Crappy old barnes are fun to draw [Forte]

[Inconnu]

I was so bored of being couped up in my hotel. This generally tended to happen. Although I was a champion at day dreaming I generally didn't do so well between four walls. And what can I say, I hate those stupid generic paintings that hotels have above their beds. Ugh. Hideous.

It wasn't too bright yet. I had struck out before the sun was up and now it was just barely peeking over the sky. It's warm rays pushed me along and warmed my back through my dark grey long sleeved shirt. Ahead of me the sky looked confused. The dark of the night still lingered in the corner and the bright sun was turning the scattered clouds multi-colored.

Where the crap am I? I stopped for a second, getting my barings. Glancing around I noticed a few scruffy trees, and off in the distance rose an even scruffier barn. I turned back toward the sun and tried to see if my truck was still in sight. Can't....Tell...sun....blinding me. Ah. I turned away. O well, It's back there somewhere. I used to have this terrible ugly old black mazda but as of late I was driving a 1985 Dodge Ramcharger. Yep, it's pretty hot.

Anyways, attention refocus! The barn. That'll look lovely in my sketchbook. I turned to the left, climbing up a hill and plopping down. I grabbed my sketch book out of the blue canvas bag at my side and pulled the pencil from behind my ear. Then my onyx eyes focused on the old building. But before I had the chance to start drawing I noticed a lean grey figure emerge from the barn.

O PRETTY!!!! O he was beautiful. He was a thoroughbred for sure. And very tall. I have this strange affection for huge horses. Probably because I'm barely over five feet and it's nice sitting on them and being taller than everyone else. His coat was grey, and tight to his bones. He had a noble face and good proportions. I felt the itch to jump on him and feel the great speeds he could reach. His side was marred with scars and scrapes. He must be a fighter then. Someone should have taught him to play nice with others when he was young.

I flipped open my sketchbook to a clean page and started drawing the sleek horse amongst the myriad of others.

[Forte]

Gatsby picked his way among the stones and the weeds to nibble at the thin strands of grass here and there rather irritably. His long, slightly dirty tail swished restlessly around his hindquarters, warding off the gnats that were hovering in the air around them, shimmering in the air. He didn't notice Echo at first, he was busy making his best of a bad deal, but when he paused in his grazing and looked up he noticed her, sitting up on the hill. His ears tilted forward with slight surprise, and his nostrils dilated and then contracted in a long, rattling snort. What was this? No one ever came by here. Picking up a cautious trot around the stones he came right up to the fence line and took a good long look at her. He was rather dubious about humans these days. Sure, there had been a few that he liked... but his current owner...

A shudder went through his pelt as he decided that this human wasn't very useful, and she certainly didn't have any food. Which was what he wanted. It was long past breakfast time, but he was used to Morgan's erratic feeding schedule by now. He ambled off back across the field, keeping the corner of his eye on the human as he went back to grazing, which afforded him little nutritional value... He wanted to jump! Or to take off around the field out of sheer rebellion and frustration, but of course he could not do that.

Morgan, looking rather worse for the wear, was having extreme difficulty seeing well enough through the haze of hang-over pain to measure out feed and put it in the little rubber bin that served as Gatsby's dish. "Shit," he grumbled, as a good deal of the oats spilled on the dirty ground. Gatsby's stall door hung open, for Morgan hadn't had the presence of mind to close it last night after they'd gone for a midnight jump around the course. Gatsby's sides still bore the scars of that stupid venture, raw weals. Finally, Morgan managed to get some amount of grain into the feed bin and drag himself out the back door into the pasture.

Gatsby, when he saw the dark frame in the doorway, backed up and pinned his ears in terror. He could tell from his owner's violent air that today was not going to be a good day. No, not at all. He glanced over at the girl, wishing that he could warn her to get away before Morgan saw her, but of course he was too late for any such thing. Morgan had caught the glance and now his bloodshot eyes focused on the lone figure on the hillside.

"Oy! You there!" he shouted gruffly, a warning edge tainting the edge of his words and an almost animal sneer of disgust and violence tainting his face, "this is private property, and by rights I can get you off of it." Something in his tone suggested that this would not be an altogether pleasant process. He set the oats down, but Gatsby did not come forward, flinching at the harsh words.

[Inconnu]

I was busy sketching the lean haunches of the horse when I looked back up and he was standin at the fence. I smiled. I started putting my sketchbook away and was going to stand up and go greet him but he turned away. Ambling back into the field. His legs were so long and strong. I had a momentary day dream of riding him across the field, easily clearing the fence, and then off into the unknown. He looked as if he would enjoy that too.

As he watched me with a leary eye I picked up my sketchbook. Wait, where did I put my pencil? It should be around here I just had it. I looked around, twisting in the chalky dirt, searching with my peircing eyes for that dang pencil. Come on it's yellow! It shouldn't be that hard to find. Most of the landscape around here was brown and grey. This is ridiculous. I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration and o. The smooth wood of my pencil grazed my fingers. I put it behind my ear, that where it went. I glared at it, as if it was it's fault, and then started drawing the wide nostrils of the equine below me.

I gave a start as a man's voice reached my ears. And it wasn't a kind voice either. My pencil had flicked from my small hand and was hiding among a patch of rough grass. I jumped to my feet as this strange man yelled. It reminded me of my father's voice. After a night of hard drinking. I looked up, well rather down at him. He was tall, really tall compared to me. At least a foot taller. He looked almost sickly. His bloodshot eyes glared up at me with such anger that I was almost tempted to turn tail and run back the way I'd come. Key word.....almost.

But of course my stubborn nature rooted my boots to the ground and I stood there, glaring back at him. "Sorry man!" I yelled, my high voice arcing through the air like arrows. "I didn't see any signs." And then I strode toward him. What the hell are you doing? That's what the little voice in my head was screaming as I tromped down the hill. My boots kicking up clouds of dust that swirled around my legs and settled on my shorts. I stopped at the fence line. And that's when I noticed the reaction of the grey stud. He was pulling away from this man, his ears pinned back, nostrils flared.

I had a plan. Don't do it. But look at that horse! Horses don't act like that. I looked again at the fear etched in the grey's face. And then it clicked. Those scars. Those weren't from other horses. And then my anger matched the anger in the tall mans face. Plan time..... You're not going to be able to pull it off...... Watch me. I hopped the fence my hand reaching into the canvas bag and pulling out my wallet. I held it up and flicked it open as I said (in a very stern voice might I add) "Seargent Allison Brown LAPD at your service." My black eyes reached like daggers, I was trying so hard to be convincing. What does LAPD even mean? I flipped open my little black wallet to reveal a badge.

Quick story. When I was seven I went to a birthday party, which ended up sucking a lot and I went home and cried and told my dad (on a day he hadn't been drunk). He pulled out this toy badge and told me as long as I carried it I would be the one in charge. I figured out quickly that holding up that badge and protending to be in charge usually only got you punched in the face, but I still carry it. It's the only piece of my dad that I have. And now it may just come in handy.

"I've heard complaints of animal neglect and I am here to follow up on those calls." I flipped the wallet closed. If he looked at it too long he'd know it was plastic for sure. A slight breeze picked up and wipped my short hair into my face and I pushed it away as I said. "By the looks of this one I'd say you either need to make sure you keep your studs apart because they are fighting, or you aren't fit to own these horses." He's going to beat the tar out of you..... Probably.



OOC= Thoughts and Dialog

[Forte]

"Well, little miss, you should really learn to come around the front of peoples' property in the future, instead of skulking around their fences," Morgan snarled, stepping up towards the little woman on the hillside. The sun was in his eyes, and that fact was getting his blood up because he had a killer headache. He couldn't see properly because of the glare and the bolt of pain that came with it, but he could tell that he could probably beat her up in two seconds flat, as long as she wasn't armed, which he didn't think that she was. He squinted in the sunlight, staring her down with an almost murderous expression on his face, only enhanced by his paleness, the sanguine tint that had come to his cheeks in anger, the tall frame slightly stooped at the shoulders to look at her and the rolling, criminal gait.

Behind him, Gatsby was taking slow, wary steps towards the oats, watching his owner at all times. He could see the stiff crop stuck in one of the loops of Morgan's jeans, and he knew that his owner wasn't above using it for what seemed like no reason at all. Her reached the oats and began to eat as quickly as possible, gobbling down the food before his owner could reach him and whip him off of it, which of course Morgan didn't do. Then he started off away from the food quickly, until he was sheltered by the overhanging roof of the barn on one side, on the opposite side of the pasture from Echo and Morgan, watching them with his eyes showing the whites in his terror. Echo was right in her thought that he would be altogether too glad to leap the fence and escape - and he was quite capable of it, too. As an eventer, Gatsby was not afraid of high jumps as a rule, but he didn't have the guts to jump it on his own.

Echo was actually extremely lucky in two things. One: Morgan's drinks from the night before were obviously having a pernicious effect on his judgment and reasoning skills, and two: the sun was in his eyes. So when she spoke, in her best authoritative voice and flipped open her wallet to reveal the faux badge, Morgan didn't recognize the fact that anything was actually wrong with her story, at least not at first. When he spoke, his tone instantly changed a little bit, less gruff and violent than before as the eyed her hips for any sign of a concealed weapon. If she had one, that would make all the difference.

"Why didn't you say so, officer?" he said, although he still wasn't looking in her eyes. If she had a gun, which she still might, he didn't see any obvious trace of it. At her next words a fleeting look crossed his face, what might have been panic, but it was gone so quickly that one could hardly tell what it was at all. Morgan was not just mean without any brains to back it up, like a cartoon bad guy. He was mean and smart, which was a dangerous combination indeed. So when he spoke again his voice was level and controlled enough, although that quavering edge of hostility still sang like silver on the edge of his voice, fainter now. "I assure you that this stallion has known no roughness from my hands," he lied, "although he was abused badly before I rescued him from the brink of death. As you can see, he still doesn't completely trust anyone, and he certainly has ample food, water, and shelter."

As he spoke, Gatsby sniffed forlornly at the bottom of the empty water trough, and Morgan gave him a murderous glare over his shoulder. The horse pinned his ears and moved back to the corner of the pasture, where he stood stock still, not even moving to brush the gnats from his hindquarters. As Morgan turned back to Echo, a little whisper of a doubt sounded in the back of his mind...

"Wait, did you say LAPD?" he snarled, his voice growing in violence as the question progressed, because he was certain that she had. "This ain't Los Angeles, little miss, and you have just added impersonating a police officer to your current list of crimes." So saying, he aimed a heavy cuff at the tiny girl on the other side of the fence, feeling his knuckles catch her cheek before the motion threw him off balance and he staggered to the side, giving her more than enough time to slip away.

[Inconnu]

I was confidant. I'm gonna pull this off!!!! No you're not, look. And then he was striding towards me. Shit. He's HUGE! And when I say huge I mean HUGE! ENORMOUS! Okay, so I've lived on the streets. When I was 10 I started carrying a 6" switch blade in my boot at all times. I'm tough. I've leveled guys before, and I've escaped countless street scuffles without a scratch. But this guy, is huge. I bet his arm is as long as I am. He stopped before me, lumbering there, his hulking frame taking up my whole vision. I could smell the alcohol on him. He leered down at me. Okay, Echo, this is no time to lose your cool... Your cop story is still good. I glared back up at him, my head almost straight in the air.

Wait, as I pulled my badge I watched his manner change. He stopped the scary glaring and now looked.....well....rather sheepish. HE BELIEVES ME! NO WAY! I was giving my self congratulatory high fives in my brain when his voice, no longer respectful, curb stomped my successs party(to put it politely). Las Angeles Police Department. So that's what is stood for. Hmm, I'll have to file that one away in the very useful information drawer. Now you're in trouble. Yep.

I glanced at the grey stud. He was backed into a corner, by a rather dry looking water trough. I could make a run for it. I could turn around and be able to get back over the fence before Jumbo caught me. I'm fast. I could make it......

And then I was on the ground. Hey how did I get down here. I jumped to my feet before I knew what had happened. Dust covered the side of my body that had hit the ground and before I could figure out what was going on I was running. My face hurts. O. Did he just punch me!!!!!!!!! Didn't his mom teach him to never hit girls?! Rude! See I told you....holding up a badge and pretending to be in charge always gets you punched in the face. After my revalation I realized I was running into his pasture. Why wasn't I running away from this man and his land altogether? Good question.

And then my crazed, once criminal, mind got to work. Okay....now for plan B. Yeah because plan A worked so well. My heels kicked up dirt as I raced to the corner of the pasture that the grey stud was standing in. He looked terrified. Please don't run away just yet. Before I knew it I was a few feet away from him. Thank goodness he was in a corner or he would have been gone long before I could reach him. I took a flying leap. And landed, half way onto his back. I scrambled the rest of the way up and wound my small hand around a chunk of his mane and hung on. I made a loud sound, something like Heyaa!!!! and squeezed my heels around his lean sides.

[Forte]

Morgan didn't turn fast enough when Echo darted past him, in the entirely wrong direction, nor did he follow fast enough. "GATSBY!" he shouted, and then, "Get the hell away from my horse!" He was running towards them now - quickly, he had long legs, and he might have caught up before Echo made her mad leap for Gatsby's back if his foot hadn't hit a sodden patch of ground. He felt his legs give way underneath him as he skidded to an ungraceful halt, falling flat on his back in the dewy grass and the rocks and scrambling to his feet too slowly. Now he could see Echo scrambling up Gatsby's side and, miraculously, onto his back while the horse danced uncertainly, giving a little half-rear as he felt the sudden attack of something landing on his back. Morgan was much too late to catch them now.

Gatsby felt her heels jam into his sides, and although his ears pinned back in sudden fear of the foreign creature on his back he knew what that meant. Morgan almost always used spurs, but all the same Gatsby burst forward at a full gallop like he had been shot out of the gate at a race. The ground here was horribly rocky, but he felt no tug at his mouth to indicate direction, and he thought that if he chose a course at his own discretion then his rider would beat the crap out of him. After all, that's what happened all the time. He was still going full speed as they approached the back fence, and he didn't have much time to calculate the approach - but he didn't want to slow down even marginally for fear of the same. So he went right on towards it at full gallop, his mane and tail whipping in the wind.

He cleared the fence pretty good despite the fact that his approach was awful, but his stride became sloppy afterward for a few paces, trying to regain his balance after the somewhat ungraceful landing. Luckily for Echo he was a really smooth ride and very brave - most horses would refuse a five-foot fence at full gallop. Unluckily for Echo, however, since he felt no sudden jag at the bit that would tell him to stop running, he kept right on going up the hill at the same mad pace, not slowing down a bit. It didn't occur to him that his current rider might be more gentle than Morgan, or that he wasn't actually wearing a bridle at the time.

He kept the pace up for a good mile dead straight into the countryside, where they came across a few fences and hedges that he either jumped over or (on occasion, if he felt it was too dangerous to jump) swerved around and then continued on for a long time fearing the punishment of the whip that never came. He wasn't stopping for anything - just kept running madly, and there was froth forming on his neck of sweat and his eyes were wide and crazy. If he hadn't been galloping dead-out he probably could have run much further, but as it was he soon became exhausted and then reached that point of total breakdown. He suddenly fell to his knees in the sod, shaking and steaming with sweat, not knowing if he had thrown his rider or not.

[Inconnu]

I are moving this thread to Edward Jansens stable. We'll say we jumped right into his land ok! ok!