#tsr2015

Wry swallowed hard. The cold night air never seemed to swallow him so quickly. The fire in front of him blazed in the dark, making the stars seem like small empty lights. He listened as the other riders claimed their mounts. He was more than sure each was speaking English, but to his ears not a single word was coherent to him. He felt nervous, but it was something more. There was a cold patch in his chest and a shakiness to his hands. It was a blur as he stepped to the rock. He sliced his finger without wincing. His voice was so clear he shocked himself. The confidence and wholeness Grásta made him feel, made it possible for Wry to stand in front of the more brutish of the men and state his soul in 9 words. "I will ride. Wry Erenson. Grásta. By my blood." The blood hit the stone and sizzled. He stepped back and stared out at the water. Grásta was pawing at the ground impatiently waiting for him. He looked her way and felt confidence and her warm cold presence. 'By my blood..' 

Wry Erenson I was only 8 when my parents dropped me at my aunts front door in the middle of the night. They said they'd come back for me when they could. They didn't tell me where they were going but I always had a hole in my heart telling me they left for the mainland. I would cost too much to take along so I was left.  My aunt, Krista Erenson, wasn't the kindest woman to me. She was a drunk. She wouldn't hit me, she wouldn't say much to me. Though she loved to call me, "A burdensome boy." I was left to clean the house myself if I wanted it taken care of. Which I did. Very much. Clutter has always driven me mad, and being that she was a drunk, there was always clutter.  At 16 I believe I'm a solitary type, any friends I made in the past were only looking for temporary distraction. As I've gotten older kids my age have started going on hunts in the dead of night to catch fresh Capaill. I never thought it safe. I've been working for a farmer close to the house. I don't do an awful lot, but I get paid enough to eat and dress warm. I help tend sheep.  It was irregularly warm this evening for being so close to the races. I was stuck in the field late looking for an accounted for sheep and her kid. I found them strewn along the fence with their killer still close by. I froze, ice trickling up legs. The grey-blue Capaill mare stared deep into my eyes. I stepped back away from it and remembered they'd always told us to keep still. She stepped toward me and huffed. Her eyes a deep sea-sickened brown. She looked too thin to be well. I started to feel worry for the creature. I stood there nose to nose with the creature until a truck came down the road. Kendrick was called to come get the thing. As always he didn't speak to anyone but the Capaill. He walked it into an old stable on the farm and was gone as quick and quietly as he'd come.  This sea-crazed horse looked into my eyes again, but this time I looked back. I seemed to feel her icy-warm presence even heavier than I had before. I cautiously put my hand out and she snorted. She didn't snap or scream like a Capaill would if it wanted a piece of your hand. I knew this was a sign. Why? I didn't know. But I did know that I would be riding in the races on this horse. As I stood before her I could see the bells braided in her mane and the deep brown saddle on her back. I would name her Grásta.  Wry: http://www.kabalarians.com/cfm/DisplayNameAnalysis.cfm Grásta: Mercy in Gaelic 

Young Endeavour by Christian Mosskov Via Flickr: Young Endeavour sailing into Limfjorden at Hals. Tall Ships Races 2015, Aalborg