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Throw a dice

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Pictured: Peregrin Took (aka sexy, shiny boy)

Previously on:

Prince of Sin danced next to his pony, big brown eyes peered over the white and brown mane at the mass of colour that made up the grandstand crowd. His tapered ears flicked back and forth, his jaws worked at the bit until Glenn gave him a sharp jerk. The colt’s ears flattened for a moment but he gave no other reaction. He was that kind of horse.

He didn’t like his rider. The hands were too hard, the whip came down too often and he couldn’t remember any time when praise extended beyond a single pat of the neck. Sin snorted his disapproval as he walked into the metal gates.

Two horses to his outside, the chestnut colt issued a challenge. Prince tilted his head to look at Signal Fire for a moment before the assistant started straightened him in preparation for the starter’s bell. He flicked his head, shifted his weight onto his haunches and as soon as the sliver of open dirt was wide enough he propelled his body forward. It was always a shock to the muscles, a huge strain on the body but he, and all the other colts around him, had learnt to ignore it and carry on with their job. Gallop.

Sin instantly recognised the smell of the chestnut that latched himself onto his side. Signal Fire jerked his head against his riders’ hand, eager to just go, go, go. Sin fiddled against Glenn’s hard hands, why could he not just let him run? His ears flicked foreword as he saw the finish line. Lengthening his stride he managed to keep up with the flying form of his rival but that heaviness on his mouth kept his spirit back.

*

Elphie on the other hand, found comfort in that constant contact. The big filly pranced in a perfect passage to the start of the Acorn Stakes. She felt good, feeling like she’d grown into the mare she should be, and she liked reminding everyone of this fact. They compared her to the colts, her rebellious nature, her size, her disregard.

She bucked as they circled at the gates, and couldn’t care less when she felt the sting of the crop. The other fillies, still docile little things the lot of them, regarded her as they passed her to load. She was last, right on the outside. Elphie lifted herself onto her hind legs before bounding into the gate. Her towering, bulky frame filled the tight chute but she kept shifting her weight from leg to leg. It resulted in her being left behind at the start but she wasn’t worried, she always came from the back anyway.

The big filly kept her eyes locked on the targets ahead of her, ears flopping with each stride. She ignored Glenn’s urging until she was ready. As they came up to the turn she started to really fly over the dirt. She loved the feeling of her hooves touching the ground so fleetingly it was almost as if they hadn’t done so at all. Swinging to the outside she began passing the mass of browns topped with colour, the chorus of cheering rising from the stands egging her on with far more effect than anything the man on her back could achieve.

*

Pippin bounced, his tongue flopping with each stride. He knew it was a race day, the disturbed daily ritual was a clear indicator that later he would be playing his favourite game. And he was fresh, not having raced for over a month and the pain in his off hind no more than a hazy memory. Not that his memory went very far beyond food in general. He nipped at his pony, trying to entice a game out the old gelding but all he got in return was a threatening look and the sting of the crop on his shoulder.

He sulked for the rest of the warm up, dropping his head and dragging his feet.

Adrenaline picked him up from the temporary darkness as he stepped into the gate. Black tail swished against his legs, black-tipped ears were focussed forward. Joy swelled up within his body as Glenn’s weight settled itself over his wither, his fingers wrapping themselves in his mane. In seconds they were off, hooves digging into the dirt and tail flagging behind.

His ears flicked back and forth at the slow pace, Pippin had no concept of the length of the Belmont but he adjusted himself accordingly, he was in the middle of the fray just as he liked it. He found the fun in matching his strides to those of his competitors, coiling and extending his body at the same time as the grey on his inside. It kept his mind off the burning in his muscles.

The field had stretched out. It was only him and the grey now, a larger pack behind and three a couple of strides ahead. He was getting tired now, this race seemed to go on forever. His heart was beating painfully against his chest, his muscles and lungs were on fire. It was time to find that little bit extra that would push him beyond the limits.

Suddenly the grey disappeared and he felt a jolt against his hindquarter. Next thing he knew, his nostrils filled with dirt as his legs failed to right themselves after the impact. Around him he could hear the shouts of the jockeys and the thundering of hooves as the rest of the field passed them. He snorted the sand out his nose then pushed himself to his feet.

He blinked, first at his jockey who was sitting up clutching his left shoulder, then at the grey. The other colt wasn’t getting up, Pippin whickered encouragement through the confusion fogging his brain. Still nothing. He was still alive but in pain, so much pain, Pippin could almost smell it. The ambulances raced up, human and equine and the vets and their helpers spilled onto the track. Pippin started as a hand grabbed his bridle, but put his head into the man’s shoulder as soon as he recognised Christopher’s scent.

A single shot rang out across the track as he was led away to the safety of the barn. His head dropped, and even the scratches along his neck didn’t soothe him.


ref from foaltrack.com
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© 2011 - 2024 scaramouche2802
Comments6
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Greatalmightyqueen's avatar
DDDDD: Poor Pip!

I do like the horse perspective of this piece, though. :3