#TSRF2018 Rider Challenges

[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

[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 #1: Your Capall Uisce

           I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. This statement is true in my day-to-day life and has been for some time, but never has it been more true as I stand on the beaches of Thisby. I’ve only just disembarked from the ferry, a hastily packed sea bag thrown over my shoulder, surveying the chaos before me. I only know that I must find someone willing to dupe a mainlander into buying their particularly murderous water horse. I’ve tried to dress down for the occasion, but even my old war-torn boots aren’t enough to distract from the fact that my cap has very clearly never seen action outside the haberdasher and my fingernails are just a bit too clean. I find myself quite intimidated despite knowing that I likely could buy ten of the bloodthirsty beasts straining at their leads or pacing inside circles in the sand with just the money in my pocket. But I don’t need ten. I only need one. So I take a long, slow breath of the sea air, and step into the fray.

           I expect to be overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, by the press of people, by the screams of men and horses. Rather, I feel an odd calm fall over me. As I wander through the crowd, eyes roving back and forth across the sea of faces, I feel quite outside myself, as though I am moving slowly through a dream. It’s a familiar sensation, and one not altogether unpleasant, considering the alternative. However, as I soon find out, the thousand-yard stare does you little good when there’s a vicious predator approximately two yards in front of you.

           “Oi!”

           Someone shoves me hard as the massive grey creature lunges, teeth bared with every intention of tearing out my throat, and I go sprawling in the sand, tasting salt and grit between my teeth. The island has certainly shown me a warm welcome.

           “Are you blind?” my rescuer asks as he stands above me, silhouetted against the grey cliffs. “Or perhaps have a death wish?” His tone is genial and familiar, but my pride is wounded.

           “Certainly the latter, swiftly on my way to the former,” I mutter, trying to straighten my clothes as I haul myself to my feet, ignoring the proffered hand.

           “Christ, Will, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

           Taken aback, I finally glance up, and standing before me is the very man who introduced me to this mad place.

           “John Goveny, fancy seeing you here.”

           We embrace, and for a moment I think I may shed a tear of relief. But then he steps back and looks me up and down.

           “Barely recognized you without your cufflinks and linen handkerchief,” John says with a grin.

           “Well, I thought I might do better with the fair folk of Thisby if I at least tried to blend in.”

           “As hard as you might try, your high-born, Oxford-educated accent will give you away every time, my friend.” John shakes his head. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

           I look down at my boots and scuff one in the sand, digging a small trench. Suddenly, I feel foolish. Foolish for having come here, foolish for having lost myself in front of John, foolish for my reasons for being on this beach.

           “I… I came to ride,” I finally manage, and my cheeks burn. “You shan’t talk me out of it,” I press on hurriedly, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve come to ride, and by God I’m going to ride.”

           We stand there for a long moment. John holds my gaze for one heartbeat, two, until I drop my eyes back to the sand.

           “Well I won’t let you test your luck on this beach with these crooks,” he sighs. “The moment you open your mouth they’ll pounce and you’ll leave with no money, no capall, and likely at least one fewer limb than you started with.”

           He turns and starts up the winding path to the clifftops. I follow slowly, laboriously, all my mental capacity focusing on staying on my feet. I nearly collide with him when he comes to a stop in front of a neat cottage, a small round pen erected in the yard. Inside paces a handsome animal, its coat the amber-red of the sun through whiskey, a broad white blaze down its face.

           “Gwen had been training this one for the Kendricks, but if I know my illustrious commanding officer, you aren’t about to back down from the challenge of the Race. So here. He’s yours if you want him. Just know,” he warns, “that if you do go through with this, you’ll be stuck with me until you make it across the finish line.”

Cracking a grin, I clap him on the shoulder. “There are worse fates than that my friend. Now, what do you call this fine beast?”

           “I’m afraid we weren’t particularly creative this year. We call him Whiskey. The word gets its meaning from the old word for water, uisce.”

           “Seems fitting, if a bit on the nose,” I quip with a glance over my shoulder at John, who stands with his arms crossed, brow furrowed. Shrugging, I turn back to the water horse, and I see nothing but fury and pain in its eyes. And I am terrified. Heart pounding, breath coming quick, I taste metal on the back of my tongue. And I am relieved to just be feeling something. So I smile despite the fear.

           “I think we’ll get on just fine.”

@thescorpioracesfestival

[thescorpioracesfestival]

Rider Challenges 1-3 Wry and Grasta

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UsG3ORHWvNnfoFn8EdyaAvg4QK55cgFHrtsYct_ut1A/edit?usp=drivesdk

[thescorpioracesfestival]

The Scorpio Races Festival 2018

Congratulations to our race day winners!

First: William Lackland on Whiskey - @novemberseas-novemberskies Second: Rosalyn Paige on Fireheart - @compellawriting Third: Eleth Grey on Gealach - @nocturnelazurasarts

Winners were chosen via a random number generator and will receive extra entries in the giveaway. You may include these standings in your race day post or choose your own outcome! Don’t forget to add your entries to the giveaway widget, which will stay open until December 17th, 11:59 PM PT so you can catch up on the challenges! Congratulations on a fantastic race season everyone!

[thescorpioracesfestival]

The Scorpio Races Festival 2018: COLORS

“I quickly find the race officials’ table in the shelter of the cliff; two men in bowler hats sit behind a table with tantalizingly varied racing colors folded in front of them.”

Attention, riders! Your official racing colors are now available for you to pick up!

If you’ve completed at least one Rider Challenge, these colors qualify you for the races, which will run on December 9th. First, Second, and Third place will be chosen via a random number generator, and their colors will be posted.

The winners receive extra entries in the giveaway.

You can include these colors and standings in your Race Day posts or choose your own outcome.

If you’re still catching up, don’t worry! You can keep participating in the challenges up until the end of the Festival, even after the race is run.