~ Peter's Inspection

The morning of Peter's inspection began crisp and clear, the sun already climbing in a flawless blue sky, shedding golden light over the grounds like a warm veil. The breeze had calmed from the previous days' spirited gusts into a gentle hush, lifting dust in soft spirals and sending the smell of hay and warm leather drifting between the rows of trailers and grooming stations. Taylor stood near the far paddock gate, one gloved hand resting lightly on Peter's shoulder. The stallion stood tall and still beside her, a solid wall of muscle and presence. Unlike her mares, Peter didn't prance, wiggle, or twitch, because he didn't need to. THis guy knew who he was, and he loved it. The woman was a little nervous since she'd never gotten a stallion inspected before, but hoped that everything would be fine.

His coat shimmered with a mirror-like sheen in the morning light, and his legs, dark and clean, ended in hooves polished to a soft gleam, and a few of the braids in his thick, arched mane still held tight against the curve of his neck. His tail, freshly brushed, rippled with every flick, heavy and dark like a curtain. Peter was quite obviously a stunner, but he wasn't flashy. His beauty didn't shout; it watched. She remembered the night he was born: a quiet night, the kind where even the barn seemed to breathe more slowly, wrapped in the hush of early spring. The wind outside had died down to a whisper, and the only sound was the rhythmic creak of halters and the occasional shift of hooves in straw-filled stalls.

Taylor remembered slipping into the foaling barn with a thermos of lukewarm tea and her pulse quickening in anticipation. The mare; How Did It End?, better known as Tortellini, who was calm and experienced; had already begun to show signs earlier that day. Taylor had bedded the stall deep and soft, checked the cameras twice, and told herself not to hover, but something had pulled her back. She remembered the moment clearly: how Tortellini had lifted her head to meet her eyes, and how, not ten minutes later, contractions had started in earnest. And then there he was: long-legged, wet, blinking at the world with unfocused eyes. His coat, even slick with birth, already hinted at its dark richness. 

The blonde had crouched just outside the stall, holding her breath as he wriggled free of the afterbirth, his little body trembling with the effort of being new. Tortellini nickered to him low and warm, and Taylor had to blink back tears; and then came the moment that would stay with her forever. Peter - well, he hadn't had a name then, not yet, lifted his head, planted his front legs beneath him, and shoved himself upright with surprising force. Within minutes, he was standing; wobbly, sure, swaying like a sapling in wind, ut standing. And then, before anyone could stop him, he started moving. And not the uncoordinated teetering of a newborn, but a sort of enthusiastic bounce, like prancing around the stall in gangly little circles like he was already training for something. He slipped, caught himself, tried again. His legs were too long for his body, his balance unformed, but the spark in him was unmistakable.

"He's already showing off.", Taylor had whispered to herself, wide-eyed. Tortellini had watched him with the tired patience of a seasoned mother, occasionally guiding him with her nose, her breath steady and grounding. But the colt; Peter, had kept moving, exploring every inch of his small world like it wasn't enough, like he was meant for bigger arenas, higher fences, and open space. Taylor remembered laughing. That quiet, amazed laughter, the kind that came with awe. That was the night she fell in love with him. Not just for his beauty, or his breeding, but because of that fire, that refusal to wait - which had all just reminded her too much of herself.

And even now, as she watched him stand tall before the judges, that night lingered in the back of her mind like a warm light. Taylor adjusted the lead, glanced at the steward for the signal, and when the nod came, she stepped forwards. They entered the inspection ring together, and Peter moved with the kind of fluid strength that turned heads without asking to. His gait was collected but confident, hooves kissing the dirt with perfect rhythm, muscles rolling beneath skin that looked stretched over sculpture. Taylor halted him in the center of the ring, and he squared up instantly. Three judges approached, each moving in a quiet circle around him. No words passed between them that Taylor could hear, it was just the constant scratch of pens against paper, and the rustle of wind tugging at clipboards. They examined his frame, tested his limbs with practiced touches, then noted the balance of his posture and the depth of his chest. One of them crouched to inspect his hind legs; another leaned close to his jawline to examine his facial structure.

Peter didn't move, and not even his ears flicked. He stood like a statue, but one brimming with coiled energy. Then came the trot: Taylor guided him to the start of the lane, gave him a second to focus, and then stepped forward into motion. Peter followed immediately, matching her pace, then beginning to overtake her as he stretched into his stride. And what a stride it was... Each step exploded with contained power, springing from his haunches with smooth elasticity. His movement was uphill, his legs reaching and lifting, each hoof leaving the earth in a deliberate arc. His tail flagged slightly, but not in show, just a natural extension of his forward energy. Taylor had to keep pace with him, her boots thudding in rhythm. Peter's shoulders opened with every step, and his hind legs drove him forward with an effortless elegance that made it look like he was gliding rather than trotting.

At the far end, Taylor slowed and pivoted, and Peter turned like he'd read her mind, swinging his haunches around in a compact circle, and set off again with renewed precision. The return trot was even better. Longer, smoother, as if the first pass had simply been his warm-up. The blonde felt a chill ripple across her arms despite the sun. She knew this trot. She'd seen it in his training, in the early morning light of the arena, but here, on this stage, it felt even bigger. And when they returned to the ring's center, Peter halted again without cue. His nostrils flared slightly, his chest rising and falling beneath the sheen of exertion, but his eyes remained calm. Taylor gave his neck a quick pat before handing him over to the handlers waiting at the free jumping lane.

The chute had been set earlier in the morning: a long, straight lane of fenced rails and padded guide poles, leading to three jumps set in succession. The first was modest, the second a bit higher, and the third - a clean, crisp oxer -was set to challenge. Peter didn't shy or balk as he was led to the far end, and he walked with the same determined calm, eyeing the setup without visible concern. Then the lead was unlatched, and the black stallion stepped forward, ears flicking. He broke into a trot, slow at first, cautious, and then he saw the first jump. In a blink, his posture changed, his neck arched, his steps lifted, and he shifted gears. With no rider, no voice guiding him, Peter approached the first fence with his ears forward and his muscles already bunching beneath him. He took off with perfect timing, sailing over the jump with room to spare. He landed light, almost noiseless, and rolled into a canter.

The second jump came fast. Peter met it with more power, lifting into the air with knees snapped tight, clearing it with a precision that sent a murmur rippling through the small cluster of onlookers near the fence. Now came the final fence: the oxer. Peter zeroed in, and his stride lengthened, tempo sharp but controlled, and with one massive push, he lifted off the ground. The arc of his jump was pure poetry: his back rounded, his hooves tucked, and his tail fanning slightly behind. He soared over the oxer like it was half its height. He landed clean, and proud. Tail high, head lifted, he cantered through the end of the lane, then slowed himself to a walk as the handlers moved forward. Taylor waited at the far gate, and the moment Peter saw her, he gave a low, quiet nicker, not even loud, just enough to be heard by her.

She opened the gate and stepped in to meet him. He lowered his head and brushed his muzzle against her arm. "Gosh, you were brilliant.", she whispered. Taylor could see the judges conferring quietly, and though they didn't signal or speak yet, she already knew what the notes would say.

Powerful.

Balanced.

Mature.

Promising.