Well, Blanco certainly showed what he was made of. It appears he was indeed trained in the Vienna school!

None of that fancy haughty echo talk!
Thank you Ernie, someone had to say that.

Xenophonus
Very clever to include the old Athenian. I wonder if he wrote a book about a going into the interior with ten thousand other fellas?

In ETN you never need to worry about having to advise men to urinate anywhere outdoors, it is a religion around here for men to pee anywhere possible that is not indoors or made of porcelain. Don't ever drink out of any "Mellow Yellow" containers that you have let sit more than 5 minutes, for some reason the challenge of "making" into a can or bottle where the product may possibly look similar is a plus, lol.





I think the wives would be visualizing Lorena Bobbit, denying services would only come after they ensured he could not enjoy those of another first, lol.


Great Chapters !!!

This chapter hits rather close to home with me... the very same thing happened to my mother when she was my age. She was taking ridership lessons when her horse spooked and reared. She made the same mistake Julian almost did, and it took her almost forty years to revive her courage to mount a horse.

She finally has put that messy ordeal behind her. Tackle your fears while they're young, and don't let them fester. Otherwise, they will dominate your life. Fell off a horse? Get right back on. Got food poisoning? Make sure your next meal is what made you sick (from someone you trust, of course).

I think Clesa's a bit mean, telling her to get back on Blanco. I'm sure she doesn't want to sit on anything for a while, even if TES's healing magic is miraculous.

A good section. Clesa is right there, I've never ridden a horse but I know the sort of thing.

And Blanco is clearly the right horse, they barely know eachother and he's driven off a mountain lion for her. Once they get a bit of teamwork the deadra will be struggling.

@Grits: I’m glad you enjoyed Blanco. Yes, he’s pretty expressive. Part ot it is his bigger than life personality. But part of it is also that Julian is learning to read equine language. Paint taught her more than how to get on, sit down, and get off.

@Cap’n Hammer: This story waits for no mortal! (including myself ) Relas has a compelling reason not to reveal the truth about Julian’s father that supersedes her mother’s wishes. This is something that will not become evident before the end of the Main Quest, and OHDH. And yes, this is laying the groundwork for the next story! As for Xenophon, he is a very interesting character. He was there at some famous events, including the battle at Tarsus. He was one of the leaders of the Ten Thousand. He knew Socrates. He was a Renaissance man hundreds of years before the Renaissance! I’m glad you like that I paid tribute to the man.

@Acadian: Hooves is not Blanco’s only major skill!

@SubRosa: I was wondering when someone was going to latch onto Ernest’s comment! He just spit it out and I was laughing so hard, so I kept it.

@mALX: He he he!

@TK: Sounds like my mom, only she has never ridden a horse since! She wasn’t crazy about them to begin with, and only went horseback riding on a rental because it was a date with my dad.

@Ghastley, ghastley, ghastley: Getting back on the horse is the number one cardinal rule of horseback riding. Of all the times I’ve fallen off or been bucked off, only once did I fail to get back on the horse right away. That was the time I had to go to the ER for a scalp laceration after my gelding’s three of four hooves connected with my head. No concussion, fortunately. You can bet I was back on that horse as soon as the doctor let me! Yes, horseback riders are a masochistic bunch.

@Olen: It seems that you understand the intent very well! Unfortunately, at this stage of the MQ there are few chances left for encounters with Daedra. Battle of Bruma, hmmmmm!

After the excitement of the past few days, Julian finally has a moment with Felen Relas.

******************************
Chapter 23.16: A Memento of the Past

I sighed with exhaustion as I eased my aching body into the comfortable chair. Relas smiled and held a small vial out to me. “Here, have some of this,” he urged. Carahil glanced up from her reading while I tossed the potion back. The healing surge cooled the last of the soreness in my muscles from an entire day of grueling riding lessons.

“Thanks, Master,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “That hit the spot.”

“Felen,” he corrected me with a sly glance at Carahil.

“Clesa make you work today?” Carahil asked, folding a long finger into her place in the book.

“Who would have thought sitting a horse was so much work?” I complained softly.

“That’s what you get for buying a high school horse,” Carahil teased me. “But does that mean you’re keeping him?”

“Blanco?” I met Carahil’s gaze as Relas left the sitting room. “Why learn all these techniques if I’m not going to keep him? He’s the only horse in all of Cyrodiil who knows what I now know!”

Relas’s chuckles trailed him as he returned to his workroom with the empty vial. “You have to hand it to Clesa,” he called back. “She certainly knows how to work a sale!”

“Do you feel more comfortable about leaving with Blanco now?” Carahil’s eyes grew serious.

I nodded. “Yes, it’s just a matter of practice. I’m certain I’ll get plenty of that on the road!”

“Well then, when you come back to Anvil, I expect Blanco will be a part of yourself.” Carahil stretched her spine and yawned. “It’s late, so I’m off to bed.” She slid a ribbon marker into the book and set it on the table. “Good night, Julian,” she nodded at me.

“Good night, Carahil,” I responded. “And thanks for the recommendation.”

“Not at all,” Carahil rose. “It’s more a matter of thanking you for your help.” She moved to the archway leading into the lobby. “Good night, Felen!” she called, then moved to the dining room. I heard her bid the two younger mages to sleep well and to keep Sparky out of trouble, then her soft steps on the stairs.

After a few moments, I left the chair and headed to Relas’s workroom. He looked up from his crucible as I pulled up the old stool and perched on it.

“I have to leave tomorrow,” I began, then sighed, uncertain how to proceed. Relas stifled the flame beneath the crucible and poured its scant contents into a vial before he sealed it and set it aside. Then he pulled up his own chair and sat down across the counter from me, his elbows resting on the surface and his hands clasped in front of him.

“Yes, you must move forward,” he agreed softly, his ruby eyes steady. “Julian, I don’t know the full of it, but I do know you have an immense task ahead of you. Our recommendations and the Arcane University are like feathers next to it.”

I looked down at my own hands, similarly clasped on my knee. “I had been dreading coming here ever since I set out from Bruma,” I said softly. “But now that I am here, I don’t want to leave.”

“Anvil’s changed a lot since you left twenty-nine, almost thirty years ago,” Relas’s voice matched mine. “Many have died, of old age, illness or injury, others have moved away. The young Count married Millona Silvanus, then disappeared before she could bear him a child. Old Kyne lost her last child at sea, and wandered off into the hills, never to be seen again. Some of your tormentors, notably Astia Calventia and Pinarus Inventius, got married and settled into lives lacking in purpose.”

I glanced at him at the mention of my childhood nemesis. “I saw Pinarus this afternoon,” I remarked. “I asked him if the city guard had returned Astia’s amulet.”

Relas chuckled. “And what did he say?”

“Nothing, but his blush spoke volumes,” I answered. “Lacking in purpose?”

“All he does is hunt,” Relas responded. “Astia is always complaining that it’s an excuse to get out of doing any work around the house.” His smile turned sardonic. “She should talk. She spends the entire day on the harbor front painting the lighthouse!” He shook his head. “I have no idea how many of those paintings she’s completed.”

“There are some that would argue that the Legion is a life without purpose,” I remarked, shifting my weight on the stool.

“I disagree with that,” Relas said firmly. “I think it’s been mostly good to you, Julian.”

“Good?” I repeated, catching his gaze.

“You left here sad, feeling about this tall,” he held up his left hand, thumb and forefinger a short distance apart, “with nothing in the world to call your own. You came back with your head held high, brimming with self-confidence, and commanding respect from all you meet.”

I stared at Relas. He didn’t see me four years ago, when I came back drunk on the ship from Skyrim. But he’s right, I’ve come a long way since then. “I learned a lot when I was in the Legion,” I said finally.

“I don’t doubt it, Julian,” Relas shook his head. “But I have just one question for you.”

“What’s that?” I asked, when the Dunmer hesitated.

“Have you let yourself fall in love again?” He watched my face, and I knew he saw the flicker I felt. “Have you let yourself love a man since Jared?”

I inhaled slowly, turning my face away from his penetrating gaze. “No, I didn’t think I could ever -“

“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” Relas asked gently. I didn’t respond. After a moment, Relas sighed. “Do you even know the answer, Julian?”

“It’s painful,” I said slowly. “I look at my mother. She spent every afternoon looking for my father. Every single afternoon, when the Chapel bells rang four times, she would look to the harbor. She loved my father, and yet he left her to live alone for sixteen years. And Jared -“ I stopped myself before my voice broke.

“But look at Athesi,” Relas urged me softly. “She loved Varel, and he returned that ten-fold. He hasn’t looked at another woman that way while she lived, and still hasn’t, though she’s been dead these past ten years. And I’m certain you’ve met many other happily married couples who have stayed together for many years.”

I shook my head stubbornly. “I’ll never be that lucky, Master,” I said.

“Felen,” he corrected automatically. “And luck has nothing to do with it,” he added. “Have you ever met any man that you liked in that way?”

I shook my head, then recalled the Redguard pirate. But no, it would never work. He’s a pirate, and I don’t accept the raping and pillaging they do for a living. I never let my tironii do that. I’m not about to hook up with a man who does that. “No, not really -“ I thought back through the years. Jelin? No, I regarded him as my mentor, nothing more than that. Camillus? No, not like that. He scared me more than anything else. “I never had the time to think about it. Right now, I’m just trying to think about getting through the day.” Blue eyes drifted into my mind, eyes as azure as the sky. What? Why am I thinking about him now? No. Not him. I shook the thought away. Don’t think about him.

“All the more reason to think about it, Julian,” Relas broke into my thoughts. “The man you love has to be one you look up to. Not necessarily physically, but in terms of his principles, his ethics. You can’t love someone you don’t respect.”

Yes, I respect him. But no, it won’t happen. It’s not meant to happen. Again I pushed the stubborn image back into limbo and met Relas’s gaze. “I respect you, Master -“

“Felen.”

“- Felen, but I don’t feel that way about you.”

“Whew, that’s a relief!” Relas made an exaggerated motion of wiping at his brow. I coughed into my hand before I could catch myself. “Honestly, Julian,” Relas grew somber, “I’m too old for you, and you’re like a daughter to me.”

“I thought I was like a daughter to Morvayn!” I exclaimed softly. Relas chuckled.

“Then consider yourself blessed to have two of us!” Relas stood up from his chair and moved to his desk where he kept his notes. After a moment’s rummaging, he returned with a small object wrapped in dark grey velvet.

“I’ve been holding this a long time for you.” He laid it on the counter in front of me. “Take it.”

I glanced up at him, startled. Relas was never one for giving gifts. “What is it?” He didn’t answer, only gestured for me to unwrap it.

The silver circle trapped my breath as I stared at it, nestled within the soft folds of the velvet. “My mother’s bracelet?”

“I found it tossed into a corner of the house that night,” Relas said quietly. “I thought you would want something of hers, but I didn’t give it to you right away because I felt it would only hurt you. I was waiting for your grief to subside.”

I shook my head, swallowing against the walnut in my throat. “It never really went away,” I murmured, picking up the bangle.

“I thought I would give it to you on your eighteenth birthday, as your mother intended to do,” Relas’s voice was just a whisper. “But you enlisted that morning, and left Anvil that same afternoon. By the time I found out what you had done, your ship had sailed.”

“She wanted to give this to me?” The tears brimmed hot in my eyes as my fingers traced the perfect curve of the silver bracelet. “Mother never took this off.”

“It was a gift from your father,” Relas said. “A symbol of his love for her. She never stopped believing in him.”

The metal tingled beneath my fingers, and glowed a soft blue. “It’s enchanted?”

“Yes, though I don’t know what the enchantment is,” Relas responded. “Try it on, left wrist.”

“Mother wore this on her right wrist,” I protested softly. Relas shook his head.

“She told me once that it is meant to be worn on the dominant hand. In your case, it would be your left.” He’s right, I’m left-handed, though I trained to fight with my right.

“Mother’s hands were small,” doubt filled my voice. “I don’t think -“ But the circle slipped over my left hand easily and settled around my wrist. I felt a soft thrumming, and it seemed as if the band shrank slightly to fit closer around the bones. “That’s strange,” I murmured to myself. “Maybe that’s the enchantment?”

“Who knows?” Relas responded. “All I know about it is that your father gave it to your mother to symbolize the never-ending love he felt for her, that it has some kind of enchantment on it, and that your mother wanted you to have it when you turned eighteen.”

And he held it for thirty years? Relas must have had faith I would come back. “Thanks, Mas - Felen,” I caught myself, meeting his gaze. “Thanks for holding on to it all this time.”

“Now you be certain to come back and see this old man, will you?” Relas patted me on my shoulder.

“Of course I will!”

This post has been edited by haute ecole rider: Mar 7 2011, 03:20 AM

Hmmm, blue eyes... Memory isn't serving me here. Still it was a conversation she needed


That was a very strong line.

Then the unknown enchantment on her mother's mystery braclet from her estranged father. I sense the end of the crisis won't be then end of her story (or her adventures and just as well as I can't see her coping well with retirement).

I suspect we might be off to a certain haunted place next...

I wonder what Carahil was reading? One of those forbidden books, like The Real Barenziah perhaps?

Why am I thinking about him now? No. Not him. I shook the thought away. Don’t think about him.
Blue eyes? It must be Gaius Vitellus! Seriously though, I believe Martin Septim has blues eyes, doesn't he?

Master Relas gives good advice on matchmaking. Unfortunately though, most women do not seem to take it. Instead they fall for men they do not respect, and most especially with those who do not respect them. Like Julian's blackguard pirate. At least she is smart enough to know that while her loins might want a bad boy, her heart has no use for one.

And finally a lightsaber magic wristlet from Julian's father, the mysterious Altmer. Like Olen, I suspect that this will play a part in Julian's future tales, albeit not her current mission of saving the world.


nits:
“Why learn all this stuff if I’m not going to keep him?
Just an observation, but 'stuff' sounds a bit too modern a colloquialism for ES.

I am a little confused with the continuity of Felen Relas. At the beginning he is in the same room as Julian, talking with her and giving her a potion. Then Julian leaves that room and goes to Felen's workroom, and finds him working there? Ahh, I see I missed him take the vial and leave.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 7 2011, 02:54 AM

I was thinking the same and then I checked back and found Relas’s chuckles trailed him as he returned to his workroom with the empty vial.

If we both thought the same, maybe it needs a bit of reinforcement?

What a sweet episode! Julian confirms that she intends to keep mighty Blanco and then shares some of her thoughts about men with us while talking to Master Relas.

I continue to admire the magic you weave with speech tags/actions that connect dialogue. My goodness, the examples herein are far too many to quote.

I shook the thought away. Don’t think about him.
“All the more reason to think about it, Julian,” Relas broke into my thoughts.
I loved the clever collision of Relas' words with Julian's thoughts!

Oh, I read this after the comments regarding Felas moving to his alchemy area, and after it appears you may have done some editing. Realizing I do not know what it read like before, Felas' location is very clear at all times now.

Not a nit, but a consideration?
'Relas smiled at me and held a small vial out to me.'
I submit this would be noticeably smoother without the repetition of me? Perhaps: 'Relas smiled at me and offered a small vial?' Or possibly: 'Relas smiled and held out a small vial to me?' Sometimes such repetition is difficult to avoid, but here, it seems fairly easy.

A very moving episode. It was great to see Felan passing on a family heirloom of Julian's. It was also most enjoyable they way you explored all of her flaws and gave a good idea what caused them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koI_73OHErw...feature=related

I also have a slight consideration for you. This sentence:


Followed by this sentence:
Didn't make much sense to me. The potion removed her of all (or most of) her soreness, but then it suddenly came back. Perhaps you should banish the iteration of "sore" in the latter sentence?

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: Mar 7 2011, 02:23 AM

Well, it is clear that somebody made her benind sore again after she had drunk the potion...

Blue eyes drifted into my mind, eyes as azure as the sky.

Could it be he of the lopsided smile?! Oh, I hope so!!!

A magnificent description of the enchanted bracelet. It made me so curious to know more!

@Olen: Thanks for picking up on that line. I felt it was central to Julian’s still being single after all these years. And no, I can’t see her being retired, either!

@SubRosa: I think Carahil has read every single book in the chapterhouse’s library at least a dozen times! In game, yes, Martin has blue eyes. But in my fiction, nope - hazel, as does his father. And I knew you would think of Gaius Vitellus right off the bat, but nope, either. And I would hope that by her age, Julian would know better than to follow her - uh - you know.

@ghastley: I’ve put in a little more detail in the paragraph before, hopefully it will help people follow Felen. He’s a hard one to keep up with, isn’t he?

@Acadian: I’ve developed an aversion to ‘he said/she said’ and all its iterations. Sometimes it’s just unavoidable, but I still try! I’m glad to see that you find it so effective. And nit is fixed!

@TK: Watching the link on You Tube, I’m thinking this is much sexier. Though mind you, he’s not Julian’s Mr. Blue Eyes, but mine! The irony of it is, he's not even my type, but I love him! As you like to say, nit be fixed!

@Fox: Don’t you wish you were the one that made her behind sore again? Admit it! Eye no da trooth!

@Grits: Lopsided smile? I went back through what I’ve posted to date, and there’s quite a few guys with lopsided smiles! Well, you’ll see (in about a month) whether you’re right or not! And yes, I’m raising questions at this stage of the MQ since I’m laying the groundwork for another story after this one ends.

This isn’t properly part of Julian’s story, but I thought those of you who enjoyed meeting Blanco might like a little background. I wrote this for a contest last year, but never entered it.

******************
Renoir’s Stables

Mira Renoir stepped into the stable, inhaling deeply of the aromatic hay. A couple of the horses whickered at her. The Dunmer following her looked around at the open-fronted stalls. “You keep your stallions here?” his voice was incredulous. “Don’t they fight each other?”

“Nay,” Mira smiled at the Dunmer’s ignorance. “My horses are bred to get along with each other. The boys are raised knowing how to behave in a herd situation.” She slid a sidelong glance at Marche Sudmeri. “Of course, I do take the precaution of keeping the mares out of this barn. But the studs are much happier having company.”

“All right,” Marche’s tone remained skeptical. “Let’s see this horse that Clesa is so eager to buy.”

“Blanco’s this way,” Mira led the slight Dunmer to the center of the stable, where a row of three stalls faced the double doors leading to the riding arena. “He’s eleven years old,” Mira continued, pointing out the sturdy horse who turned his head at the sound of his name. “Hello, Blanco,” the Breton waved her hand in a come here gesture. The stallion stepped slowly over to the front of the stall, putting his head over the rope barrier. He lowered his nose to Mira’s pockets, blowing softly.

“He’s small,” Marche complained. Mira shot him a look. Small indeed. He’s one of my larger studs!

“Oh, I don’t breed heavy chargers,” she stated flatly. “They’re slow, clumsy, unspirited, and useless for anything except carrying Nords or Orcs in tin suits.” She rubbed Blanco’s forehead in a circle. The white stallion closed his round, dark eyes and sighed deeply. “This horse is a real fighter,” Mira continued. “He is a weapon by himself. Blanco is one of my best, by Maestoso out of my smartest mare, Thaïs.”

“A weapon?” Marche repeated. “A horse as a weapon?” he shook his black-maned head. “Mira, I respect your reputation as a horse breeder and trainer, but a horse as a weapon?”

“Blanco and I shall demonstrate,” Mira smiled to herself. Opening the rope barrier, she motioned for the stallion to follow her. Marche’s astonishment was clear on his blue-skinned face as Blanco stepped docilely out of the stall, his nose at Mira’s left shoulder. As Blanco passed the Dunmer, Mira heard him blow hard, and looked back to see Marche brushing equine mucus off his blue velvet doublet with distaste. “Blanco, behave,” she whispered into the horse’s ear. He only flicked an ear at her.

They walked to the tacking area, where Mira quickly brushed the night’s bedding off Blanco’s back. She selected the saddle she wanted to use, a stirrup-less model with a deep seat and a high cantle. Settling the saddle on Blanco’s round back, she buckled up the girth. The stallion lowered his head and accepted the bit when she held the bridle up to him.

Slipping the long line through the near ring on the bit, Mira passed the line over the top of Blanco’s head, behind his ears, and snapped it to the off bit ring. Coiling the line loosely in her left hand, she chirruped at the horse and walked out of the tacking area. Like the good boy he always had been, Blanco followed her, the line hanging in a loose arc between them.

They moved out into the riding area, their footfalls muffled by the deep sand and bark that formed its surface. The sun warmed their backs, and Mira inhaled deeply of the High Rock air. Marche followed, and found a seat on the rail that delineated the limits of the riding ring.

Mira stopped in the middle of the ring, chirruping again at Blanco and feeding the long line out. Blanco moved out into a large circle widdershins around Mira, walking with his head down, taking the long, low strides she liked to see when starting out. Mira assessed his mood, the way his ears flicked back and forth, first at the Dunmer perched on the rail, then at her, then at the birds pecking at seeds in the arena footing. Noting the way his rib cage swung from side to side with each long stride, the way he traveled with his head directly in front of his shoulders, not canted to one side or the other, Mira nodded to herself. He’s feeling happy today. Relaxed, comfortable. Not a care in the world.

“Trot, Blanco,” she said softly. Though he was five meters away, the white stallion still heard her voice and picked up the trot, driving off his hindquarters as he was taught to. He settled into a ground-covering stride, his legs moving like metronomes in perfect tempo. His long tail lifted a little away from his rump, swaying from side to side, indicating his perfect relaxation. After a full circle, he dropped his head slightly and blew softly, chewing at the bit.

Good, he’s ready. “Canter, Blanco,” she sang out. His dark eyes sparked as he raised his forequarters and sprang into the three-beat gait, his back moving like a rocking chair, his neck arching higher out of his shoulders. He truly loves this gait. He would prefer to go much faster than this. Mira stifled the involuntary chuckle, but Blanco heard it and flipped his head, not breaking his tempo. His forelock shifted from the left side of his face to the right side, and his black eye sparked at her mischievously.

Mira brought him back down through the trot to a walk. Best not to tire him out today. She was anxious to show the Dunmer the rightness of her training, the suitability of her bloodlines for light chargers. She had grown up with these horses, learning the tenets of the training from her grandfather, the philosophy that underlay the idea that the horse could function in battle as a weapon, and be quite formidable. She had watched with dismay as heavy chargers became the preferred mounts for the nobles of High Rock over the past twenty years.

Mira interrupted her thoughts to stop Blanco and switch the long line to his other side. She worked him in the other direction, so he would remain supple and straight from working both sides equally.

Marche proved to be an attentive spectator, for all that he was overdressed for a horse barn. Mira could see the intent way he watched Blanco as the stallion moved through all his gaits, showing perfect tempo and forward energy.

Now it is time. Stopping Blanco, Mira removed the long line and led the stallion over to the mounting block. He stood quietly on a loose rein as she mounted, and did not move until she had gathered up the reins to make light contact with the bit. Giving him a slight nudge with her heels, Mira thought of the movement she would initially demonstrate. She needed to supple him first, before asking the more demanding movements from him. Mira knew Blanco had the routines down cold, but she preferred to have him warmed before putting him through his paces. No sense in ruining him before he has a chance to find that perfect owner. Keeping him sound now will pay off in the future, when he will be needed to keep his rider from death.

Mira moved Blanco out into a trot, a good working pace. She knew by his speed that his hind feet were falling exactly into the prints left by his front hooves, she could feel the floating sensation between footfalls that meant he had achieved the desired suspension, all four feet off the ground for brief moments, his strides long and even. At her cue, Blanco moved into a serpentine across the arena, crossing from one side to the other in smooth curves, dividing the ring into equal thirds. After a full circuit, she had him extend his trot across the diagonal. His stride lengthened even further, but his tempo remained exactly the same. She had been told by her ground crew, that at his best, Blanco’s hind feet passed his front prints by the equivalent of two full hoofprints. Well, he’s certainly at his best today, as the breeze from his gait brushed her brown hair from her face. She could feel the powerful surge from his hindquarters beneath her behind.

Sitting back slightly, squeezing the fingers of her hands to tighten the reins ever so subtly, Mira brought him back down to a working trot and picked up the serpentine going in the other direction. Blanco feels good today. His suppleness, his responsiveness to her tiny, tiny cues brought a smile to her face. Of course, for the last several years, he always made her smile with sheer joy.

Finally, she brought him to a halt in the center of the ring. Blanco executed it perfectly, his back round beneath her, his legs perfectly vertical under him, his neck arched with his face also vertical to the ground. Mira looked across at Marche.

The Dunmer rose and walked over to the pair, his eyes on Blanco. Mira sat quietly, and the stud took his cue from her, his flicking ears and fluttering nostrils the only movement as Marche walked around him. Finally Marche looked up at Mira.

“He’s a fine horse, all right,” he admitted. “But a weapon?” He waved his arm to encompass the arena. “I saw nothing there that could be anything other than a pleasant ride.”

“Would you mind picking up that pitchfork over there,” Mira suggested, smiling down at the Dunmer. She caught the flash of outrage in his red eyes. “Please, if you wish to see how Blanco can be a weapon.”

Marche narrowed his eyes at her, but he went to the wall of the barn and picked up the pitchfork with a loose grasp, holding the filthy tines well away from his nobleman’s outfit. He stopped a few meters away.

The change in Blanco was as dramatic as it was subtle. Though he still stood squarely and still, his ears had shot forward, his ribcage had expanded between Mira’s legs, and his haunches coiled behind as he shifted his weight back ever so slightly. Mira saw the wary expression on Marche’s face. He’s horseman enough to see the difference.

“Hold that pitchfork as if it were a spear, and you intend to stab Blanco with it.” Mira closed her fingers on the reins, warning Blanco to hold his position.

With a puzzled look, Marche swung the pitchfork so its tines were pointing at Blanco. Mira nodded encouragingly at him. At least he does know how to hold a spear, she thought as she watched the Dunmer shift his feet to present the “spear.” “Now, Marche, good sir, hold your ground and do not move. Harm will come to you only if you do.” When he nodded his comprehension, Mira touched her heels to the stallion’s sides. He rose up into a passage, a slow, cadenced trot in which his diagonal feet lingered in the air, his raised front foot, first the left, then the right, striking out in front. She felt his rump dropping further behind him as his shoulders rose before her.

Marche’s eyes widened as Blanco came so close that his outstretched front hoof barely brushed the tips of the tines. Mira was smiling again, as she brought her hands back ever so slightly and squeezed with her calves again. Blanco rose onto his hind legs, his forelegs curled beneath his breast, his head rearing above Marche. The stallion held the pose for a brief second, then at a second squeeze from Mira’s calves, he leaped forward and swiped his front hooves out, knocking the pitchfork out of the Dunmer’s hands. Marche lost his nerve then, dropping the pitchfork and stumbling backwards. Mira eased the pressure on the reins, and Blanco dropped his forehand down into a stand, snorting and blowing at the startled Dunmer.

Marche’s jaw had dropped, as he stared at the white stallion standing perfectly still, the breath from the horse’s nostrils stirring the lace ruffles on his doublet. Mira felt her smile widen into a grin. “Stay where you stand,” she said to him. Lifting her right rein, and nudging her left hip into the saddle, she directed Blanco into a canter pirouette around his hocks. The horse performed the canter stride to the right, his inside hind foot falling into the exact same spot with each step he took. She stopped him when they were facing away. Again, Mira cued for the controlled rear, but this time, at the height of his levitation, she released the reins slightly and squeezed her calves. Blanco leaped off his hindquarters again, but this time he arched through the air, kicking out with his hind legs as he lowered his forelegs to the ground. Yet he managed to land with all four feet touching the ground simultaneously. Behind them, she heard a choked yelp from the Dunmer. Letting Blanco prance forward a couple of steps, she turned him around and halted him again.

Marche sat on his rump, his face ashen, arena dirt scattered all over his doublet. He stared up at Mira, speechless. She walked Blanco up to him, stopping less than a meter away.

“See, if you had been a bandit, set on robbing me of my fine horse,” she remarked casually, “you would be laying there dead.” She slapped Blanco on his arched neck dropped the rein, and swung out of the saddle. She walked up to Marche and reached a hand down to him.

Hesitantly, he accepted her offer of assistance and struggled to his feet, Mira bracing against his weight. She set to work brushing the arena sand off his fine blue velvet and lace doublet, while the Dunmer stared at Blanco.

“You see, a heavy charger is good only for running forward in a straight line,” Mira continued. “That’s fine, if you’re a lancer at a tourney.” Stepping back, she decided that Marche’s doublet was now clean enough. Turning to look at Blanco, who watched them intently, she chirruped at him and beckoned him to come to her. “But a light charger like Blanco is lethal in more ways than one.” She smiled to reassure Marche. “Heavy chargers are not suitable for long distance riding. They need a lot of grain to maintain their weight. They do not stay sound for long - many are lame by the time they are ten.” She stroked Blanco’s arched neck. “My horses are bred to go all day on little feed,” she continued. “They grow up in the hills above this barn, they run and play among the rocks. Their legs and feet are very hard and dense. They build strong lungs and hearts. “

“Like the Wildeye Paints,” Marche commented.

“Oh, better,” Mira countered. “They can take hard riding, every day, for years. They thrive on little but fresh clean water and grazing. They can run for miles. They aren’t quite as fast as the Cheydinhal blacks, but they are the toughest and hardiest horses out there.” She picked up the pitchfork, keeping the tines close to the ground. “They fear little,” she continued. “My horses are perfect for paladins, Legion riders, and adventurers who need to travel light and far.” Mira’s eye fell on a clump of bark she had missed, and brushed it off Marche’s sleeve. “Do you see why Clesa is so anxious to buy him?”

“But Clesa is an ostler,” Marche exclaimed. “What would she do with a horse trained such as this?”

“Well, she would like his bloodlines in her herd,” Mira responded. “And the witchmen tell me Blanco is destined for someone greater than Clesa, you or I. I’m not going to argue with them.”

A/N: For those of you curious to see how Blanco performs these physically difficult (but natural for stallions) maneuvers, here’s a link to an excellent segment about the Spanish Riding School. Watch for the piaffe, the beautiful floating trot, the courbette, where Blanco knocks the pitchfork out of Marche’s hands, and the capriole, the leap with the backwards kick that leaves Marche Sudmeri on his rump. These horses are not only beautiful and powerful (look at the muscles in their hindquarters), they are also incredibly gentle and do have mischievous streaks. I’ve been fortunate to meet a few Lippizan stallions at Tempel Farms here in Northern Illinois.

Well, that was quite the exhaustive lesson in high school riding! It reminds me of the time I saw the Lippizaners a few years ago.

And the witchmen tell me Blanco is destined for someone greater than Clesa
Now who might that be?

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 8 2011, 06:11 PM

Let me throw in yet another spelling : I've seen the Lipizzaners at the Spanische Reitschule in Vienna once, way back when I was working in Europe. Amazing horses, and having the school right in the middle of the city is fairly amazing, too.

A most delightful segue!

After seeing that Capriole... that would be bone-crushing! I believe Mira when she says that kick can kill!

And yes, I am aware of just how damaging a horse kick can be, we're talking hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds of force being put into a hard, blunt instrument perfectly suited for crushing. One kick from a horse, even a light one, can be enough to shatter ribs. A great deal of trainers in my area teach that you should never allow your horse to get rowdy. If he is pushing you around, push back. If he is pushing you around too much and making you uncomfortable, give him a smack on the cheek.

Madness, you might say. Hit a horse? Here's the low down: What does the lead mare/stallion of a wild herd do if a horse is getting on their nerves? They kick them, hard, as in Capriole hard. The horse's skull is one of the hardest bones in their bodies, and so long as you reserve it for when your mount is seriously misbehaving you will do no damage by giving him a bit of a physical reprimand. Think of it like a mother spanking her child. It's not fun or desirable, but it is occasionally (though rarely) necessary.

Horses are not kitties, they require an involved trainer (and owner) who is not afraid to get his hands dirty. If you wish to own one, study up on how to assert your dominance over them, because the absolute worst thing a rider can do is allow their horse to control them.

Disclaimer: None of the above was aimed at you or your writing, hautee. They are simply a few musing of mine on how to retain control over your mount.

Nit:

I think you mean "nit be picked!"

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: Mar 9 2011, 06:27 AM

I’m so glad you included this, I enjoyed it very much!

Even though you said this is not really part of your story, I think it fits in just perfectly! What a fine insight into where Blanco comes from and who he is!

In fact I very much liked how you blended OHDH with riding, while displaying some purpose to the fancy maneuvers.

@TK:


Don't worry, I didn't take it as criticism of my writing.

While I agree with the fact that horses are not kitties (and kitties are no pushovers themselves), I must respectfully disagree with the trainers in your area about smacking a horse on the head. Granted, you must never allow a horse to push you around (I don't), hitting them on the head is counterproductive to a trusting relationship. First, hitting them on the head teaches them to become head-shy, which makes it difficult to get a bridle or halter on them. Personally, I've seen what happens when a head-shy horse is caught in a burning barn (two big barns in the area burned within a week of each other, and the survivors ended up in the vet teaching hospital my first year of vet school). Valuable seconds is lost while the rescuer is trying to get the horse out safely, or the horse is left behind for another more amenable creature, and suffers for it. Second, hitting the horse with your hands teaches him to avoid your hands. Again, that is counterproductive to building a partnership with your horse, one based on mutual respect and trust.

Instead, I kick them when they get pushy. I aim my kicks at their shoulders, ribs and haunches, and never use the point of my shoe, but rather the ball of the foot (or sometimes the side of the foot). Among themselves, horses aim their kicks at the body, seldom at the head or the neck. So when I do the same thing to them, even though it may lack the impact of a real horse kick, it gets the message across in clear equine language. And horses are smart when you speak their language. They get it.

Julian is lucky that Blanco has already been trained to respect people. He is not pushy around them, and knows not to crowd them. I know such horses really exist, because I've been around them. I've been spoiled by some of the best-behaved stallions in the equine world. And I've worked with some that were brought up badly, and were untrustworthy as a result.