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Stop motion wood working

It happens at the start of every November: The Scorpio Races. Riders attempt to keep hold of their water horses long enough to make it to the finish line. Some riders live. Others die.

“A dark haired boy who is made of all corners, silent and still in his blue-black jacket, his arms folded across his chest. He looks out of place and wild here; expression sharp, collar turned up again the back of his neck, hair still windblown from the beach. Everyone else is being crowed and jostled, but no one crowds of jostles him, though they don’t seem to avoid him, either. It’s like he’s just not in the same place as the rest of us.”

“No one better than him for knowing the horses. He rides every year and I reckon he’s the one to beat. Always is. But he’s got one foot on the land and one foot in the sea. You steer clear of him.”

A Night at the Patrician’s palace

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