Boredom rising (open/Tom)

[byrch]

(ooc: This is about a day after they were captured, also not my best post, sorry )

Dust rising from the rough dirt, the brumbies were scattering away from the gate. Myorli looked up toward it, noticing the man coming with the food. Snorting, she turned and followed the others, but stayed a distance away from them. The sun was just rising. Turning back to face the man, she kept her ears forward, eyes only slightly closed, and watched him. Man was fascinating her, the way they moved, communicated with each other, and their control over horses.

The control frightened Myorli. She didn't want to be held under them, to be tied, with a bit in her mouth. She had talked with Bill a lot. He was friendly, and filled with wisdom of everything here. The strange trees were "fences", the strange plants that tied the horses were ropes or halters or bridles. The strange hills were houses, where the men lived.

Raising her head, she snorted at the man who had chased them here, still made her uncomfortable, but she was fascinated by him. Tossing her head, she trotted over to where he had put the food, sniffed it, and started eating. The other horses had another idea, and chased her away. Squealing, she cantered away, before they squished her. Her coat was dulled with dust and sweat, her mane and tail still shown brightly in the sun. The other's were just a bunch of bullies, only wanting the food and water. Her attempts at flirting with the stallions were answered only with laid back ears and bites to her. The mares were all crabby old nags, expecting her respect their authority since she was younger.

She was becoming bored when Bill wasn't here. Coming up to one of the boards in the fence, she sniffed it, and began biting at it passively. Her eyes caught the sight of men, and she stopped her biting, watching them.

[Corowa]

Tom shaded his eyes as he stepped out of the hut. A northerly had picked up in the last few hours. It came roaring down into the valley, tearing at the crowns of the tallest gums. The lines around the stockman’s eyes deepened as he frowned. He poured the rest of his tea out onto the ground and with a quiet word to Banjo, headed over to the yards.

The kelpie followed obediently at his heels. He’d been a queer bugger ever since the fire. Tom didn’t know where the dog had holed up, but he’d come limping out of the bush a week later, yelping and bawling like he’d been gone a year.

Jack, Bill and Pilot were loose in the yard nearest the hut. They heard the rattle of oats in the pannikin, and came to the fence at once. Tom grinned and gave Bill’s plain old head a pat. “Glad to be back with yer mates I s’pose,” he told the horse. “That other lot hasn’t got a brain to share between ‘em.”

Pilot quivered under Tom’s hard gaze, but the colt stood still and let the stockman run his hand down his neck. There were a few lumps where chunks had been taken out of him by the other two horses, but other than that, the colt was in pretty good nick.

Tom glanced up sharply at a noise from his right. That neat little chestnut stood watching him through the slip-rail fence. The filly reminded Tom of a curious child the way she looked so serious. There was no denying she was a cut above the rest of the horses he’d brought in. Tom thought it might be worth the effort to break her to saddle after all. She would be worth quite a few shillings more down at Cooma if he could get her going quietly enough.

He approached the yard, speaking in a low voice to the filly. Behind him, one of the horses whinnied impatiently. Tom thought it was Bill, but he didn’t bother to turn around and check. The stockman was only a few feet from the fence when he stopped. He held out the pannikin of oats until they were in reach of the filly, and his gaze never moved from her. If she wanted a good feed, she’d have to come to him to get it.

[byrch]

Seeing the man come out of the house, and how the other horses reacted to him, made Myorli even more curious. Ears stretched as far forward now, she watched him carefully. The strange dog followed him closely.

Bill and the other two ran up to greet the man, who carried a "bucket" that seemed to have food in it. Myorli licked her lips. The other horses hadn't let her eaten since she had spoken to Bill. She guessed that, by their book, if you even talked to a domestic horse, that made you one. Thinking back to the present, she continued watching. The man patted Bill on the head, and gave the chestnut colt a gentle stroke. The colt did look a bit shaken, but the man looked calm and peaceful at that moment.

Then, he turned to look at her, still holding the bucket. She didn't avert her gaze or mover at all. He began coming toward her, in a non-threatening way, holding the food. She looked from his face to the bucket, and back again.

One of the other horses whinnied for him to come back, but Myorli wasn't paying much attention to anything, except the man. She started blowing through her nose, starting to become fearful, but transfixed in one spot by his look and the food.

Just as he reached the fence, she just couldn't take it anymore, she turned and trotted away, but turned a short distance from him, looking back. She didn't want to be hurt by him, or have him make those loud noises again. He stood quietly, almost like he was waiting for her. She snorted, keeping her ears forward, tossing her head, trying to decide what to do. She looked toward the other horses, who were at the far end, far away from the man. Turning her head back to the man, she snorted again.

Lowering her head, but still keeping an eye on the man, she slowly walked to him, taking long pauses between steps, just to make sure he wasn't going to hurt her. Reaching him, she slowly moved her head to find the food, always keeping her eye on him, watching his every move.

[Corowa]

Tom waited quietly at the fence. Black flies clustered around his mouth, and he brushed at them with his hand. His eyes narrowed, and he looked over at the small mob of brumbies quivering and shaking at the far end of the yard.

That lot was good for bugger-all. It had been a dry year, and the continuing drought had left them weak. But, Tom reckoned if he was smart about it, he could still make a tidy profit on them down in one of the bigger towns.

That chestnut filly was a real beaut though. Tom knew if he could get her gentled enough, she might make a decent enough hack for some wealthy farmer’s wife. The filly had a lot more class than the rest of those scrubs. He didn’t think she’d take too kindly to being treated rough, and it wouldn’t do to have her going all wild-eyed and spooky.

Tom looked up suddenly. While he’d been busy thinking, the filly had moved back towards the fence. He held the pannikin steadily out in front of him. He spoke softly to the filly, tried to coax her just a bit closer. She had a heck of a lot more guts than any of those other useless mongrel. Even now she nosed the pannikin of oats, quiet as you like. Tom let the filly get a good look at everything. He always thought it was best to let horses figure things out on their own.

[byrch]

Watching him, she lipped at the strange grains in the pan. Tasting the delicious oats, she almost forgot about the man, and quickly gobbled up some more. The taste, was indescribable, not as sweet as snow grass, but not bitter, or sour, it was just good. It filled her belly, which had taken a few lumps through the past days. She hadn't eaten the past day or today, being more preoccupied with impressing stallions and running to this strange place.

Flies were starting to settle on her. Swishing her tail to either side, she shook her head to get them off her eyes. Taking a step back away from the man, she eyed him again. He was, trying to whicker to her? Turning her left ear toward him, and the other to the other horses, in case they went crazy again, she stood there, trying to figure out what he was saying.

It was calming, strangely enough. She had heard him yell and be loud, but now, all was quiet, and calm. It was confusing to Myorli. She tilted her head, trying to figure it out. If he were a horse, she might have followed him, he had shown power. But, he was man, and was confusing in his ways.

What Bill had said yesterday, had frightened her. Or, it was what he hadn't told her, what he refused to tell her about. The meaning of "sold". She got the feeling it ment going to some where else, but not to her beloved freedom. If she were to choose, between leaving here or staying, she'd rather stay. Here, she knew what would happen, at least a little bit, and it wasn't as scary here.

[Corowa]

OOC: Okay you can pretend that Tom has since ridden out and left Pilot (Nooroo) and Bill in with Myorli in your next post. Gives Myorli a chance to talk to a horse other than Bill.

The filly ate a handful of oats, quiet as any stationbred mount. Tom ran a hard eye over the young chestnut brumby. It had been a tough year for man and beast, and he reckoned if it didn’t rain soon, they were going to have a hell of a time of it come winter. Most of the stock around these parts was in need of a good feeding. Yet, even though ribs showed beneath that dusty chestnut coat, Tom would have sworn there was a touch of blood-horse in there somewhere.

Years and years back, there had been a wily old stallion who had escaped from a station up Tumut way. In this part of the Snowy Mountains, he’d stamped a lot of his get with his distinctive chestnut colouring. Tom had picked up the story from the Bergman brothers. They were worthless layabouts the both of them, but bloody good stockmen all the same. Knew a fine piece of horseflesh when they saw it, they did. Always said, there’d been none finer than that cunning chestnut bastard.

He turned the pannikin over, and tipped out the last of the oats. The wind took the empty husks, kicking up a cloud of dust as it passed through the yards. The horizon was hazy, a line of wavering heat that hung over the tree tops.

Tom spat onto the ground. He hadn’t seen Sterling or that fool boy Mal around. Reckoned they must have left well before sunrise, and it would be a busy day for the both of ‘em. A horse whinnied, and Tom knew that it was Bill calling for his breakfast. He had seen how friendly the old packhorse had gotten with the filly. Thought maybe it would be best to leave Bill and Pilot in with the brumbies while he rode out to check on that mob of cattle up past the Chimneys.

[byrch]

The man was putting the two horses in. Myorli knew Bill, but she hadn't properly introduced herself to the striking chestnut colt. Myorli noticed how the colt reacted to the man, with fear, but almost to scared to do something. Bill, on the other hand, showed much respect to the man, and did as he pleased. Myorli had mixed feelings on the man. He hadn't hurt her while she ate from the pan. She just didn't know enough to make a judgement call.

The other brumbies stared at her. Their ears were pricked, but their eyes were filled with, hatred. She had dared to go up to man, a brumbies worst enemy, and had eaten out of his hands. She just pinned her ears back at them. She had gotten a good meal, while they stood shaken by the fence. They now turned their attention to the gate, where Bill and the chestnut colt were coming in. The brumbies look turned to a mix of fear and disgust, and then they just ignored the two tame horses.

Myorli watched the wild horses reactions. She snorted to herself. She turned her head toward the two. Giving a greeting nicker, she trotted over to the two. She went to Bill first, exchanged breaths with him, and then went toward the colt and did the same.

"Hi Bill, how are you?" she asked him, but she kept her eyes on the colt. He sure was a looker, a little plain, but still attractive. Turning her head to the colt, she asked "What's your name?" She gave her head a little shake, to get her forelock to hang just right.

[Corowa]

Bill greeted the filly with a loud snort and a friendly rub of his head. He flicked his tail at the flies, and both ears came forward as he looked around the dusty yard. Most of the brumbies kept well clear of the two stockhorses, except for a slab-sided bay mare. Yet, even she remained a few hundred feet away. Bill whinnied to the bay, hoping he might encourage her closer. When she refused to move, the gelding turned his attention back to Pilot and Myorli instead.

Nooroo quivered with excitement. It had been a very hard week for the two-year-old colt. He was not used to the weight of a saddle, and he moved a little stiffly on his off-side. The man had been unusually tough these last couple of days, but none of the other horses had been surprised when he told them. That was the life of a stockhorse they had said. At least here, they were safe from the dangers that plagued the lives of the wild horses.

The filly was one of the neatest he’d seen. She was a rich golden chestnut with a silver mane and tail. Yet, while the filly interested Nooroo, the colt found he wanted only her company. He did not want her for his herd as he might once have in the past. The realisation troubled Nooroo, but it was gone as suddenly as it had come, and after all, there was still this strange and exciting filly to meet.

“I am Nooroo,” he said with a proud toss of his head. “Though the man calls me Pilot.” The colt gave a contemptuous snort. Nooroo remembered what it was to be newly captured, and he glanced over at the frightened mob of brumbies. He had not understood much of what Bill or Jack had told him happened to brumbies once they had been run into the yards. Bill said it had been luck, good luck, Tom had kept him on. Now Nooroo found himself worried, this chestnut filly would not be so fortunate.

[byrch]

(ooc: Crappy post)

Myorli tumbled his name in her head. Nooroo, quick. She hadn’t been able to see him move much, but she didn’t doubt that he was fast. He seemed built for it. And then, there was the other name, Pilot. Very strange name, she thought. No meaning behind it. She glanced over at Bill, wondering if he had a name with meaning. Bringing her attention back to Nooroo, she took another sniff of him. He had that same strange smell that Bill had.

It somewhat puzzled Myorli, this strange smell. Thinking it not polite to ask about, it, she instead said “My name is Myorli, for the red kangaroo.” She bowed her head a little, fluttering her eyes at the dust.

Flickering her tail at those darn flies, she turned her attention to the bay mare that dared come near the trio. She pinned her ears back at the mare, gave a mean neigh, shook her head, and glared. These two were her males; she didn’t want any other mares stealing their attention. There were plenty of other stallions in the bunch, all cranky old ones.

Bringing her attention back to the pair, she decided to strike up conversation. “So, does the man have a name?” Her curiosity of the man was deep. Very deep, bordering obsession, but she wasn’t going to make it apparent to these two. She took a step closer to the pair, her gaze intense on them.

[Corowa]

Nooroo’s ears flicked forward, and he watched on with interest as the filly menaced the slab-sided bay. Beside him, Bill snorted as if amused by Myorli’s outrage. The old gelding stood in a small scrap of shade. There was a fine gleam of sweat over his brown coat, and his head was bowed against the unusually strong wind.

Nooroo wondered how many horses Bill had seen come through the yards here at Dead Horse Creek. It had already been a year since he had been captured, and already Nooroo found he had forgotten much of life beyond those rough-hewn fences. The most recently broken in, Nooroo still felt a restless longing for freedom. He could not understand Bill’s placid resignation towards his fate. It struck the colt as strange that the old packhorse would so willingly serve man.

Like most newly captured brumbies, the chestnut filly undoubtedly still clung to the faint hope of escape. It was a rare thing though, for a brumby to escape, even if it had happened once or twice in the past. It would take a very strong horse to clear the high fence. Indeed, it had been said that even the great Thowra, had almost been caught, when he had dared to steal away that tame cream filly.

Nooroo was rather confused by the filly’s curiosity in the man that had captured her and the rest of her mob. Such things did not matter surely, when they would more likely than not, be sold come the end of the droving season. Yet, if Bill was surprised, the old horse gave no sign. The bay gelding lifted his head and stared hard at the young filly. “His name is Tom,” he said quietly after a moment’s pause. “He is not bad in the way of most men. Sometimes rough, but never cruel. There are many worse places that a horse could find himself. Places, where one’s spirit is slowly broken by years of hard use.”