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Description
Yeah, I know, Freckles doesn't run these months. Whatever, it was getting all group-picture-y, and she wanted in! Also, I'm totally about to drop a bomb and YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IIIIS. Hah.

Warning: FREAKIN' long.

OCTOBER

Himeros would continue to be an unsolvable bundle of capricious vicissitude through October and November of his juvenile year, but Chloe and the rest of the Brazen Fields string rolled on without him as the year-end championship season rapidly approached. If Sophie's little lungs held, she might very well be worth a shot at the boys' division in the Breeders' Cup Sprint; Koko's goal was the Juvenile Fillies and, though the grey stable star still was not at her peak again, she was an early favourite for the Classic.

Therefore, preparations were in full swing and occupied the vast majority of the staff's time and energy. The atmosphere on the shed row was vibrant, and the decibel level by seven o'clock the morning of the first round of races was positively stentorian, with hands and grooms shouting and the media crawling into every conceivable nook. Connie wouldn't compete in that afternoon's Jockey Club Gold Cup, but Koko was scheduled to start in an undercard allowance and Sophie would try at the GI Vosburgh against open company.

And daughters of Eidolon and Silmarillion always commanded some modicum of attention. Even Nokomis, hitherto just another two-year-old maiden winner, was followed and photographed, though more for pedigree and outstanding appearance than any suppostition of greatness.

In fact, Koko appeared, if at all possible, to be growing more beautiful as she matured. Pipinoukhe's daughter was the perfect blend of her parents, with the length and scope inherited from her dam's line compounded and complimented by her sire's strength and balance. She had a deep barrel and wide jowels to house a magnificent airway, a strong, sloping shoulder, straight back, round hip and legs and hooves so sound several vets said they'd never seen their equal. A bone density test conducted on a whim showed stratospheric mineral content: the red filly's conformational perfection extended far deeper than her outward appearance.

She moved like it, too. A perfectly sculpted running machine, Nokomis rewarded her numerous backers with a magnificent performance: stalking the leaders on the outside, the chestnut youngster survived a rank, immature rival's bumps and bruises to take the lead at the quarter pole and toy with the rest of the field. The forms would list a margin of two and a half lengths, but Frankie later enthused that the filly had been playing with the other horses, waiting until she could hear their hooves in the slightly dampened turf before skipping clear again.

The picture taken in the winner's circle told the story most eloquently of all. There was Nokomis, held by her groom, her head twisted almost all the way upside down away from the camera and her ears flopping on all sides: this was a game, she had decided, and she was rather good at it. She returned to the barn bouncing and dancing and all but begging to have another go. It was an excellent sign.

Sophie's luck was not nearly so good. The dark paint appeared bright and energetic in the paddock and parade, but one of the colts entered in this race was a notorious need-the-lead speedster who'd won his last three on the front end, and a slightly nervous Laurence was preparing himself for the worst circumstance.

Naturally, it materialized. Sophie broke two stalls to the colt's inside, and the two bolted from the gate like spooked rabbits with hell on their heels. Little Sophie's blue eyes widened and grew sharp at the challenge, and willingly she tilted her head out as one of the most spectacular duels within memory materialized.

The little filly's legs were a blur as she stared down a colt so much larger than she that it appeared he might swallow her up. The colt himself was straining and snorting, desperate to take and hold an advantage, any advantage, but Sophie would not budge one inch; they rolled into the stretch together, their feet pounding to the tune of a baffled and screaming throng, the incredulous voice of the announcer long since drowned out. They rocketed through the first half-mile of the race in forty-three seconds flat.

The colt broke first, fire searing his legs, and he dropped like a house of cards in a hurricane, plummeting back through the pack at a speed almost as alarming as that which Sophie was maintaining. The setup of the race was a closer's dream, and they began to bear down at the top of the stretch, predators circling their weakened prey.

But Sophie would not be taken down so easily. Her ears flattened against her skull as she felt the rattle of the ground and heard their steady approach, and she floored it again. She was running on fumes, milking the last drops of the gas in her tank, ignoring the pain in favour of the burning desire to win.

When the wire passed overhead, no human eye could separate the three noses that tripped the camera. Naturally, Sophie lost the thing, officially finishing third, but there was such an air of satisfaction about her when she returned to her stall that no one could manage to care: the horse thought she'd won, and her effort had been so remarkable that she might as well have. Tom beamed--actually beamed--like a proud parent when approached by the few reporters still brave enough to try and get a quote from him, while Laurence could barely get the praises out through his grin.

Naturally, however, the filly was dead tired the following day, no doubt suffering monumental soreness and fatigue of the best kind: she would not go on to the Breeders' Cup. Brazen Fields wanted to keep this one around for next year.

The following weekend was even more ridiculous in terms of reporter infestation, but at this point, that was to be expected on Connie's race days. Though not yet fit enough to try the Gold Cup's company (Raining Roses had thoroughly redeemed himself with a five-length trouncing of his elders), Conclude was considered vastly superior to her four brave rivals in the GI Beldame Stakes. Her morning line odds were 1-2, and they would only plummet as post time drew nearer.

In the paddock before the Alabama the previous month, several of the most astute reporters had commented that Connie was not the physical specimen she had been during her Crown run. It was true; she'd lost considerable weight after the Belmont, and though she was building her figure, she had been noticeably scrawny at Saratoga.

Not anymore. The same reporters admitted bafflement at the monumental change the grey filly had affected in a single month, and the following day would see several most loquacious accounts of Connie's physical improvement and long paragraphs dedicated to the genius of one Thomas Russell on the web sites of the major racing media.

Frankie was perhaps the most affected by the change. Connie drew post 1 for the Beldame, the same gate from which she'd broken in her finest hour, and as her jockey made the same march into the paddock, she raised her elegant grey head and stared right at him, just as she'd done in June. It took his breath away.

She beat the four fillies by two and a half in 1:49, without so much as drawing a deep breath. Conclude had once again arrived.

NOVEMBER

And then, without so much as a cursory warning, Breeders' Cup fever was upon them. Connie's latest endeavour at the demolition of the opposite sex made all kinds of news, from newspapers around the continent to television reports around the world. The CBC even did a short segment on the grey filly and her maternal family: it marked the first time Tom actually sat down for a full-length interview, and it generated immense interest in Nokomis, as well.

"The Brazen Fields Thoroughbred breeding operation is among the most successful in the world," the segment began. "Having bred racing's leading lady, the female Triple Crown winner Conclude, its bloodlines are sought by every nearly every racing stable in the world, but the people at the heart of the Fields claim that their monumental success is mostly dumb luck.

"They say this because almost every horse in their care is a direct descendant of one of two foundation mares, called Dizzy Up and Veridical. Veridical's sons and daughters in particular have caught the mass attention of the racing world, but Dizzy, as she's known, has produced Kentucky Derby winner Acute[...] We spoke with Brazen Fields' contract trainer, Thomas Russell, about the mares, their progeny, and why it all worked so well."

"For a long time Cal was the greatest horse I've ever trained," Tom enthused (actually enthused). "I never got to train Dizzy because she was already a brood when they bought her, but they got me her son, Dizzy's Devil, and there was something there. They bought the mare because her foal was so good, and they already had Cal, and it all just... worked."

The reporter went on, "The Brazen Fields operation then began to cross the mares with stallions of high-quality pedigrees from around the globe, from Texas to the UK, and the result has been explosive. Russell has seven young horses currently in his care, and six are descended from either Dizzy Up or Veridical.

"And when the two lines are crossed? Well, see for yourself: Veridical's very last foal was sired by Dizzy's son Acute. They named her Conclude."

------

Besides the sensation the Canadian news segment caused by featuring Thomas Russell talking for a whole thirty seconds, the exposure at home made for a huge increase in the already massive appeal Connie had with the public. Attendance estimates for the Breeders' Cup Saturday were rising by the hour, and entries hadn't even been taken yet.

Then, Chloe got a phone call. She answered, stood blinking in silence for a moment or two, then hung up and scrambled to Tom's office. When she relayed the news he had to double-take.

"He's not ready," the trainer lied.

Chloe flailed. "Yes, he is. You know he is!"

Tom hedged, clenched his jaw. His eyes darted as his mind attempted to wrap around it: for a long time he'd been staring at the two of them, glancing to and fro along the shed row and wondering. Now, it could really happen. It could really happen right now.

The following day, when Tom dropped his Breeders' Cup entries, there were two in for the Classic.

Ellie was flying in that afternoon.

HAH. GOTCHA. YOU TOTALLY DID NOT SEE IT COMING UNTIL LIKE FOUR PARAGRAPHS AGO. RIGHT?

GOING TO BED NOW. The Cup gets its own damn deeeviation. 8D

Shown: EVERYBODY! *flail*

Description
Yeah, I know, Freckles doesn't run these months. Whatever, it was getting all group-picture-y, and she wanted in! Also, I'm totally about to drop a bomb and YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IIIIS. Hah.

Warning: FREAKIN' long.

OCTOBER

Himeros would continue to be an unsolvable bundle of capricious vicissitude through October and November of his juvenile year, but Chloe and the rest of the Brazen Fields string rolled on without him as the year-end championship season rapidly approached. If Sophie's little lungs held, she might very well be worth a shot at the boys' division in the Breeders' Cup Sprint; Koko's goal was the Juvenile Fillies and, though the grey stable star still was not at her peak again, she was an early favourite for the Classic.

Therefore, preparations were in full swing and occupied the vast majority of the staff's time and energy. The atmosphere on the shed row was vibrant, and the decibel level by seven o'clock the morning of the first round of races was positively stentorian, with hands and grooms shouting and the media crawling into every conceivable nook. Connie wouldn't compete in that afternoon's Jockey Club Gold Cup, but Koko was scheduled to start in an undercard allowance and Sophie would try at the GI Vosburgh against open company.

And daughters of Eidolon and Silmarillion always commanded some modicum of attention. Even Nokomis, hitherto just another two-year-old maiden winner, was followed and photographed, though more for pedigree and outstanding appearance than any suppostition of greatness.

In fact, Koko appeared, if at all possible, to be growing more beautiful as she matured. Pipinoukhe's daughter was the perfect blend of her parents, with the length and scope inherited from her dam's line compounded and complimented by her sire's strength and balance. She had a deep barrel and wide jowels to house a magnificent airway, a strong, sloping shoulder, straight back, round hip and legs and hooves so sound several vets said they'd never seen their equal. A bone density test conducted on a whim showed stratospheric mineral content: the red filly's conformational perfection extended far deeper than her outward appearance.

She moved like it, too. A perfectly sculpted running machine, Nokomis rewarded her numerous backers with a magnificent performance: stalking the leaders on the outside, the chestnut youngster survived a rank, immature rival's bumps and bruises to take the lead at the quarter pole and toy with the rest of the field. The forms would list a margin of two and a half lengths, but Frankie later enthused that the filly had been playing with the other horses, waiting until she could hear their hooves in the slightly dampened turf before skipping clear again.

The picture taken in the winner's circle told the story most eloquently of all. There was Nokomis, held by her groom, her head twisted almost all the way upside down away from the camera and her ears flopping on all sides: this was a game, she had decided, and she was rather good at it. She returned to the barn bouncing and dancing and all but begging to have another go. It was an excellent sign.

Sophie's luck was not nearly so good. The dark paint appeared bright and energetic in the paddock and parade, but one of the colts entered in this race was a notorious need-the-lead speedster who'd won his last three on the front end, and a slightly nervous Laurence was preparing himself for the worst circumstance.

Naturally, it materialized. Sophie broke two stalls to the colt's inside, and the two bolted from the gate like spooked rabbits with hell on their heels. Little Sophie's blue eyes widened and grew sharp at the challenge, and willingly she tilted her head out as one of the most spectacular duels within memory materialized.

The little filly's legs were a blur as she stared down a colt so much larger than she that it appeared he might swallow her up. The colt himself was straining and snorting, desperate to take and hold an advantage, any advantage, but Sophie would not budge one inch; they rolled into the stretch together, their feet pounding to the tune of a baffled and screaming throng, the incredulous voice of the announcer long since drowned out. They rocketed through the first half-mile of the race in forty-three seconds flat.

The colt broke first, fire searing his legs, and he dropped like a house of cards in a hurricane, plummeting back through the pack at a speed almost as alarming as that which Sophie was maintaining. The setup of the race was a closer's dream, and they began to bear down at the top of the stretch, predators circling their weakened prey.

But Sophie would not be taken down so easily. Her ears flattened against her skull as she felt the rattle of the ground and heard their steady approach, and she floored it again. She was running on fumes, milking the last drops of the gas in her tank, ignoring the pain in favour of the burning desire to win.

When the wire passed overhead, no human eye could separate the three noses that tripped the camera. Naturally, Sophie lost the thing, officially finishing third, but there was such an air of satisfaction about her when she returned to her stall that no one could manage to care: the horse thought she'd won, and her effort had been so remarkable that she might as well have. Tom beamed--actually beamed--like a proud parent when approached by the few reporters still brave enough to try and get a quote from him, while Laurence could barely get the praises out through his grin.

Naturally, however, the filly was dead tired the following day, no doubt suffering monumental soreness and fatigue of the best kind: she would not go on to the Breeders' Cup. Brazen Fields wanted to keep this one around for next year.

The following weekend was even more ridiculous in terms of reporter infestation, but at this point, that was to be expected on Connie's race days. Though not yet fit enough to try the Gold Cup's company (Raining Roses had thoroughly redeemed himself with a five-length trouncing of his elders), Conclude was considered vastly superior to her four brave rivals in the GI Beldame Stakes. Her morning line odds were 1-2, and they would only plummet as post time drew nearer.

In the paddock before the Alabama the previous month, several of the most astute reporters had commented that Connie was not the physical specimen she had been during her Crown run. It was true; she'd lost considerable weight after the Belmont, and though she was building her figure, she had been noticeably scrawny at Saratoga.

Not anymore. The same reporters admitted bafflement at the monumental change the grey filly had affected in a single month, and the following day would see several most loquacious accounts of Connie's physical improvement and long paragraphs dedicated to the genius of one Thomas Russell on the web sites of the major racing media.

Frankie was perhaps the most affected by the change. Connie drew post 1 for the Beldame, the same gate from which she'd broken in her finest hour, and as her jockey made the same march into the paddock, she raised her elegant grey head and stared right at him, just as she'd done in June. It took his breath away.

She beat the four fillies by two and a half in 1:49, without so much as drawing a deep breath. Conclude had once again arrived.

NOVEMBER

And then, without so much as a cursory warning, Breeders' Cup fever was upon them. Connie's latest endeavour at the demolition of the opposite sex made all kinds of news, from newspapers around the continent to television reports around the world. The CBC even did a short segment on the grey filly and her maternal family: it marked the first time Tom actually sat down for a full-length interview, and it generated immense interest in Nokomis, as well.

"The Brazen Fields Thoroughbred breeding operation is among the most successful in the world," the segment began. "Having bred racing's leading lady, the female Triple Crown winner Conclude, its bloodlines are sought by every nearly every racing stable in the world, but the people at the heart of the Fields claim that their monumental success is mostly dumb luck.

"They say this because almost every horse in their care is a direct descendant of one of two foundation mares, called Dizzy Up and Veridical. Veridical's sons and daughters in particular have caught the mass attention of the racing world, but Dizzy, as she's known, has produced Kentucky Derby winner Acute[...] We spoke with Brazen Fields' contract trainer, Thomas Russell, about the mares, their progeny, and why it all worked so well."

"For a long time Cal was the greatest horse I've ever trained," Tom enthused (actually enthused). "I never got to train Dizzy because she was already a brood when they bought her, but they got me her son, Dizzy's Devil, and there was something there. They bought the mare because her foal was so good, and they already had Cal, and it all just... worked."

The reporter went on, "The Brazen Fields operation then began to cross the mares with stallions of high-quality pedigrees from around the globe, from Texas to the UK, and the result has been explosive. Russell has seven young horses currently in his care, and six are descended from either Dizzy Up or Veridical.

"And when the two lines are crossed? Well, see for yourself: Veridical's very last foal was sired by Dizzy's son Acute. They named her Conclude."

------

Besides the sensation the Canadian news segment caused by featuring Thomas Russell talking for a whole thirty seconds, the exposure at home made for a huge increase in the already massive appeal Connie had with the public. Attendance estimates for the Breeders' Cup Saturday were rising by the hour, and entries hadn't even been taken yet.

Then, Chloe got a phone call. She answered, stood blinking in silence for a moment or two, then hung up and scrambled to Tom's office. When she relayed the news he had to double-take.

"He's not ready," the trainer lied.

Chloe flailed. "Yes, he is. You know he is!"

Tom hedged, clenched his jaw. His eyes darted as his mind attempted to wrap around it: for a long time he'd been staring at the two of them, glancing to and fro along the shed row and wondering. Now, it could really happen. It could really happen right now.

The following day, when Tom dropped his Breeders' Cup entries, there were two in for the Classic.

Ellie was flying in that afternoon.

HAH. GOTCHA. YOU TOTALLY DID NOT SEE IT COMING UNTIL LIKE FOUR PARAGRAPHS AGO. RIGHT?

GOING TO BED NOW. The Cup gets its own damn deeeviation. 8D

Shown: EVERYBODY! *flail*