(no subject)
Muse: Laine Anderson
Fandom: Original Character
Track: The Last Time
Artist: The Rolling Stones
Album: Forty Licks
Laine very rarely cuts the work day short on the ranch, especially not when the weather is actually pleasant-and the barometer hitting the low fifties over the weekend certainly qualifies as pleasant in Montana this time of year. But then, it isn’t every Saturday that the Kentucky Derby is held either. This is her equine version of the Super Bowl only she doesn’t have a favorite horse she’s picked to win. No, she just wants to watch the animals do what they’ve been bred for, run. She wants to study the lines and gathering muscles, the glossy coats and agile movements; bask in the beauty of the athletic prowess on display.
Several of the ranch hands are up at the house with her, laughing and eager to see who will win, they’ve all got side bets going with one another and enjoy the gamble as much as they enjoy the horses and the good food and beer Laine’s willing to ply them with for the duration. Even the Irishman, Anraí MacEibhir, the temporary hire, has joined them for the festivities though he’s opted for coffee over beer. If he has any opinion on the racehorses however, he’s keeping that to himself.
Laine very rarely cuts the work day short on the ranch, especially not when the weather is actually pleasant-and the barometer hitting the low fifties over the weekend certainly qualifies as pleasant in Montana this time of year. But then, it isn’t every Saturday that the Kentucky Derby is held either. This is her equine version of the Super Bowl only she doesn’t have a favorite horse she’s picked to win. No, she just wants to watch the animals do what they’ve been bred for, run. She wants to study the lines and gathering muscles, the glossy coats and agile movements; bask in the beauty of the athletic prowess on display.
Several of the ranch hands are up at the house with her, laughing and eager to see who will win, they’ve all got side bets going with one another and enjoy the gamble as much as they enjoy the horses and the good food and beer Laine’s willing to ply them with for the duration. Even the Irishman, Anraí MacEibhir, the temporary hire, has joined them for the festivities though he’s opted for coffee over beer. If he has any opinion on the racehorses however, he’s keeping that to himself.
She knocks her crew chief’s boots off the coffee table and wedges herself between him and Anraí on the sofa, her choice of seating going largely unnoticed by anyone else in the room. Unnoticed, save for the Irishman who gives her the slightest of smiles as their thighs touch. They’ve been discrete about their recent intimacies and neither one feels inclined to change that, least of all this afternoon with a room full of cowboys and gossip-mongers. It’s enough for Laine just to sit next to him as she joins in the playful banter flying around the room.
All the cheers and personal jeers come to a sudden halt as the race draws to a close. Everyone in the room being an experienced horseman means that they are all quick to notice the when the filly in second place begins to show an odd gait. Sharp intakes of breath are all that are heard as the television shows the girl and jockey going down on the track. Laine’s eyes are brimming with tears as an announcer’s muted voice informs the audience that Eight Belles has suffered two broken ankles.
No further input is needed, not by Laine. Certainly not Anraí or any of the other ranchers watching the proceedings from Flint Creek. It’s understood that the animal will be destroyed there on the spot. The wasted beauty of the animal, the lost potential and the agony of seeing something so dear put to death is tempered with experience and knowledge that the act is one of humane kindness. Still, after a moment of resting her head on Anraí’s shoulder and giving his hand a hard squeeze, Laine get up and excuses herself from the room.
Alone in the kitchen she barely hears the muffled conversation coming from the den, she doesn’t see the table laid out with food or the counter full of empty beer bottles. Somewhere in her mind’s eye, lost in memory, Laine is thinking about a different filly. Younger and certainly more headstrong than the unfortunate Thoroughbred. One of her own. One of Ruby Tuesday’s foals. Beautiful Morgan named Silver Lining with the habit of jumping fences, bales, stumps…anything in her way. She’d taken to trying to jump the metal railing of the stockyard fencing that keeps the cattle in place and it was a habit Laine was trying to break her of, rather unsuccessfully.
One afternoon the filly had jumped the training ring and taken off for the stockyard in a full out gallop. She cleared the fences, all but the last one as she made her destination clear: the open pasture where the young stock were grazing. The sound of solid flesh connecting with hard metal was enough to make Laine feel instantly nauseous. Watching the filly hit the ground brought bile into the back of her throat. She barely managed to get the words ‘Call Jackson’ out of her mouth before she took off in a run for the horse.
She didn’t need the vet after all, she realized as she reached the animal. She could see the compound fracture of the hind left leg. Bone through skin, more blood than she was comfortable seeing as flesh hung from the shattered limb. And yet, Silver Lining kept trying to right herself, eyes wild and rolling as she whinnied in pain and confusion. Laine’s heart broke again and again as she watched the equine struggle, finally squelching her own unease as she put her hands on the young horse.
“Shh, now darlin’ you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself.” She spoke in quiet, calming tones as gentle hands stroked the horse’s flank, then her neck, finally long, smooth caresses down her muzzle. Meeting the eyes of one of the hands come out to help, Laine continued to keep her voice level and calm. “She can’t wait for Jack to get here. Go get my gun. She’s hurtin’ and we need to take care of this now.”
She’s still lost in those thoughts, her eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears when Anraí comes into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything but the way she flinches as he sets his empty glass on the counter is enough to tell him she’s somewhere, some
when, else. She doesn’t hear the sound on glass clinking against granite; the sound ringing in her ears is far harsher. Violent. The loading of a rifle. Trigger being pulled and the sharp crack of a bullet being fired, shell separating from casing.
Blue eyes open to meet the dark brown ones regarding her with concern and that’s all it takes for her to accept his silent invitation of comfort. Laine steps into his embrace, rests her chin on his shoulder. “That was the last time, the last time…I won’t do it again. I can’t.”
Anraí, thehorseman, is borrowed for artistic purposes only and these events aren't binding unless his mun choses to incorporate them in his story.
Fandom: Original Character
Track: The Last Time
Artist: The Rolling Stones
Album: Forty Licks
Laine very rarely cuts the work day short on the ranch, especially not when the weather is actually pleasant-and the barometer hitting the low fifties over the weekend certainly qualifies as pleasant in Montana this time of year. But then, it isn’t every Saturday that the Kentucky Derby is held either. This is her equine version of the Super Bowl only she doesn’t have a favorite horse she’s picked to win. No, she just wants to watch the animals do what they’ve been bred for, run. She wants to study the lines and gathering muscles, the glossy coats and agile movements; bask in the beauty of the athletic prowess on display.
Several of the ranch hands are up at the house with her, laughing and eager to see who will win, they’ve all got side bets going with one another and enjoy the gamble as much as they enjoy the horses and the good food and beer Laine’s willing to ply them with for the duration. Even the Irishman, Anraí MacEibhir, the temporary hire, has joined them for the festivities though he’s opted for coffee over beer. If he has any opinion on the racehorses however, he’s keeping that to himself.
Laine very rarely cuts the work day short on the ranch, especially not when the weather is actually pleasant-and the barometer hitting the low fifties over the weekend certainly qualifies as pleasant in Montana this time of year. But then, it isn’t every Saturday that the Kentucky Derby is held either. This is her equine version of the Super Bowl only she doesn’t have a favorite horse she’s picked to win. No, she just wants to watch the animals do what they’ve been bred for, run. She wants to study the lines and gathering muscles, the glossy coats and agile movements; bask in the beauty of the athletic prowess on display.
Several of the ranch hands are up at the house with her, laughing and eager to see who will win, they’ve all got side bets going with one another and enjoy the gamble as much as they enjoy the horses and the good food and beer Laine’s willing to ply them with for the duration. Even the Irishman, Anraí MacEibhir, the temporary hire, has joined them for the festivities though he’s opted for coffee over beer. If he has any opinion on the racehorses however, he’s keeping that to himself.
She knocks her crew chief’s boots off the coffee table and wedges herself between him and Anraí on the sofa, her choice of seating going largely unnoticed by anyone else in the room. Unnoticed, save for the Irishman who gives her the slightest of smiles as their thighs touch. They’ve been discrete about their recent intimacies and neither one feels inclined to change that, least of all this afternoon with a room full of cowboys and gossip-mongers. It’s enough for Laine just to sit next to him as she joins in the playful banter flying around the room.
All the cheers and personal jeers come to a sudden halt as the race draws to a close. Everyone in the room being an experienced horseman means that they are all quick to notice the when the filly in second place begins to show an odd gait. Sharp intakes of breath are all that are heard as the television shows the girl and jockey going down on the track. Laine’s eyes are brimming with tears as an announcer’s muted voice informs the audience that Eight Belles has suffered two broken ankles.
No further input is needed, not by Laine. Certainly not Anraí or any of the other ranchers watching the proceedings from Flint Creek. It’s understood that the animal will be destroyed there on the spot. The wasted beauty of the animal, the lost potential and the agony of seeing something so dear put to death is tempered with experience and knowledge that the act is one of humane kindness. Still, after a moment of resting her head on Anraí’s shoulder and giving his hand a hard squeeze, Laine get up and excuses herself from the room.
Alone in the kitchen she barely hears the muffled conversation coming from the den, she doesn’t see the table laid out with food or the counter full of empty beer bottles. Somewhere in her mind’s eye, lost in memory, Laine is thinking about a different filly. Younger and certainly more headstrong than the unfortunate Thoroughbred. One of her own. One of Ruby Tuesday’s foals. Beautiful Morgan named Silver Lining with the habit of jumping fences, bales, stumps…anything in her way. She’d taken to trying to jump the metal railing of the stockyard fencing that keeps the cattle in place and it was a habit Laine was trying to break her of, rather unsuccessfully.
One afternoon the filly had jumped the training ring and taken off for the stockyard in a full out gallop. She cleared the fences, all but the last one as she made her destination clear: the open pasture where the young stock were grazing. The sound of solid flesh connecting with hard metal was enough to make Laine feel instantly nauseous. Watching the filly hit the ground brought bile into the back of her throat. She barely managed to get the words ‘Call Jackson’ out of her mouth before she took off in a run for the horse.
She didn’t need the vet after all, she realized as she reached the animal. She could see the compound fracture of the hind left leg. Bone through skin, more blood than she was comfortable seeing as flesh hung from the shattered limb. And yet, Silver Lining kept trying to right herself, eyes wild and rolling as she whinnied in pain and confusion. Laine’s heart broke again and again as she watched the equine struggle, finally squelching her own unease as she put her hands on the young horse.
“Shh, now darlin’ you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself.” She spoke in quiet, calming tones as gentle hands stroked the horse’s flank, then her neck, finally long, smooth caresses down her muzzle. Meeting the eyes of one of the hands come out to help, Laine continued to keep her voice level and calm. “She can’t wait for Jack to get here. Go get my gun. She’s hurtin’ and we need to take care of this now.”
She’s still lost in those thoughts, her eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears when Anraí comes into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything but the way she flinches as he sets his empty glass on the counter is enough to tell him she’s somewhere, some
when, else. She doesn’t hear the sound on glass clinking against granite; the sound ringing in her ears is far harsher. Violent. The loading of a rifle. Trigger being pulled and the sharp crack of a bullet being fired, shell separating from casing.
Blue eyes open to meet the dark brown ones regarding her with concern and that’s all it takes for her to accept his silent invitation of comfort. Laine steps into his embrace, rests her chin on his shoulder. “That was the last time, the last time…I won’t do it again. I can’t.”
Anraí, thehorseman, is borrowed for artistic purposes only and these events aren't binding unless his mun choses to incorporate them in his story.