Words Cannot Say [Tingara's herd]

[tingara]

||OoC: Okay peeps this thread is open to all of Tingara’s herd only! Please, PLEASE, keep to an organised posting order if you are participating. Who you went after now is who you’ll go after again. Big threads like this will be can get confusing if an order is not stuck to.||

It was night, the sun had long been gone and stars made the clear night sky glitter. Barely seen over the rise of a hill stood the King. His body was caked in dried sweat, dirt and blood and from the way the muscles underneath his coat twitched it was clear it yearned for rest. And yet still he stood, head low, over the body of a once great white stallion. Only a few hours ago Tingara had killed Nevada. Although he knew he was tired from the fight he would not move from beside the lifeless body, not yet. It wouldn’t be long until the mares began to wonder why he wasn’t coming back to them but the truth was Tingara could not face them, not yet.

Most of his herd had once run with the stallion at his feet. They had carried many foals by him and there were some out there in the Cascades who were expecting to him again. He had killed the one stallion who he had felt was worthy to fight with, who had matched him and almost bettered him on several occasions. Tingara hoped that where ever Nevada was now that he was at peace. Now he would forever lie in the valley of kings and horses that would have been kings. Until the time came when there was nothing left but the bones to be bleached, the black stallion knew he would have to move the herd away to let the white stallion return to the earth in peace.

[Corowa]

In the stillness of the night, Myrrina moved through the snowgums, troubled by the strange hush that had come over the bush. She was driven by the longing to know how this sad tale had ended, even as something told her it was not Tingara who had perished. The mare found her mate on a grassy rise, the huddled heap at his feet outlined by the light of the moon. “So it is finished then,” she said softly. The mare was troubled by the stallion’s sadness, could feel it as if it were her own. With sudden shyness, she touched her nose to his. The stallion had the look of one who had been through the type of ordeal that marks one for always, and the mare knew even when those terrible cuts healed, he would carry the marks of this fight for the rest of his life.

“Come away my mate, there is nothing here but sorrow and loss. You know as well as any that it is the way of the bush for the strongest to remain. And though I will mourn for him, for I knew him well as any mare knows her stallion, I am glad it is not you I have lost.” She blew softly through her nostrils, and then she was walking on towards that stallion with whom she had shared one thrilling winter, walked on over snowgrass churned and muddied, walked on even as she trembled with dread. For a moment, she stood over the stallion’s body, listening to the wind as it moved in the leaves of the snowgums, so she remembered again, what she had promised. Only then, as something within her stirred at the touch of the wind, did she realise how deeply she would miss him.

The mare searched for any sign of the stallion she had known in the broken lines of his body. In stillness, he seemed somehow different, the greatness gone. She dropped her nose to his side, touched him with as much tenderness as a mare to her foal. “You will be missed,” she said quietly, and she knew then she spoke truth, and always would the old mare remember a dance of wind-whirled snow. “I will never forget you for as long as I live. For it will be your call I hear in the cold winds of winter, when the snow falls and the whole world seems made of white. Goodbye.” With a sudden feeling of loss, the mare stepped lightly away. She had said her goodbye, and now it was for other mares to remember and to mourn.



Durroon had listened to the terrible sounds of the stallions fighting, had trembled in every limb, when finally, the tremendous screaming had stopped, and all had been silent. Now she stood, in the shelter of the snowgums, watching as mare and stallion farewelled her mate. She felt no hatred towards Tingara for what he had done, for it was only the way of the bush. Even as she stepped from the trees, Durroon could feel the wind as it stirred in the uppermost snowgums; hear it whispering in the leaves so it seemed to urge her on, so she walked on even as this terrible sense of dread filled her. Bunderra clung close to her side, no longer the proud colt, almost yearling, but a foal terrified by all that he has seen. Mare and yearling walked on, until both stood, there at the side of the dead stallion.

She let her nose move in the softest of touches over him, remembered how full of life he had been, so that when she called, springing away at a gallop, he had followed in a swift and furious race over the snowgrass. Now there was nothing but this huddled heap of a stallion, all the tremendous life gone from him. And unable to contain her sadness, the mare gave a sudden, throbbing neigh. For a moment, there was silence, and then Durroon turned and led Bunderra away from the body of her mate. The colt pressed close to her side, and the mare could feel him shaking all over so he stumbled badly, seemed barely able to stand.

She nickered softly to the frightened yearling, stopped to nuzzle him until he no longer shook and the wildness had gone from his eyes. This son of hers was all she had left of the stallion that had been her mate, and Durroon realised she would never forget him, this stallion she had loved so deeply. “I will run with you for as long as I live, and perhaps one day it will be your foal at my side. But I will never be your mate, will never feel again what I have felt for this stallion.” The mare touched her nose gently to his, told him she trusted him, would come to him in the grey light of morning. Then she drifted away towards the snowgums, longing for nothing more than to be alone on this night, to mourn this stallion with whom she had run a lifetime.

[Tiggs]

Crayola knew what fighting meant. She’d spent the time when screams and muffled thuds echoed through the valley resolutely grazing, trying not to hear. Trying not to think about what would happen if Tingara lost. He was her only stallion who had treated her with love. She had not realised what she had been missing until he claimed her. She’d given him two sons and two daughters, and her belly was swollen with the next colt or filly of their blood.

What if Tingara never came back? Who would look after their family? When the sound of fighting stopped, Crayola was hesitant to go. Only when evening fell and darkness coated the valley did she have the courage to make her way up the slopee. Poor Tinar – who had been perhaps more frightened than herself – she left in the company of his sister. She would keep him calm – Uralla was a good girl.

At the crest of the hill, she saw Tingara standing over the body of the white stallion. The bloodied corpse sent a shiver through her, and she was so glad it was no the white looking down at the black. Waddling over, Crayola kept her gaze on her black mate, nuzzling his cheek and curling her lip when she tasted blood on him.

The mare fussed and petted, rubbing his shoulders, neck and face. She was worried for him, but at least he was safe. She spared no glace or thought for the dead grey, finding the idea too distressing. Instead she busied herself with inspecting Tingara in what feeble light the stars gave, trying to ease his pain and sorrow. She had no words for him, but she hoped her presence was enough.

[yaruka]

OOC:

BIC:

Finally the screams and muffled thuds of the battle had died away. Body tense, the blue roan mare strained her ears for any indication of how the fight had ended. It had been hours since she'd moved from this position, frozen in horror as the stallion she'd loved fought the King of the High Country, the one he had lost against before. Jannali knew this fight would be the last between the two stallions, and though she wished Tingara no harm, she had never felt the love towards him that she had felt for Nevada.

As night fell a hollow feeling settled inside of the pit of the mare's stomach. Her grey stallion had not won, Jannali knew it, for if it had been Nevada who was victorious he would have surely come to them by now, neck arched proudly and tail flung out like a banner in the wind. Somehow she knew even before she moved forward, ghost like, that what she saw would break her heart. Something inside of her had already died, along with Nevada.

As the pale mare drifted forwards she was shadowed by her half-sister, Kala's eyes clouded with concern not only for the stallions, but for her sister also. The hope of rejoining Nevada again had obsessed her sister these past few months, Jannali had always been the grey's, and the grey's alone. As they made their way up the hill, Kala had a dreadful thought, it was so quiet-what if neither stallion had survived? The smell of blood was clogging her nostrils and the red mare felt sick, but she had to support Jannali, and Jannali would not rest until she saw Nevada again, whether he was alive or dead.

Cresting the rise Jannali saw the fallen grey, and the black despair that had coated her insides since the fight had ended overwhelmed her completely. She heard Durroon's whinny, one that spoke of tragedy and overwhelming loss, and answered with her own throbbing cry. Blindly, she walked forwards until she was looking down on the grey stallion directly. The broken and mangled body at her feet was not the Nevada she had known, he was well and truly gone. Slowly the blue mare dipped her head to him in one last greeting of respect, before she brushed her muzzle against the bloodied black one ever so gently. It was already cold. The mare shuddered. Raising her head she turned to glare at the victor, Tingara, whom she had known to be kind and noble, not a savage killer. But she couldn't think of him that way anymore, and her eyes were black with hurt and anger as she looked at him. Irrational in her despair, she nipped him sharply on the neck before turning and walking away, head lowered in grief.

Kala had watched Jannali grieve over the grey, unable to tear her eyes from the terrible sight. As her sister lashed out at Tingara she wanted to intervene, Tingara was nothing but noble, he would not have killed Nevada if it hadn't been the way the grey had wanted it, the most humane course of action. But logic wasn't going to help Jannali right now, and her sister needed her more than Tingara did. Softly, she brushed her muzzle once against the grey's matted coat, closing her eyes to remember the stallion as he'd once been, the one glorious year she had run with him and Jannali. He had been a good horse, foolish at times, but kind and caring towards his mares. Turning away, she glanced once, apologetically, at Tingara before following her sister, calling to Kaiela, Omeo and Jiba to follow. Jannali was leaving, she knew it even before Jannali spoke a word. And she could not, would not, be seperated from her sister again.

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Kaiela, never having seen a fight before, was for once quiet and dejected looking. The little filly usually let nothing in life get her down, but this first experience death was a terrible one, even without the knowledge that the grey Tingara had killed had been her father. She was standing beside Omeo when her mother called, and not knowing what else to do, wandered over to the chestnut roan, head down and eyes uncharacteristically dulled by the sadness that pervaded the valley.
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Wyralla and Bindaree were also at a loss at what to do. Somberly, they waited their turn to pay their respects to Nevada, Wyralla too, even though she was Tingara's daughter. Nevada had been her surrogate father throughout the better part of last year, and she felt a deep affection towards the grey stallion. Somehow she knew though, that this was the way of the bush. Nevada had known this fight could have ended in his death, and Tingara had had no choice but to fight, he had not killed Nevada out of cruelty. Bindaree had not yet forgotten her father, though she was well at the age when fillies move on from their birth herds, Jannali's love for the stallion had kept his memory alive in her daughter as well. She thought she too, might leave, though not with Kala and Jannali. It was time she started her grown life, and though Tingara was not her father, she could not stay with him, not now. She did not blame him, but the sight of him would always bring back troubled memories. But she would not leave tonight, for now Wyralla and all the other members of her old herd needed her. Tonight they grieved the loss of their old stallion.
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Sweet Taworri had spent the entire battle beside Kala and Jannali, sick with worry over both stallions, and attempting to comfort the other two, former, Nevada mares. She had been beside herself with worry, not able to wish either stallion the victor because knew which ever one lost would not come away with his life. Taworri hated violence, she had hoped and hoped that both would somehow survive, but had also known, deep down, that this would not be so. Head held low, she had waited for the finally moment, Biara beside her, pressed against her both to comfort and be comforted. Kurrawa had also stood beside her, trembling with fright; though a yearling now, for once succumbing to foal-like fear, eyes wide with terror as he listened to the sounds of the battle, smelt the foreign smell of spilled blood in his nostrils, instinctively bringing him horror. When the two roan mares moved forwards to go see for themselves the outcome of the battle, Taworri had waited a moment, aware of Jannali's intense love for Nevada and somehow knowing the outcome before she even saw it. Finally, she too had gone forth, her smooth gait carrying her lightly acorss the ground though her body felt like lead. She had bent her head to Nevada, said good bye while cleaning the blood off his face for the last time, before turning to look once at Tingara, touching his once, letting him know that she did not blame him, knew it was the way of the bush, but that she could not be near him right now. Shuddering with the horror of it all, she had taken Biara and Kurrawa away, the young colt's eye's still wide with horror at the sight of the mangled corpse that he did not know was his father.
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Wirruna had spent the fight the same way Crayola had, trying desparately to ignore it. She had grazed by the spotted mare, resolutely forcing her mind away from what was happening just over the rise. When all was quiet and Crayola moved away she did not follow. She didn't want to see what had happened up there. She'd wait to see the victor when he finally came and rejoined his mares. Once Kooraloo made as if to go see for herself the outcome of the fight, but Wirruna called her daughter back so unusually sharply that, for once, the filly obeyed. Standing quietly beside her mother, she listened, straining to hear some indication of which way the fight had gone.

[tingara]

It was only barely that Tingara registered what Myrrina was saying but he was incredibly grateful for it. Her voice was soothing and calm in a time of inner turmoil and grief. He turned and nuzzled her softly, glad for her company and her wisdom. She was right; he could not stay here and neither could whatever remnants of his herd he would have left after this. The valley was now a resting place and now, until the bones of the white stallion had completely bleached, none would or should live there out of respect. The King would take his herd south, to the valley of the Brolga. There it would still be safe and sheltered from men and winter’s fury. ”Come; we will leave this place as soon as dawn’s light is on the horizon. For now I must rest if I am to make the journey,” the black stallion sighed to his mate.

Guilt twisted like a knot in his stomach at the sight of Durroon. The wise old mare was one that he had not been planning on going after out of respect for her love of Nevada, and yet here she was seeking him out. He was about to ask why when she told him herself. Tingara nodded respectfully, showing he understood her, but found no words to say through the shock and sorrow he felt. Their noses touched with unexpected warmth and understanding. Although this mare was grieving she trusted him and that heartened the black stallion greatly.

Again he was soothed by the presence of Crayola. The beautiful and gentle mare’s touch made the black stallion feel slightly better and the pain of everything dull a little. He still had mares that loved and respected him even after what he had done. As Durroon and Myrrina had said, it was the way of the bush. If any of Nevada’s old mares needed to leave him then so be it. He would not pursue those who went, although none had moved to leave yet.

As though she had read his thoughts, Tingara felt Jannali’s nip and snorted in anger. It had been uncalled, unnecessary and had hit soft and bruised skin. Although frustrated by it, the King did nothing other than snort. He watched the blue roan mare go and thought her foolish to take Kala away from the herd. If she wanted to go, then fine, she had always been love struck with Nevada but Kala was carrying Tingara’s foal. To him it was unfair of Jannali to make Kala leave a place where she was safe and loved. Maybe he would go after Kala in the future after all.

After everything it seemed that it was only Kala and Jannali Tingara had lost and he had gained Durroon. Like the other mares, the King too lifted his head and called out sadly to the mountains. Nevada, the noble white stallion, would be missed and life would go on but he would never be forgotten as long as there were those around who knew him. Once his trumpeting cry had ended, Tingara turned away and limped back to the main valley where he would rest and then lead the herd away.