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Description
Horse : Beaumont’s Bullet Biscuit
Event : =SageSinRiddle 's OVEC FEI Championships
Discipline : Show Jumping
Class : Oceanic Jumpers Classic
Handler/Rider : Grant Meryz
Jump Height : 160 -165cm
Reference : Photo from Horse and Rider magazine

The cold, British wind whipped fiercely against Bullet’s flanks as he stepped out of the stables. He looked around with dark, squinted eyes and let the scents of a hundred horses fill his nostrils.
“This is too cool…,” he snorted, looking around, resisting the urge to jump up and down in excitement. “Oh, my god, Dad!! LOOK!!” He leapt up, kicked out his hind hooves and proceeded to spin in circles with Grant hanging onto his head collar in desperation.
Sky looked his way out of the corner of his eye and proceeded to roll them without a verbal answer, but inside he was wondering how on earth he’d landed such an arrogant, idiotic, excitable bugger of a son….
“Bullet!” Grant called out desperately, yanking the stallion’s head sharply as he finally got him to stop spinning around. “You’re actually gonna make me kill you at some point…” He muttered, walking out onto the track in front of the stables and looking for a gap in the crowd of horses and riders who’d gathered at certain points outside the arena. Theyn, who’d kept quiet until that point, walked out beside him, leading Sky with her, an uncomfortable knot in her stomach, a knot obvious to both horses who could smell and sense it, but Grant stayed as oblivious as ever.
They walked and trotted out of the stable complex and towards the indoor practice arena, where a small course of jumps had been set up for training. It was 6.30am, but sheer number of horses and people made it seem more like 1 in the afternoon.
Theyn pushed her way through, her ears laid back and tail thrashing from side to side. She had her teeth on display, small, sharp fangs clear and a path opened up before her as soon as she walked near any of the horses.
“Is it inappropriate to say that I like you’re not human?” Grant put in boldly.
“Yes.” She replied in a short, tart tone.

There were 12 horses in the indoor arena, which was far less than usual, but far more than preferable. The horses were either trotting or cantering around the edge of the arena, each rider looking nervously around as they decided whether to attempt a jump or if they would collide with another.
“Four.” Theyn interjected in a loud voice, and pulled Sky up into a brisk canter and popped him over the 3ft jump.
As with the Gaelic Challenge, the rest of the riders quickly picked up and numbers were called from all directions and, although there were several instances where a pair of horses nearly collided, the session went well.
The jumps at one end were lifted to 5ft, which meant an effective work out for Sky and Bullet, but the inability to work solidly on several jumps and the course as a whole was making it hard. Theyn and Grant both knew about Kalib’s training in the back fields, and one night they had considered doing the same, but every poll and wing was being used in the two arenas for training… and there wasn’t another way to get other jumps that they could see.
Therefore, they persevered. From 6.30am till 9 they worked, rested for lunch, and started again at 6 and finished when both horses had done as much as they possibly could without being too tired the next day or risking laming them. By the evening of day of the competition, both horses were thoroughly prepared, Theyn was feeling stress far worse than she’d experienced before, and Grant was honestly getting close to wetting his pants…

The day was relatively warm, the air cool, but dry and only a few clouds patched the sky and left dark, cold sections of shadow on the earth. There was the hustle-and-bustle of any show, but the tension and excitement had died down exponentially since the rest of the events took place. Kalib, certainly, was feeling far less stressed out, and had spent the past days lounging around in the field with his ‘best boy’.
A few horses were jumping in the indoor arena again, but Theyn and Grant had simply taken the boys out for a walk around the grounds. They wore only their thin halters and their leisurely stroll lasted 3 hours as they tracked the cross-country course and then released the stallions to have a little fun in the river.
The two riders sat on the bank, Theyn's bare feet dangling in the cool water, her tail splashing the water a little. “It’s odd. This is the most important competition we’ve taken part in; yesterday we were quite ready to get on a plane and head home to avoid this… and now, this morning… we seem perfectly relaxed.”
Grant didn’t reply, simply thought about her words and gave a small nod, watching as Bullet pranced in the hock-high water and kicked up his heels as Sky lay down for a good roll, sending a spray of liquid up into the air. “It’s nice to watch them play, y’know.” He interjected into the silence.
It was 8am, and with plenty of time before the competition, Theyn and Grant roused themselves and began to walk back to the stables, confident in the trust in their mounts that they would soon follow example.

“Good luck, Grant,” Theyn said, almost fondly, looking up at the boy as he sat atop the great copper stallion. “Don’t rush the course; keep your pace; fold flat.” She continued, as though reading a checklist, and patted his shoulder. “I'm sure you’ll do fine.”
Grant felt a lump in his throat, looking out at the arena as the competitor before him cleared the final jump and began to make their way towards the entrance. “I'm gonna hurl...!” He moaned just as Theyn gave Bullet’s rump a firm push and set him off into the arena.

Even though he’d walked it 9 times that morning… Grant felt sick to his stomach looking out at it. The jumps seemed alien, and he actually struggled to find the first jump. He could smell the scent of horse-shampoo on Bullet’s coat and he clutched at the reins like a child to a blanket as he pushed the stallion into a canter.
“Please be good, boy,” He muttered, a horrible feeling of forbidding took over him as he drove his horse to the first jump. ‘Three… two… one… fold’ He thought, feeling Bullet’s form rise effortlessly from the ground and land elegantly on the other side. The patter of polite applause died off from where his name had been announced and he and Bullet were left in absolute silence.
‘You’re an idiot, Grant,’ Bullet muttered, taking off for an oxer and turning sharply to his right, swinging around to the next jump, a tall yellow jump near the edge. He planted his feet half a stride back from his usual take off place, pushed with all his might upwards – a vertical rise was what Grant felt next, he struggled to keep his seat in the saddle, and clutched Bullet’s mane as the vertical elevation quite swiftly became a thud to the ground.
“What are you doing?!” He moaned, feeling tiny tears of fear in the backs of his eyes. The overwhelming atmosphere of the event was taking its toll on the fragile youth, and having his horse take the lead was pushing him to the edge. “Please, Bullet... Please…” He managed through choked breaths and the stallion’s entire demeanor changed with that moment.
He became softer, smoother and less pulling on the bit, but the energy usually expelling on outward displays of emotion was now channeling to a center of his body, and was building in strength. He took the next jump strongly, and an oxer after that with ease, flying over ever obstacle, trying not to hit any bars and carry Grant through to the end, relying only a small movements with the reins to show him which jump to take next.
What came next was a harmony that neither Grant, nor Bullet, had ever experienced with each other. A kind of bond formed between them that only happens when both feel utterly dependant on each other for some reason. Or, in this case, Grant depending entirely on his horse, and Bullet was doing everything in his power to take care of his rider.
‘It’s okay, Grant…’ He snorted, jumping another single. Feeling the boy relax enough to pick up the reins properly. ‘I'll keep you safe… don’t you worry…’. It was a feeling of responsibility that Bullet had never had before… and he didn’t like it, but he obviously didn’t have a choice – he had to take care of his rider – no one else would.

Theyn stood near the entrance of the arena, her ears pinned forward and tracking the movements of the stallion, occasionally picking up his words and what Grant was muttering… She felt sorry for him… and strangely responsible, as Bullet did, of the boy. He was only young, and although nothing had been said of his past, or anything about him at all, really, she knew he was a child who needed to be taken care of.
“Keep going, Bullet. You’re doing great,” she said to herself, watching intently, hoping with every ounce of emotion that they’d pull it together and have a good shot at placing in the competition.

Art & Beaumont Stables ©: =Baringa-of-the-Wind

I do not appreciate critique unless I request it!
Please keep your own opinions to yourself unless I ask for it - I will not be happy to hear you bashing my work.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's forbidden to copy, transmit, distribute, display, reproduce, sell, heavily reference, claim, trace, reuse, license or anything else, without my written permission, capiche? All rights are reserved!

Description
Horse : Beaumont’s Bullet Biscuit
Event : =SageSinRiddle 's OVEC FEI Championships
Discipline : Show Jumping
Class : Oceanic Jumpers Classic
Handler/Rider : Grant Meryz
Jump Height : 160 -165cm
Reference : Photo from Horse and Rider magazine

The cold, British wind whipped fiercely against Bullet’s flanks as he stepped out of the stables. He looked around with dark, squinted eyes and let the scents of a hundred horses fill his nostrils.
“This is too cool…,” he snorted, looking around, resisting the urge to jump up and down in excitement. “Oh, my god, Dad!! LOOK!!” He leapt up, kicked out his hind hooves and proceeded to spin in circles with Grant hanging onto his head collar in desperation.
Sky looked his way out of the corner of his eye and proceeded to roll them without a verbal answer, but inside he was wondering how on earth he’d landed such an arrogant, idiotic, excitable bugger of a son….
“Bullet!” Grant called out desperately, yanking the stallion’s head sharply as he finally got him to stop spinning around. “You’re actually gonna make me kill you at some point…” He muttered, walking out onto the track in front of the stables and looking for a gap in the crowd of horses and riders who’d gathered at certain points outside the arena. Theyn, who’d kept quiet until that point, walked out beside him, leading Sky with her, an uncomfortable knot in her stomach, a knot obvious to both horses who could smell and sense it, but Grant stayed as oblivious as ever.
They walked and trotted out of the stable complex and towards the indoor practice arena, where a small course of jumps had been set up for training. It was 6.30am, but sheer number of horses and people made it seem more like 1 in the afternoon.
Theyn pushed her way through, her ears laid back and tail thrashing from side to side. She had her teeth on display, small, sharp fangs clear and a path opened up before her as soon as she walked near any of the horses.
“Is it inappropriate to say that I like you’re not human?” Grant put in boldly.
“Yes.” She replied in a short, tart tone.

There were 12 horses in the indoor arena, which was far less than usual, but far more than preferable. The horses were either trotting or cantering around the edge of the arena, each rider looking nervously around as they decided whether to attempt a jump or if they would collide with another.
“Four.” Theyn interjected in a loud voice, and pulled Sky up into a brisk canter and popped him over the 3ft jump.
As with the Gaelic Challenge, the rest of the riders quickly picked up and numbers were called from all directions and, although there were several instances where a pair of horses nearly collided, the session went well.
The jumps at one end were lifted to 5ft, which meant an effective work out for Sky and Bullet, but the inability to work solidly on several jumps and the course as a whole was making it hard. Theyn and Grant both knew about Kalib’s training in the back fields, and one night they had considered doing the same, but every poll and wing was being used in the two arenas for training… and there wasn’t another way to get other jumps that they could see.
Therefore, they persevered. From 6.30am till 9 they worked, rested for lunch, and started again at 6 and finished when both horses had done as much as they possibly could without being too tired the next day or risking laming them. By the evening of day of the competition, both horses were thoroughly prepared, Theyn was feeling stress far worse than she’d experienced before, and Grant was honestly getting close to wetting his pants…

The day was relatively warm, the air cool, but dry and only a few clouds patched the sky and left dark, cold sections of shadow on the earth. There was the hustle-and-bustle of any show, but the tension and excitement had died down exponentially since the rest of the events took place. Kalib, certainly, was feeling far less stressed out, and had spent the past days lounging around in the field with his ‘best boy’.
A few horses were jumping in the indoor arena again, but Theyn and Grant had simply taken the boys out for a walk around the grounds. They wore only their thin halters and their leisurely stroll lasted 3 hours as they tracked the cross-country course and then released the stallions to have a little fun in the river.
The two riders sat on the bank, Theyn's bare feet dangling in the cool water, her tail splashing the water a little. “It’s odd. This is the most important competition we’ve taken part in; yesterday we were quite ready to get on a plane and head home to avoid this… and now, this morning… we seem perfectly relaxed.”
Grant didn’t reply, simply thought about her words and gave a small nod, watching as Bullet pranced in the hock-high water and kicked up his heels as Sky lay down for a good roll, sending a spray of liquid up into the air. “It’s nice to watch them play, y’know.” He interjected into the silence.
It was 8am, and with plenty of time before the competition, Theyn and Grant roused themselves and began to walk back to the stables, confident in the trust in their mounts that they would soon follow example.

“Good luck, Grant,” Theyn said, almost fondly, looking up at the boy as he sat atop the great copper stallion. “Don’t rush the course; keep your pace; fold flat.” She continued, as though reading a checklist, and patted his shoulder. “I'm sure you’ll do fine.”
Grant felt a lump in his throat, looking out at the arena as the competitor before him cleared the final jump and began to make their way towards the entrance. “I'm gonna hurl...!” He moaned just as Theyn gave Bullet’s rump a firm push and set him off into the arena.

Even though he’d walked it 9 times that morning… Grant felt sick to his stomach looking out at it. The jumps seemed alien, and he actually struggled to find the first jump. He could smell the scent of horse-shampoo on Bullet’s coat and he clutched at the reins like a child to a blanket as he pushed the stallion into a canter.
“Please be good, boy,” He muttered, a horrible feeling of forbidding took over him as he drove his horse to the first jump. ‘Three… two… one… fold’ He thought, feeling Bullet’s form rise effortlessly from the ground and land elegantly on the other side. The patter of polite applause died off from where his name had been announced and he and Bullet were left in absolute silence.
‘You’re an idiot, Grant,’ Bullet muttered, taking off for an oxer and turning sharply to his right, swinging around to the next jump, a tall yellow jump near the edge. He planted his feet half a stride back from his usual take off place, pushed with all his might upwards – a vertical rise was what Grant felt next, he struggled to keep his seat in the saddle, and clutched Bullet’s mane as the vertical elevation quite swiftly became a thud to the ground.
“What are you doing?!” He moaned, feeling tiny tears of fear in the backs of his eyes. The overwhelming atmosphere of the event was taking its toll on the fragile youth, and having his horse take the lead was pushing him to the edge. “Please, Bullet... Please…” He managed through choked breaths and the stallion’s entire demeanor changed with that moment.
He became softer, smoother and less pulling on the bit, but the energy usually expelling on outward displays of emotion was now channeling to a center of his body, and was building in strength. He took the next jump strongly, and an oxer after that with ease, flying over ever obstacle, trying not to hit any bars and carry Grant through to the end, relying only a small movements with the reins to show him which jump to take next.
What came next was a harmony that neither Grant, nor Bullet, had ever experienced with each other. A kind of bond formed between them that only happens when both feel utterly dependant on each other for some reason. Or, in this case, Grant depending entirely on his horse, and Bullet was doing everything in his power to take care of his rider.
‘It’s okay, Grant…’ He snorted, jumping another single. Feeling the boy relax enough to pick up the reins properly. ‘I'll keep you safe… don’t you worry…’. It was a feeling of responsibility that Bullet had never had before… and he didn’t like it, but he obviously didn’t have a choice – he had to take care of his rider – no one else would.

Theyn stood near the entrance of the arena, her ears pinned forward and tracking the movements of the stallion, occasionally picking up his words and what Grant was muttering… She felt sorry for him… and strangely responsible, as Bullet did, of the boy. He was only young, and although nothing had been said of his past, or anything about him at all, really, she knew he was a child who needed to be taken care of.
“Keep going, Bullet. You’re doing great,” she said to herself, watching intently, hoping with every ounce of emotion that they’d pull it together and have a good shot at placing in the competition.

Art & Beaumont Stables ©: =Baringa-of-the-Wind

I do not appreciate critique unless I request it!
Please keep your own opinions to yourself unless I ask for it - I will not be happy to hear you bashing my work.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's forbidden to copy, transmit, distribute, display, reproduce, sell, heavily reference, claim, trace, reuse, license or anything else, without my written permission, capiche? All rights are reserved!