Jinx

Although mentioned here, the three horses below Snake aren't really important to this segment. They're just looking pretty. Well, sort of. I'm not overly pleased with this - it's very stiff and front on poses are not my forte.

Also, please do not hate me. Especially you, Sealle. *hides*



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The field was crammed with people huddling under coats and squeezed in under umbrellas. The horses that were returning from the race preceding the main event looked bedraggled, sweat mingling with rainwater on their coats, the jockeys' silks clinging to their wiry frames. The rain had taken them all by surprise, and the main force of it dissapated almost as soon as it had begun, leaving behind a lazy, spiteful drizzle that infiltrated their defenses as best it could. The day was drear, and the ground was unforgiving, wet, sticky turf that the horses waded through determinedly.

They shook their umbrellas out as they stepped under the shelter of the grandstands. The rain drifted down lazily, spitefully, from the grey clouds above, not enough to soak but enough to bother everything milling around without shelter, namely the horses. It had not showered for a fortnight, but Eliza hoped that today would not be the day everything thundered down. Her horse was excited enough without the smell of a storm in the air; the battered horsebox could testify to that. A thin sheen of sweat had been breaking out on his skin by the time they left him, and she could feel just how pumped the big red and white stallion was; he electrified the air. Snake was a 'Stormhorse', as her grandfather would have said.

They took their places in the grandstands, next to their rivals and friends, who, for these few short minutes, were their worst enemies. Once the race was over, silent grimaces would replace shouting, and fake smiles would beam on faces while dark, angered eyes followed the winners as the exited the box. Eliza hoped they would not be exchanging smiles in the stands. She would much rather flash back her comiserations at the losers as she made her way to the winner's enclosure.

A cheer went up as the first jockey exited the paddock on his mount, a silver grey son of Cactus Ridge who ran under the famous blue silks of Godolphin. He was followed by the second Godolphin runner, a pretty bay filly by High Chapparal with a lot of leg but very little substance. The crowd watched attentively as more cantered by, bays, blacks, chestnuts, greys, hoping to see whether their bets would pay off, and waiting for the painted stallion and his bright bay rival.

Eliza stole a quick glance down at the bettors stalls. The names at the top of the odds were Green Ivy and Quetzalcoatl, and she noticed that both had drawn at 9/1. She concluded that the two horses were so evenly matched that it came down more to the ground, the positions they held in the race, and accidents to decide who would win.

Green Ivy made his appearance, trotting handsomely as if he was competing in Grand Prix dressage and not the St. Leger. Snake's adversary was a fine thing. His two white socks flashed as each leg struck the ground, catching the eye and drawing the gaze up to the powerful shoulders and massive curved neck. He walked with the walk of someone who knows he is handsome, like a model on a catwalk with pouting lips and a pose that lived for the flash of the camera. His pace was so exaggerated and flashy that it was a wonder he didn't trip over his own legs. She snorted at the thought and turned to Nikolas.

'He knows where, and, more importantly, what, he is, doesn't he? Big showoff,' she folded the race card into a small little rectangle as she mused on what she was going to say next. The absence of Alex was an opportunity she was not going to miss. 'Y'know, Nik, how would you like to see some flashy little babies running around Red&Sky next year?' She already knew the answer.

'Snake will throw a fit.' He grinned. 'But when does Snake not throw a fit, eh?' The partners in crime beamed at each other, and just like that, the deal was as good as done. The owners wouldn't refuse - who would refuse a blank cheque?

Loud grumbling preceded Alex's entrance into the owner's enclosure. With his rain soaked hair and downturned mouth, he look like a rather tall and grumpy blond hedgehog. 'Your damn horse is causing one heck of a rucus. Go, go!'

He shooed her out of her seat and forcibly propelled her down the stairs. Eliza suspected it was less to do with the horse than to stop her plotting with Nik; Alex was loath to leave them together in case a new plot was hatched, which it inevitably was.

Snake was indeed causing a commotion though, as usual. He pitched and skittered around the parade ring, squealing for all he was worth, Sam clinging on to his back with a face of controlled terror that instantly relaxed once he saw her. She could always calm Snake down.

Quick as a fish, Eliza slipped under the railings to her colt's side, grabbed the rein from the groom and murmured to her colt. Security guards started towards her, but stepped back once they saw who it was. They were all familiar with the unorthodox antics of Red&Sky's girl. She gave Sam a cocky wink as the beast beside her loosened his walk, allowing the tension to flow from his body, uncoiling his springs.

Snake was a tempest that could only be calmed by one person, and she happened to be it. Pride burst up from her heart as she led her stallion, her boyfriend, and her hopes around to the exit onto the track.

'Break a leg boys. Not literally. Especially you, Snake,' she said as she unclipped the rope.

'Huh, thanks.' Sam stood in his strirrups and his mount snorted. Then they were off.

She frowned; added, 'Good luck.'

With her eyes on the screen, she saw her fine pair canter up to the stalls, last, but most certainly not least. Nik shuffled over to let her sit down when she reached the grandstands, and no sooner had she sat than they were off.

***

Waiting in the stall, Sam was exultant. Earlier in the week he'd placed on Chardonnay, Shiva's Guard had taken the Fillies' Mile, and he'd watched Freddie and Hrimfaxi flatten the competition in one of the preceding races of the day. He was sat atop a warhorse, the joint favourite who need only fear one other. He balanced on the back of the horse who'd taken him to three classics and won two; and was now well placed to win another. The stallion shuffled beneath him, impatient, and the gates sprang open.

Even from far away, the thunder of hooves was immediately apparent over the hubbub of the crowd and the commentator's run. Snake broke out in the middle and immediately became wedged between a horse who wanted to go wide and a horse that yearned for the rail. He wanted neither, position meant nothing to him; flat out turbo was everything. He was all muscular fury, a storm in horse form. His name was the wind, his form a body of a god.

An angry roar ripped from his throat, but the bit stayed firm in his mouth, holding him back. He flung his head up, hoping to dislodge Sam's hold and speed away. Half rearing every few strides, and sandwiched between two foes, the stallion's temper was reaching boiling point. He wanted to go, and go now! Every cell was focussed into the need to flee, to win, to run faster.

Perched precariously upon this inferno of rage, Sam realized with a sinking feeling had a choice - wait, bide his time, hope that the others drop back; or let Snake go and hang on for dear life. It wasn't really much of a choice, to tell truth. His arms were being thrown from their sockets and the stallion was working the bit around his mouth to try and gain control. His ego would not let him wait; Snake always had to be the best - and Sam was not stupid enough to try and stop him.

He released his hold, the reins slipped through his hands like silk, so fast his hands burnt, and they lurched forwards into a new, suicidal gear, the muscles working slickly to power them forward. It was like Nitrox to a car, this freedom to run, and Snake took full advantage of it, flattening his body and stretching out his strides to better swallow up the ground.

Both hearts hammered against the strain; Sam felt like they were about to pass through the sound barrier. This was something he had never experienced before - scary, angry, unthinkably fast speed. In what seemed like the blink of an eye they were at the head of the pack, doing battle once again with Green Ivy.

The bay colt dove in beside Snake, harrying him like a crow mobs a hawk. Snake flicked an ear his way, but appeared unconcerned. The ego that radiated off his skin was molten, almost tangible. He'd dealt with crows before, and shrugged off this one many times. Sam glanced at Green Ivy's jockey. Tim Wong rode aggressively, flailing his arms and focussed purely on his mount's bobbing mane. Soon, Sam knew, the whip would start to crack against his colt's veined sides, and more would be demanded; more would be battered out of Ivy's resolve and fed into the last big push, the re-break and the surge, Snake's only real enemy.

His own mount was beginning to tire - the turbo boost early had cut into his stamina and made him more indifferent as to where he put his feet. His gait was slowing, he was becoming sluggish and susceptible to being left behind; with a growl and a shake of the whip, Sam tried to get him to dig deep. He flattened his ears and responded valiantly, flying once more, but his feet were still clumsy, cutting deeply into the rain soaked ground.

As a tiny form on top of a mountain of muscle steamrolling along furiously, with only two bars of metal to stand on and a strip of leather to grip, jockeys put themselves in a precarious, dangerous position. Like a car teetering on the edge of a precipice, there is a fine balance between on the edge and plummeting over the side. The jockeys that survive, that make it to the top, are the ones that know that the wave of hair buffeting their faces with every stride is their lifeline, the weight in the back of the car that keeps it from rocking over and down.

There is not much one can do about a fall, other than hope.

A stumble, however, does not always spell such a disaster. Reflexes took over faster than he could think, and Sam grabbed a fistful of mane before knowing why. The reason quickly became apparent - Snake was going down, hard, his front legs almost buckling. Shivers ran up the horse's shoulders and onto the back of Sam's neck as Snake flung himself back onto his feet and retook the pace, jerking his legs into a gallop, pointing himself directly at the vanishing rump of Green Ivy, a missile on a mission. Sam, still clutching his mane, yanked on the reins - the painted colt's run was all wrong, his legs hitting the ground wrong, his every breath wrong, wrong, wrong. It was painful to hear and experience.

Snake only wanted one thing: Ivy's face in his rear view mirror. Sam wanted him to pull up, to stop, to give up - but the colt was having none of it. He seized the bit, drew up his last shreds of intense, fearsome energy, and re...broke was not the word. Bolted was. He re-bolted, savagely taking up the ground with strides that shook his bones to the marrow and sent shockwaves of pain around his body.

But it was too late. Green Ivy swept past the line, all muscle and sinew and absolute son of a bitch jerk. The dressage horse act resumed as Ivy slowed to a trot, and the kettle that was Snake boiled over. He emitted a heart wrenching shriek of pain and anger, swerving to the right so violently that Sam would have fallen off if not for the iron grip on the mane he maintained.

Sam pulled on the reins and Snake immediately came to a halt, all the fire that had been in him gone with the scream. An ambulance drew up, and with shaking legs Sam dismounted. It all happened so quickly after that, like a dream.

Snake was a different picture to the defiant inferno of a horse he had been at the start. He held his left foreleg off the ground and hung his head, not even caring when the veterinarian approached him, syringe in hand. He just looked at them all, mournful eyes just staring as if to say, 'I'm all done now, take me, do whatever you want to me. I can't fight any more.' If only it were a dream, a terrible nightmare that Sam would wake up from. Does pinching yourself work? he wondered absently.

The rain lashed down as he loaded into the lorry, a wounded soldier with an anguished limp, nose almost scraping the ramp and ears at half mast. Tears sprang to Sam's eyes to see his fearsome charger reduced to such a husk, and he found himself wishing for the familiar, usually dreaded thrashing that shouted to all the world that he, Snake, was the best. Would the colt ever find himself again? He could not say.

Sam walked in a daze towards the weighing room, ignoring the crowd, the press, Eliza. Nikolas may have been there as well shouting something in Norwegian at the throng of press, and he might have seen Graham disappear into the winner's enclosure, no doubt to hurridly collect the prize on behalf of everyone else, but of everything else he remembered nothing. Nothing else was important.

Eliza walked with him a while, fretting, before slipping away. She started her car, for once ignoring the softness of the leather, and drove out, doggedly following the lorry's path through the traffic, teeth biting into her lip and nails digging into her palm.

The equine hospital would provide the best standard of care that any horse could wish for, but Snake was as silent as Sam; no whickers of greeting, not even any recognition that she was there beyond a slight raise of the head and that melancholy, staring eye as he limped down the ramp. His light had been extinguished; it now smoked like a mere echo of what he once was. Even Hrimfaxi had more fire. A teardrop rolled down her cheek, hot and wet.

'Snake, oh Snake...'

---




Although I say that British Summertime is my favourite, Snake is an extremely close, almost joint contender, and he's my first true HARPG champion. I adore him.

It kills me to do this.

Shown: Quetzalcoatl, Chardonnay, Hrimfaxi, Shiva's Gaurd

Information

Name: Quetzalcoatl
Barn Name: Snake
Gender: Colt
Height:16.2hh
Color: Chestnut Sabino Splash
Eyes: Brown
Markings: White face, lipliner four white legs, white belly spot.
Breed: Thoroughbred
Lineage: Foundation
Discipline: Flat Racing
Genes: ee/AA/nSb/nSpl
Temperament: Snake's wild and unpredictable, with a grumpy attitude. He doesn't like being touched by people he doesn't know. He's not a horse to be trusted, as he lives up to the old tale that chestnuts are hot blooded and fiery. He'll snap at you without warning and he spends much of the day with his ears back. He is quite violent in his retaliations, and will bite, kick, rear and butt. Surprisingly, though, he's not flighty and he'll stand like a rock next to something that should scare him, unless it's noisy. He should be a devil on the track, if we can get a jockey up on him.
For Stud/Lease: CLOSED, too young.

Information

Name: Chardonnay
Barn Name: Chardy
Gender: Filly
Age: 4 years old
Breed: Thoroughbred
Color: Flaxen chestnut splash
Eyes: Blue
Genotype: aa/ee/nSpl
Height: 15.0hh
Temperament: Chardy is a very laid back mare. Nothing fazes her, and she can sometimes be completely oblivious to the crowd at racedays. When she was imported from the USA, she was practically asleep while walking up the ramp to the plane. Easy to handle, friendly and drop dead gorgeous, Chardy's every groom's dream, although when she's on the track she's almost a different mare. In a race, she becomes strong as an ox, fast as a cheetah and oh so angry. She'll blitz the track and glare at anyone who dares stand in her way. We've come to see it that life when she's not racing is boring for her, and she's half asleep, but when racing she's wide awake and showing her true colours.
Discipline(s): Flat racing (sprinting frontrunner)
Bred by: =Hazel-rah
Sire & Dam: Foundation
Offspring: N/A
Previous image(s): N/A, but she is DD Guns N Roses's 3yo rival at one point


Information

Name: Hrimfaxi
Barn Name: Hrim
Gender: Colt
Projected Height: 16hh
Color: Black chestnut
Eyes: Brown
Markings: Small star, BL coronet band
Build: A long back, thick rump and slight ewe neck make this poor boy look slightly off-kilter. His legs are strong and sturdy, however.
Breed: Thoroughbred
Bloodlines: Aragorn (IRE) x Forest Key, by Green Forest [link]
Discipline: Flat racing
Genes: ee/aa
Dosage Index: 5.00
Temperament: Hrim is unassuming and not a bit like his grandsire. You wouldn't know he had such a brilliant lineage if you didn't see it on paper. He wouldn't stand out in a crowd, he has nothing that marks him out as one to buy in temperament alone. He's quiet and thoughtful so we're hoping he fires up on the track. He doesn't like camera flashes or being surrounded. He always likes to have a way out so we'll have to be extra careful not to get him boxed in in races.
Breeder: Black Creek Crossing Stables
Sale Notes: His pedigree and dosage promise us a decent sprinter/miler if he ever figures out which way is forward.

Information


Name: Shiva's Gaurd
Breed: Thoroughbred
Gender: Filly
Height: 17hh
Bloodlines: Eternal Eden x Inatizz
Colour: Bay
Genotype: Ee/aa
Markings: irregular white mark (only on left eye)
RF: cornet RH: pastern LF : none LH: sock
Build: Racer's build, deep through the girth, legs with good bone. Holds his head with a slightly curved neck.
Disciplines(s): Flat racing
Distance: 8-12F
Surface: dirt (non-synth)
Temperament: She dances everywhere. Her happiness in unquenchable, seriously. She's bothered by almost nothing, and doesn't care whether she wins or loses. Bit of a dork, too.

Someday I will sort out the horses' information bios. Someday.

Art, Characters and Writing (C) me
References from horsephotos.com