A thunderous roar of hooves clattering rocked the turf ground, as their jockeys held on to the backs of their companions. An outcry of cheering from the crowds emanated from the stands as the track announcer readied another Breath.
"Claymore is continuing to dominate the track with a two length lead, as they near the finish line! With Kosakenzipfel behind trying to catch up to Claymore, whilst Boulevard Blanqui tries to maintain the half a length lead they have with Damino for third place!"
The announcer presents as the race reaches its climax, with only very little to the finish line, the back of the pack try to fight amongst each other for higher positions, whilst the front runner of the race remains uncontested. Moments later, a blur glazes the finish line, as the group cross the line and begin to decelerate.
"And with that, Claymore remains uncontested as the favourite of this race! Completing with a two length lead, making this his first major win, outclassing the rest of the horses. With Kosakenzipfel and Boulevard Blanqui for second and third place individually, that concludes the Kincsem Dij!"
The track announcer states on the microphone, slumping back on their chair, breathless, as groups of people cheer for winning successfully in their bids, whilst others look down at their biddings, disgruntled by their loss. A young man peers out from the stands, nodding expectantly of the victory, as though it were to affirm his suspicions, as he peers back at the race and turns away.
His gaze fleeting from the track, a memoir of his old dreams to be amongst the Jockeys there. Yet his palms remained empty with no reins to hold, as he begins to wander back to his home, in Göd.
Hours later, he closes the door to an empty home, which was all that was left from his family and from the past. His eyes peering around the unchanging scenery, books pile on the coffee table with dusty awards from the early 20th century being all that are left from their old history of glory, rotting behind glass cabinets meant to encompass them.
The door to his bedroom creeks open, with a bed unkept and slightly messy as he changes into different clothing invites him to lay down, yet his focus is directed to the letter assigned to him, Dezso Blaskovich. He reads back through the material, before crumpling it and throwing it on the desk.
"...How foolish I was to believe that they'd let me participate without having a scholarship." He mumbles to himself, laying down strewn onto the bedding. His goals to be a jockey were now over. Forever.
Dezso begins to recall of a memory from two decades ago, from when he was a young boy. A memory still anew in his mind begins to play out, as his grandfather discusses their glorious days, as pioneers of the Hungarian horse racing scene.
Yet now, after their households' economic decline fuelled by countless debts amounted from the past century of troubles within the country, their prestige crumbled. Withering away into another relic of the past. With all that was left being memories and a name.
Although being a descendant of the owner to the greatest mare to live, he couldn't bear that title himself, relinquishing control over his body to fall asleep, his body slumped on the mattress, and a fire that whittled down into mere sparks…
Yet he did not dream of the future, nor did he wake up to the break of dawn.
His eyes groggy as he opened them, with his own voice slurring in an incoherent mess, his stare glazed the surroundings in his view, as several figures came into view.
A man, middle aged and seemingly from a different generation appeared before him. A sense of familial bonds between the two of them was interlinked by fate as Dezsos' eyes readjusted and began to understand the situation.
At which he was lent a hand by the unknown stranger, as he began grasping onto it whilst he lethargically rose from the floor; His legs stumbling as he began to regain control of his body.
Yet the three figures behind him did not mutter a word, their gazes penetrating through Dezso as though surveying him. They spoke between one another in a language he couldn't comprehend. Their figures androgynous as to assure he wouldn't know anything about them.
As the older man walked ahead, Dezso took glances at the scenery, its serene and beautiful landscape as a dirt track was engraved into the earth. Mounds of earth began to sculpt the surroundings, turning into a majestic race course, as an eruption of cheers went ablaze from a set of stands.
However, their gaze was directed to the roar of hooves beating the ground in a rapid repetitive rhythm that created a symphony. A set of horses came into view as they competed for the lead.
But it was not the colts that took the lead, however it was a filly, and at a height of sixteen hands and the length of a boat, her power was overpowering as her lead grew to a domineering fifteen lengths before completing the race.
Her stance proud as she stood alone, prideful as her hooves flicked the ground lightly, as though eager to continue.. The middle aged man beckoned him to continue moving along, whilst his hand began caressing the neck of the mare before him.
His eyes glanced back at Dezso, out of pity as though he had failed him. His beard furrowed as he spoke. "I'm sorry, my descendant, for not granting you your wish to become like me." His tone laden with sincerity, as he grasped Dezso in a hug, that felt familial.
"Though I could not supply it to you in this lifetime. I shall grant you your wish, in the next.." He said at last, trying to maintain his composure, his figure beginning to fade, as Dezso tried to cling onto his ancestor longer, yet failed to. As the man before him disappeared into the background.
He turned back to the three other individuals who stood alongside his ancestor. Their features now more distinct yet with ears and a tail as new appendages. With confusion appearing across his face from their appearances, before they then spoke out his name distinctly. Wishing him good luck.