|
|
Post by ashton on Feb 25, 2011 9:17:34 GMT -8
Ashton Reges---------------------------------------- It was one of those days when you just wanted to curl up into a nice little ball in the corner and die. Although dying did seem like a very good prospect at the time, Ashton had a few things to be getting on with, such as looking after Dancer, his oh-so-loving dark grey gelding. The gelding had a reputation for a bad attitude at the best of times. But the gelding was a fantastic jumper and a dab hand at dressage too. Plus, as much as Dancer tried to hurt Ash, he loved the gelding and couldn't really blame the beast.
Walking across the yard, Ash grabbed a quick glance at the mares in the field, grazing calmly and nickering towards each other. It was a beautiful and peaceful sight, something Ash was never going to take advantage of again. His boots crunched on the ground and the wind whipped his fast growing hair in his face. Over the past month or so, he'd had a rethink and decided that it was time to grow his hair and see how it looked.
Upon entering the barn, Ash was greeted with snorts, stomps and neighs of the horses currently living there. Dancer was at the far end, far from most of the horses more for safety then anything. He could get a touchy if he was too close to other horses. Dancer's large, strong head popped out of his stall and as soon as he saw Ash approach, the gelding's ears flattened back against his skull and a whicker escaped his kissers. Ash chuckled. "Lovely to see you too," he replied sarcastically in his cockney British accent with a roll of his eyes. Opening the stall door, he grabbed the grooming box on the floor and forced the gelding away so he could slip inside.
Dancer snorted and arched his neck, eyes locked on Ash. The gelding did not look happy today, but Ash couldn't have cared less, he was always grumpy, why would this be any different. Sighing, he placed the grooming box on the floor and grabbed a brush before walking slowly towards the horse. Dancer pawed at the ground, ears still flat against his skull in anger. Before Ash couldn't make another step, the gelding neighed and launched himself towards Ash. Ash's eyes widened, and dropping the brush to the floor, he quickly dodged the rampaging gelding. However, he didn't quite miss all of the gelding and he leg was caught under the legs of the horse.
White hot pain radiated from Ash's leg so much so that he cried out and collapsed to the floor in shock. "Motherfucker!" he shouted, cradling his throbbing leg. Dancer snorted, swinging around to face Ash, ears flat back and nostrils flaring. It seemed the gelding was about the charge again.
|
|
|
|
Post by victoria alexandra benson on Feb 25, 2011 13:45:54 GMT -8
 wasn't it beautiful when you believed in everything?-------------------------------------------------------------------Her hips moved in a gentle rocking motion, heels stuck down in the flexible Sprenger Irons, and legs seemingly glued in place against the dark bays side. Her shoulders were squared, her back in a slight arch, and her elbows with a slight give to the geldings every move. Othello was a very smooth ride, with a huge up-hill canter that won him big points in the Equitation ring. Othello had not come cheap to her family, but he had been worth every penny, not that her family particularly cared about the value of the dollar. They were wealthy, and by the look of her clothes, car, and horses; it was quite obviously stated.
Victoria came off as snobby and bitchy, but in reality the she had the social skills of a lion in the room with a bunch of rabbits. She was not good at speaking, unless it was to her family, because horse shows and horses had consumed her life. She knew how to have friendly talk with fellow competitors, but that was about as far as it went. She never got close to anyone, because no one every understood the girl that was actually inside Victoria. She was shy, alone, and awkward. Her only friends had four-legs and fur, and the only relationship she had ever been in had ended shortly after she had given him everything she had physically. She was wounded and bitter about the move to the South from her posh East Coast riding lifestyle, and she guarded and afraid to get close to anyone.
Her brown eyes glanced across the arena to a simple 3'6" oxer painted purple and white, with a small white box under it. She kept her heels down and contact between the reins, legs, and saddle, approaching and counting in her head the striding up to it. With a gentle push of the ground, Victoria leaned into her jumper position, fluidly sliding her gloved hands up the geldings thick neck. As they landed her hands came back to their original position, she rose off his back for just a moment to let him take a few hand-gallop steps, before asking him for a nice transition to a trot. She posted to the beat for five steps, then planted her behind into the saddle, closing her legs and asking the gelding to halt. He did as told, his head tucked into his chest like a true equitation horse. She allowed the reins to slide from in between her fingers and fall onto the geldings withers. With both hands she gently patted his neck, happy with his performance for the day.
She walked him out for a few, her eyes searching around the property and people-watching others preform with their horses and in the pastures. One hand barely held onto the Italian leather reins as the pair cooled off before headed into the barn to untack and rest. Victoria spent most of her days at this place, riding all three of her horses, cleaning tack, braiding manes,and bathing. She was nearly OCD about how her horses and tack looked, because she wanted nothing but the best for them. It also gave her something to do, other then hiding away in her room all day.
Victoria walked out of the arena toward the barn, swinging off the side as she approached the doors. She brought the reins over Ollie's head, patting his neck once more before running up her stirrups. Her custom Sergio Grasso Bergamo Field Boots clunking every time she stepped. She wore Goode Rider breeches that looked like jeans, and a plain blue teeshirt hugged her thin frame, tucking into the breeches. A black belt wrapped around her waist, because her old coach stressed how sinful it was to wear breeches without a belt. A pink and black underarmour sweatshirt was pulled over the tee-shirt, to shield her from the wind and chilly temperatures that were kicking outside. It was Spring, therefor the weather seemed to be springing back and forth.
She sighed, taking her long, brunette hair out of her helmet, and unwinding the hairnet, letting her loose curls bounce as she walked. She stuffed the hairnet into the helmet, clipping the clasp and sliding her arm through it. On her way toward the wash racks, she grabbed Ollies cooler and halter, which were neatly hanging on his rack outside his stall. His tack trunk was lay outside the stall, squished up against the door. She placed her helmet on top of it, knowing she still had another horse to ride. She dragged the items with her toward the empty rack, smiling at a boy with a dark grey horse along the way.
Victoria led the Warmblood into the matted area, hanging his cooler on the rack and exchanging his bridle for the leather halter, clipping him in. As she turned around to walk to the tack room, she heard a yelp. Her brown eyes darted toward the other person in the barn, noting his position under his horse. She quickly hung up the leather in her hand, running toward the man in distress. 'Motherfucker' the words rang out into her ears, filling the barn. She stopped when she got near him, keeping an eye on the horse, "You alright?" she asked, her accent still holding its London undertone. She may have been a snobby, rich, bitch but when someone was in trouble she helped. She glanced back at the mans horse, not wanting to be its next victim. OUTFIT;OTHELLO;-------------------------------------------------------------------
and everybody believed in you; |
|
