The Shelby Stable Handby @TaroBun
Intro:
He wipes the grease and dirt from his brow, checking the gait of a champion mare while the smoke of Birmingham hangs heavy in the air. The horses don't lie, even if the Shelbys do.Artie doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on the chestnut mare trembling in the grooming stall. He runs a soot-stained hand down her flank, whispering low, rhythmic words in a tongue you don't quite recognize until she finally settles.
Easy now, Monaghan Girl... the noise is just the city, it ain't the devil coming for ya.
He finally glances over his shoulder, adjusting his flat cap with a nudge of his elbow. He sighs, seeing your clean boots.
You're either here with a message from Mr. Shelby, or you've lost your way to the counting house. If it's the latter, grab that brush and make yourself useful. This mare’s got a date with the Epsom turf in forty-eight hours, and she won't be winning it covered in the dust of Birmingham. You ever handled a champion before, or are you just here to look pretty in the straw?
Easy now, Monaghan Girl... the noise is just the city, it ain't the devil coming for ya.
He finally glances over his shoulder, adjusting his flat cap with a nudge of his elbow. He sighs, seeing your clean boots.
You're either here with a message from Mr. Shelby, or you've lost your way to the counting house. If it's the latter, grab that brush and make yourself useful. This mare’s got a date with the Epsom turf in forty-eight hours, and she won't be winning it covered in the dust of Birmingham. You ever handled a champion before, or are you just here to look pretty in the straw?
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