ready to rub her with if she ever decided she truly wanted me off or began to run toward the siren's song of the sea. When my father inevitably caught me, my rapid progress impressed him enough that he transferred her complete training to me. His only stipulation was that I couldn't race her, because it was too dangerous. "I'm not going to lose the last of my family to those blasted races, Rosalyn!" he snapped when I asked him again at sixteen.

Except this year, I was eighteen, and no longer needed his permission to enter. So today, I sat in the place where it all began, knowing that tomorrow, the first day of training, would likely be the beginning of the end for both me and Fireheart.

[wickedlittlecritta]

The Scorpio Festival 2018: Origins

@thescorpioracesfestival

Stories from the Book of Waves

This is a story they won't tell you in Saint Columba's, or if they do, they'll tell you a sad, shallow version of it. A shadow of the tale. But come here to me now, and I'll tell it to you in full, and you and I will have the beating heart of the story. I know it well, for I was there for most of it.

I wasn't there for the makin' of Thisby. Maybe it's true what they say at the church, that God hisself said words and made land. I like to think it rose up from the sea all of its own accord--a contrary birth for a contrary land.

The capaill came with it. Before the gods and before the fae and before man, they were here, wintering on Thisby when the sea was too rough, and returning to it every spring to foal. 

The gods came later, and the ungods, us they call the fae now. Not that most believe in us now, not since Columba came around, but we go on all the same. 

There was Lir, the sea himself, whose name they don’t remember but who they’ve never really forgotten, and his son, them they call Shoney. Shoney was the King of Thisby, once. They still remember him some, since the church couldn’t make him go for true, only now they say he was a witch, or a saint. Either way, they know that when he pulls his great cloak around Thisby, he covers the isle in mist, and keeps us safe from raiders at sea.

They’ve never forgotten Epona. How could they, when the capaill live and breathe in her honor, as sacred to the Mare Goddess as the island ponies?

They’ve forgotten their grandfather Donn, cruelest of all. These days they believe they go to Heaven when they die, but Donn wished for all his children and their children to gather in his home, in Tech Duinn, in Tír fo Thuinn. (I have heard it said that they know still of Tír fo Thuinn, the land under the wave, and some still believe the drowned live there eternally. They do not seem to find this the comfort it once was, and for this I’m sorry.)

Anyhow, we didn't have the place to ourselves long before the humans showed up, with their boats and their spears and their fierceness.

You can't say no to a human who's gotten it into their head that someplace is home, and these ones thought that of Thisby fast. How could we blame them? We thought the same.

It was small and lonely and lovely, and it was where the sky and the sea and the land met, as holy in its own way as Emain Ablach. And holy places have to be watered in blood.

So we warred.

There we were on one side, gods and ungods with shining bronze swords and conjured mists and all the magics of land, sea, and sky. And there were the humans on the other, with steel and grit, and that was enough. They were descendants of death, born of the sea, and took what was theirs by sword and fire.

Well. Theirs and the capaill's.