hi yes i know i haven’t posted on this account for more than a year but i just really wanted to tell the world that divide by bastille is a theo/boris song and no one can convince me otherwise.
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.
another october has come and gone. the leaves are falling, the jack-o-lanterns are being blown out, and a quiet hush envelopes the neighbourhood. goodbye, henriettaspooks. you will be missed.
Now in its fifth year, The Scorpio Races Festival gives us fans a chance to celebrate the Scorpio Races season together! Reread. Retell. Recreate. Relive the Races!
Earn entries for the giveaway through:
1. RIDER CHALLENGES
Create a character! Bring a character to life as you complete tasks and prompts that immerse you in The Scorpio Races! Your story can still be set in any time period, or be inspired by this year’s theme and imagine what it would be like to live in a much older Thisby and ride in the first races.
2. ORIGINS
Explore the origins of Thisby’s myths, locations, traditions, and people! (1) write standalone or multi-chapter fics, (2) create original artwork and edits, etc., (3) create a character to explore the island and its history or add to your Rider Challenges.
3. CREATIVE CHALLENGES
These challenges give you a chance to express your love for Thisby and include opportunities for fine arts, digital, crafts, cooking, music, and more.
4. READ-ALONG
Go at your own pace or follow along with the suggested weekly chapters.
To get started, please follow The Scorpio Races Festival and look out for more announcements in the coming days!
The Illuminae Group: Okay, we’ve shut down A.I.D.A.N, it’s obviously insane and we will never turn it back on for anything ever. Not even if we’re really in trouble.
The Illuminae Group, twenty minutes later: We’re in trouble.
ah yes my favourite time of year. sweaters! orange leaves! cool weather! man eating horses that emerge from the depths of the ocean to be ridden by people for a cash prize and a chance at glory! fall is the best.
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
titsay
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