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"You have GOT to be kidding me..." The words rang out in the silent air as two men stood there watching the horses running on the track, early morning fog settling in on the world around them. It was easy to tell the height difference, and from far away it almost seemed as if one was a child. And yet here they were in the bitter early morning chill in December to watch a horse gallop along the track, frothing at the mouth as it tried to fight the bit.

"You're tellin' me that the bloody mare never raced?!" A shrug from the taller man said all that was needed, a groan escaping the man beside him as he slumped back into a chair. "You're a fuckin' bloody idiot ya know that Scot?" A rough noise signaled to the man, and yet the heavily accented Irishman wasn't finished yet. He spotted the phone in the others hand before jumping up from his seat to slap it to the ground. Time seemed to pause before angry blue eyes met glaring bright blue. "She's a racehorse and all you've done with 'er is have her sit there lookin' pretty?! What the hell is wro-" His words were cut off by a large hand that was quickly bit, the two accented men quickly getting into it there on the side of the track.

This had become normal at the small training facility in Virginia since the two arrived the summer before. Both were striking in their own ways, and the horses that the one had brought with him spoke of nothing but powerful English and Irish bloodlines. Yet the press had been amused as they watched the newcomers and their activities, soon being called "The Dashing Duo". Yet both men were the most opposite personalities you could ever imagine. The Irishman with his bored blue gaze and deep red hued hair was more of a quiet type. Meanwhile the Scotsman was all charming smiles and trying to get with the ladies, something not hard for him to do when he flashed that perfect white smile, laughed with his bright clear blue eyes combined with his rich copper-brown hair. His wallet didn't mind helping him either. As for heights, those around or watching the two had a blast seeing the 5'4" Irishman yelling or scolding an almost 7' Scot. Yet looks aside it was blatantly clear that the Scot... well he simply had-

"-no idea what you're doing!" The Irish had climbed in his chair to be eye to eye with the Scot, the two glaring harshly as another few laughing jockeys passed them. "They're not just something to collect like pretty little coins, or gems, or fucking hell I don't know, women! Are you even listening to me!?" A heavy sigh escaped from the larger man who at that point was wiping mud from his phone before tucking it away safely, glancing back towards the track and the fighting- no bucking mare.
"Aye i'm listening to ya lad."
"No you're fucking not! We've been at this for weeks Ewan and your horse has shown that she's nothing more then a broodmare at this point with her bloodlines!" The Irish huffed before jumping back down to stalk away, needing to pace a bit. Ewan watched silently, a frown starting to form. He'd come from Scotland and left his beloved family behind mostly because of the money that was here, as well as bloodstock. He'd payed this man big bucks to become his trainer and leave the happy quiet life he'd had himself in Ireland.
"Ye said ye'd make 'er-"
"I know what I said you moron! What you didn't tell me was that you had a mare who had amazing bloodlines from England and Ireland who barely was broken into the track life!" A thud followed his words, the man having at this point just resorted to smacking his head on the nearest post. "You promised me that i'd do better over here ya idiotic Scot..."

Ewan never had asked his companion just how bad his life had been, yet from what he'd heard the man was alone. A sigh escaped again as he moved to set a hand on the smaller mans shoulder. "Cillín , listen ta ye lad. 'Tis no' like ye aye? We cen do this together yer gonna see."

That day had become the first of many where the two men would return to the track only to find an unruly horse. Yet as time passed, it seemed that luck was starting to turn. Here they were, a Scot and an Irishman, standing in the rows of seats crowded by a throng of people as they watched with baited breath.

On that day both Ewan Tàmhas Naomhán Studwick and Cináed Cillín Eadbhárd MacCailín watched as their feisty 4 year old mare won her first maiden race with 5 lengths between her and the horse that had been on her tail the entire time. That day, the two men knew that they had started something new.

Welcome to the US folks.

~~~~~~~~

Name: Sverker
Barn name: Sverker
Gender: Mare
Age: 4
Breed: Thoroughbred
Height: 17hh
Color: Bay
Genotype: Ee/Aa
Markings: Back right cornet, front left sock, star
Build: Big power machine of burning RAGE
Temperament: If you wanted a royal b*tch then you've got it right here. Stubborn as a mule and will be wanting to run one minute, the next deciding to buck you off like a rodeo horse. She's unpredictable and mostly kept in a stall with bars on the front so she can't bite other horses around her. Needs an extremely well trained hand to get her attention and keep it there, although she'll let you know by her eyes and ears if she's willing to continue listening.
Discipline: Racing, turf
Bloodlines: Foundation-- [Highland Reel x Found ]

Racehorse -skeleton traced
Characters and story c. me

Description
Next:

"You have GOT to be kidding me..." The words rang out in the silent air as two men stood there watching the horses running on the track, early morning fog settling in on the world around them. It was easy to tell the height difference, and from far away it almost seemed as if one was a child. And yet here they were in the bitter early morning chill in December to watch a horse gallop along the track, frothing at the mouth as it tried to fight the bit.

"You're tellin' me that the bloody mare never raced?!" A shrug from the taller man said all that was needed, a groan escaping the man beside him as he slumped back into a chair. "You're a fuckin' bloody idiot ya know that Scot?" A rough noise signaled to the man, and yet the heavily accented Irishman wasn't finished yet. He spotted the phone in the others hand before jumping up from his seat to slap it to the ground. Time seemed to pause before angry blue eyes met glaring bright blue. "She's a racehorse and all you've done with 'er is have her sit there lookin' pretty?! What the hell is wro-" His words were cut off by a large hand that was quickly bit, the two accented men quickly getting into it there on the side of the track.

This had become normal at the small training facility in Virginia since the two arrived the summer before. Both were striking in their own ways, and the horses that the one had brought with him spoke of nothing but powerful English and Irish bloodlines. Yet the press had been amused as they watched the newcomers and their activities, soon being called "The Dashing Duo". Yet both men were the most opposite personalities you could ever imagine. The Irishman with his bored blue gaze and deep red hued hair was more of a quiet type. Meanwhile the Scotsman was all charming smiles and trying to get with the ladies, something not hard for him to do when he flashed that perfect white smile, laughed with his bright clear blue eyes combined with his rich copper-brown hair. His wallet didn't mind helping him either. As for heights, those around or watching the two had a blast seeing the 5'4" Irishman yelling or scolding an almost 7' Scot. Yet looks aside it was blatantly clear that the Scot... well he simply had-

"-no idea what you're doing!" The Irish had climbed in his chair to be eye to eye with the Scot, the two glaring harshly as another few laughing jockeys passed them. "They're not just something to collect like pretty little coins, or gems, or fucking hell I don't know, women! Are you even listening to me!?" A heavy sigh escaped from the larger man who at that point was wiping mud from his phone before tucking it away safely, glancing back towards the track and the fighting- no bucking mare.
"Aye i'm listening to ya lad."
"No you're fucking not! We've been at this for weeks Ewan and your horse has shown that she's nothing more then a broodmare at this point with her bloodlines!" The Irish huffed before jumping back down to stalk away, needing to pace a bit. Ewan watched silently, a frown starting to form. He'd come from Scotland and left his beloved family behind mostly because of the money that was here, as well as bloodstock. He'd payed this man big bucks to become his trainer and leave the happy quiet life he'd had himself in Ireland.
"Ye said ye'd make 'er-"
"I know what I said you moron! What you didn't tell me was that you had a mare who had amazing bloodlines from England and Ireland who barely was broken into the track life!" A thud followed his words, the man having at this point just resorted to smacking his head on the nearest post. "You promised me that i'd do better over here ya idiotic Scot..."

Ewan never had asked his companion just how bad his life had been, yet from what he'd heard the man was alone. A sigh escaped again as he moved to set a hand on the smaller mans shoulder. "Cillín , listen ta ye lad. 'Tis no' like ye aye? We cen do this together yer gonna see."

That day had become the first of many where the two men would return to the track only to find an unruly horse. Yet as time passed, it seemed that luck was starting to turn. Here they were, a Scot and an Irishman, standing in the rows of seats crowded by a throng of people as they watched with baited breath.

On that day both Ewan Tàmhas Naomhán Studwick and Cináed Cillín Eadbhárd MacCailín watched as their feisty 4 year old mare won her first maiden race with 5 lengths between her and the horse that had been on her tail the entire time. That day, the two men knew that they had started something new.

Welcome to the US folks.

~~~~~~~~

Name: Sverker
Barn name: Sverker
Gender: Mare
Age: 4
Breed: Thoroughbred
Height: 17hh
Color: Bay
Genotype: Ee/Aa
Markings: Back right cornet, front left sock, star
Build: Big power machine of burning RAGE
Temperament: If you wanted a royal b*tch then you've got it right here. Stubborn as a mule and will be wanting to run one minute, the next deciding to buck you off like a rodeo horse. She's unpredictable and mostly kept in a stall with bars on the front so she can't bite other horses around her. Needs an extremely well trained hand to get her attention and keep it there, although she'll let you know by her eyes and ears if she's willing to continue listening.
Discipline: Racing, turf
Bloodlines: Foundation-- [Highland Reel x Found ]

Racehorse -skeleton traced
Characters and story c. me