Foxfire's Triple Crown - The Bemont Stakes

Results: 3rd Place

OMG IT FITS. OMG I’M DONE? I’M DONE! 

Guys, this is literally as big a canvas as Sketch Club let’s you use. I cannot use any bigger a canvas size. You know how many layers it has? You know how many layers I had to work with to put this together? THREE. Yeah. You may praise me now. 

ok, this needs clarified, my mistake, I only had three layers to put this together (still hard as hell, I must’ve retried fitting everything on it at least eight or nine times) and adding details; railings, some shading, a few textures on the ground, etc etc, the individual panels were done separately, though I only had 10-15 layers give or take, my canvasas at most give you 64, which is plenty for me xD 

Show: 2018 Belmont Stakes

Horse: AS Foxfire
Jockey: Amalie McKenzie
Stables: Antrium Stables 

Extra: Belmont Training
          Hello again!

Story: 1,054 words 

Amalie was furious with the Preakness results; she’d taken shortcuts to take the pressure off her shoulder and it had cost them. She should’ve let Freya ride, maybe then Fox wouldn’t have fallen short of the finish line. Fourth place was hardly something to sneeze at but they should’ve done better, Fox was worth better and her shortcut had cost them the crown.

Freya even tried to get her to drink the disappointment away but with her tolerance level it barely dented her. She couldn’t even be mad at the horses; Connachan was exceptional and she was honestly glad such an incredible filly won - as a filly racer herself she knew how difficult it could be to race a filly against a field of colts. She’d laughed when Mustard Blue had taken third, finding something amusing in the fact that this time it was Fox who fell below Blue. She couldn’t deny, she liked the chestnut colt, she liked him a lot.

The Belmont was a mess. So much prep, so much effort and in the end everything was a frantic rush. Really, when she’d seen Triton’s filly, Ella, readying herself for the race she really should’ve clocked on that it was time to knuckle down but nope, she’d remained oblivious and now she’d only just gotten Fox ready on time. It was close though.

The noise was deafening - not as loud as it would be if Fox still had a shot at the Crown but still loud and there was one sound that easily overpowered everything else: the notorious spawn of the demons himself, FHF Agent Of Hell kicked up trouble like nothing she’d seen.

Oh, boy, and some newspapers called Ripper bad.

The black splash was out for blood and Barnabas had to fight to keep him in control. The huge jockey handled the colt like a bloody saint and somehow had his respect - honestly that was likely the only thing that had Demon in the gate. Amalie was very deliberately ignoring if there were any screams from lost fingers.

Fox was number two in the positions, as opposed to Demon at ten. This put plenty of distance between them in the gates but that meant diddly squat as soon as those gates opened.

“And they’re off!”

Oh, off they were but it wasn’t exactly a good take off. Demon had pretty much the entire pack falling in on themselves as he tore to the front - considering that he had full blinders on it was a wonder, Amalie dreaded knowing what he could do without the hood - and he came barrelling right towards them.

Fox wasn’t ready for it, not at all.

Demon thundered by, shoving the white colt to the side as though he weren’t even there, much like what had happened to Soyala the first time she raced Demon. Amalie cried out, that blasted shoulder making her almost black out as Fox tumbled to the ground.

__

Fox hit the dirt, unable to catch himself like he’d been taught but Percy and looked up to see the other horses leaving him in the dust. He quickly checked on his human, who was still on his back, holding her shoulder and forehead pressed against the back on his neck, hissing lightly. She was fine enough, then, and he turned back to watch the pack.

He’d fallen. It was all lost, he’d fallen and it wasn’t even his fault. Why would that colt do that? Weren’t they all here to have fun? Wasn’t it supposed to be fair?

“Some colts are just violent, Fox, you need to watch out for them,”

“I’ll always be proud of you, no matter what happens,”

“Your mother fell but she got up and won!”

His mother.

Ghost had fallen but she still got up. Abyaz had a sprained ligament and still won.

Fox, for the first time, saw fire.

He reared back, feeling his neck collide with his jockeys face and hearing her yelp but he ignored her, leaping up to his feet and thrusting head, fighting with the reins that pulled against his mouth - the slight resistance utterly futile in the face of his first fury.

He might not win this race but by all the first of Hell he’d finish it and if he could pass the Demon then all the sweeter the victory!

“It’s not all about winning, son.” His father had said, Fox had never believed him. Why race if you didn’t win? He understood now. He didn’t care if it killed him, he was not failing this race.

He’d never felt his heart pound so hard, his breathes heave so powerfully or his muscles burn to hot. The dirt beneath him flew past, young, strong legs eating up the track and furiously gaining on the pack. He wasn’t sure who he passed, wasn’t sure what position he held, but he was crossing that finish line and not even the hounds of Hell would stop him. Gone was the childish joking, the eager playfulness, the friendly encouragement he’d shout to other horses as he passed, he was on fire and they were going to feel it. Knock him down? They’re not the only ones with drive.

He knew his parents were proud of him. He knew Percy was proud of him - for all the beatings and lectures, his little brother loved him. He knew his human was proud of him, no matter the failings he had, he was always a winner to her and he owed her a finish. As he approached the final stretch and his stride lengthened he could hear the crowd screaming, though he knew not what. He hoped his father and mother were watching, he hoped they were proud. He knew Percy was watching and somewhere within his fury-clouded mind he could just barely picture the face the spunky Shetland was making. If he weren’t so unendingly pissed he might’ve found it amusing. Somewhere up in those stands with the screaming humans waving white pieces of paper were the humans who supported him, the jockeys that lived with his ginger. His entire family was here and who was he to disappoint. He might not win - he very likely wouldn’t - but he was going out with a bloody great bang.