That's My Side! || 1x1 with Dana and Bel ||

[reynard]

Two rivals brought together by their own actions...

can they recover their reputations as they recover the talent in horses?
most importantly, can they do this without killing the other?

time will tell.

[reynard]

Nigel Arrington

Age: Twenty-four years old

Appearance:
Nigel is tall and lean. He is strong, with the good musculature of purposeful training, but he is not used to manual labour. He stands at a rather impressive 6'1, which rules out ponies and smaller horses as a reasonable riding choice. He has dark skin, as befits his heritage. This has been lightened slightly by the vile English weather, although not enough to make it immediately apparent. His features are slightly Arabic in shape, giving him a long, straight nose, full lips, and eyes of a medium brown. His hair is black, tightly-curled and usually in a little bit of disarray. Nigel has long, slender hands and feet callused by nothing but lifelong horse work, broad shoulders, long limbs and a large stride. He is not brutish, but there is a power and endurance to his movements that implies unexpected strength.

Nigel broke his right collarbone and wrist in the accident. While they have healed well, the collarbone had to be surgically fixed and this has left a significant scar. Nigel's wrist can cause him pain if he overworks it, and since he is right-handed, there is a real danger of him doing so. He was also burnt in the accident.

Personality:
Nigel is not good at making friends. He was home-schooled, and while he rode with little girls, he rarely spent time with other children socially. He is a typical Arrington: opinionated, loud, stubborn and brave. He is fiercely loyal to himself and the few things he loves. Nigel is devoted to his passions (horses, crime novels, dancing and Romantic poetry - like any good Arrington boy), but disregards everything else. He is handsome, in an unconventional way, and he knows it. Nigel dresses brilliantly and has a winning smile when he turns on the charm. He is very good at getting what he wants, and if one method doesn't work, he will keep trying until he succeeds. He has a substantial ego, and while he's not exactly chatty or sociable, he is excellent at making his opinion known and assumes that it should always be taken into account. He is not above an argument, and definitely not above sulking. However, Nigel's tempers usually burn fast. His attention is fleeting unless the subject is truly important to him.

History:
Nigel Arrington was born Hagos Bekele, and was placed in an orphanage in Addis Ababa soon after his birth. He remembers very little of his time there, and has never returned. His adoptive mother, Hilary Arrington, travelled to Ethiopia with the hopes of incorporating Abyssinian horse bloodlines into her string of polo ponies. She returned with three Oromo mares, an Oromo stallion with great legs, and a two year-old son. This caused great consternation in the Arrington clan. The family was conservative, imperialist and horrified by the spectacle of the thing. Hilary, who was in her late thirties, had never married and was widely said to be making a very big mistake.

As soon as he could talk, Nigel was talking about horses. He was a reserved, timid little boy, alarmed by the new country he found himself in full of very different, sometimes hostile people. Horses pacified him and made him confident. Hilary was delighted by her son's interest, and did everything in her power to encourage it. Nigel got his first pony, a kind Welsh Section A gelding named Cobbler, when he was three years old. As he grew and matured, he moved onto more ponies of increasing talent and difficulty. Nigel was home-schooled, as his mother wished for him to devote as much time as possible to riding lessons. He showed a natural aptitude for riding, with good rhythm and balance, and very gentle, attentive hands and seat. Nigel began to take a lesson a week on Cobbler when he was four, which grew to two lessons a week on Hamlet when he was six. By the time Nigel was nine years old he was riding daily, either in intensive lessons or on his two horses, Lemonade and Gracie.

When he was twelve he began to compete in three-day eventing, and got his first competitive horse. Tentobhan's La Lucio was a willful but flashy black thoroughbred, and he taught Nigel how to win with flair and without humility, and (more frequently) to lose with, if not grace, then at least acceptance. Nigel worked with Lucio until he was fifteen, clocking up wins and making quite a name for himself in the show-jumping arena. Then the gelding became his secondary competitive horse, and Arringfield's Serengeti entered his life. Sarah, as he called her fondly, was the granddaughter of one of the mares that his mother had brought back from Ethiopia. She was mostly warmblood, with the Abyssinian blood in her genetics giving her a rough pelt and green eyes. She was beautiful, daring, agile, willing and bold, and Nigel loved her more than anything else in the world. They practically lived together. They won, and won well. Nigel seemed set to make the national team. Lucio was traded for a talented but flighty young mare named Ophelia.

The Accident happened when Nigel was twenty years old, and everything fell apart.
_____________________________

Taylor Lee Malloy

Twenty-Three years old

As much as she hates it, Taylor is the stereotypical Irish look. With flame red hair, pale skin, and enough freckles to kill a bear, the only thing that keeps her out of the ginger category is her shining emerald eyes. She has a very small agile frame, almost petite but not quite. She only stands at about five feet three inches, making her rather short by most standards. Compared to the horses she has preferences to, she looks like a dwarf. Her fingers are dainty and long, and her whole body is covered with more than her fair share of freckles. However, years of equestrian sports have been kind to her, as she is very in shape and lean. Because she always wears gloves when riding, her fingers are still soft and smooth, but her hands are very strong. Her red hair is kept long, but is usually braided back. When showing, she usually french braids it before tucking the end under itself and pinning it there, keeping everything in the helmet. However, at home it is not uncommon for her just to throw a bandanna in her hair in ride with that under her helmet to keep her hair somewhat in line. She has a few scars here and there that mar her perfect skin, most of them tokens of a horseback rider. She has broken and fractured various bones in her body from falls and incidents. Although, she has broken her wrist from falling down the stairs. Her shoulder has a scar of the twisted and melted flesh that is a result of the fire, when she was trying to get out and something alight hit her upper shoulder.

Taylor can mostly be described as an arrogant individual who knows she was born to greatness. Carrying her head high, she looks down at those whom she deems inferior to her, instead only mingling with those that of are equal or higher status than her. She tends to get her way very easily, not ashamed to bat her eyelashes to make someone do something for her. A beautiful girl, she is a fly trap that sucks people in so she can use them and spit them out. Her green eyes hold a cunning light to them, showing that she is no brainless bimbo, but instead an intelligent web weaver. She knows when to be charming, and when to let her real personality show through. She has a thing for the high life, not afraid to drop hundreds of thousands of dollars when she feels like it. However, Taylor does have a good eye for horses. They seem to be the only thing she can get along with, and she enjoys their company. Her patience with them can wear a bit thin at times, but usually she is very good with them. When something goes wrong, she is more likely to blame herself than a horse.

Taylor was born in Kildare, Ireland, to an Olympic medalist and a successful racehorse owner. She grew up in the spotlight, always being around the horses and used to her mothers fame. Her mother, Donna, earned a Bronze Medal in the summer olympics with the Irish Riding Team. Therefore, it was expected that Taylor would follow in her mothers footsteps. Like a true Malloy, she had an affinity to horses from the start, riding as soon as she could whenever she could. It was not long before there was talk that the Olympics may see the second Malloy in no time at all. However, the accident put a kabash on her immediate competing plans, taking her out of the games for years. She went from being the future golden girl to the shunned Malloy in a heartbeat.

Her younger sister has taken up her mantle as the Malloy Princess. Reagan Malloy is a shining star and a nice girl, something that Taylor despises. She worked her way to the top, throwing elbows and making enemies. Her sister just walked in and was accepted as if it was no problem.

She was nineteen when the accident happened.

[reynard]

Stall 1

Molly
(Monster, It, That)
Shetland Pony mare
10hh, indeterminate age,
between eight and twenty-eight.
Light grey, usually filthy
Ridiculously cute
Also ridiculously naughty

Stall Two*usually kept outside*
Black Tie Affair
Irish Sporthorse Stallion
17.1hh, eleven years old
Seal Bay, large blaze,
four socks.

Stall 3
Arrington's Ophelia
(Fifi)
Dutch Warmblood X mare
16.3hh, ten years old
Chestnut with flaxen mane and tail
socks on forelegs, long stockings on
hind legs. Star and a snip.

Stall Four
Running Colors
Thoroughbred Mare
16.2hh, eight years old
Dapple Grey, small snip,
coronets on front feet.

Stall 5
Drumroll Please
(Rolly, sometimes fondly Roland)
Holsteiner gelding
17.2hh, twelve years old
Dark bay, thin stripe to
the left of his face.

Stall 6
Ambassador
Hanoverian gelding
17hh, nine years old
Chestnut with a small heart shaped
star off center.

Stall 7
Aristotle
Thoroughbred gelding
15.3hh, nine years old
Run-of-the-mill bay, sock on near fore.

Stall 8
Alaska
Welsh Section C x Arabian mare
14.1hh, twelve years old
Red roan with sabino, large
white snip covering most of nose.

Stall 9
Lady Luck
Irish Sport Horse mare
16.2hh, six years old
Black, two hind socks, coronet band on off fore.
Small star.

Stall 10
Fox Trot
Oldenburg Gelding
16.3hh, seventeen years old
Sorrel chestnut, small stripe,
ermine spots on feet.

Stall 11
Cheesecake
Cob gelding (exact breeding unknown)
14.3hh, sixteen years old
Palomino, white face, wall eye.
Four white stockings.

Stall 12
Black Winter
Appaloosa Mare
15.2hh, fourteen years old
White with black leopard spots,
totally white bald face.

-- Temporary Stalls --

Open Stall 1

Open Stall 2

Open Stall 3

Open Stall 4

[reynard]

Nonsense. That was what this whole ordeal was. She had healed, her scars were the only evidence of the mistakes she had made, she had learned her lesson. Ready to ride again, she had told her mother she was ready to begin her jounrey again, only to earn pursed lips and a shake of her head. Apparently nearly getting toasted had not been enough of a learning lesson for the Malloy matriarch, and she had sent her oldest daughter to Scotland of all places. No money, no contact, just time. They told her it would be good for her, that Reagan would be able to keep the Malloy name going in the meantime. It was thinly veiled, the 'your sister has replaced' you part of everything. She had pitched a fit, hollering at her parents, her sister. How could they do this to her, turn their back on her? Resignedly, after exhausting all her options, Taylor had sighed and agreed to her mothers idea. They had set her up at another farm in the reaches of Scotland, saying that her business partner would meet her there. They would not tell her who it was, oh no. It all had to be some huge mystery. They told her that paying the rent was up to her, that they would give her no more money at this point. They had gotten her started, and that was it. Fly bird, you have been kicked out of the nest in such an ungraceful manner. Taylor supposed she was lucky that they let her take her two horses at all. Aristocrat and Raine. Well, Raine was more of a horse she brought out of spite, as it was her sisters favorite mare out of the ones the family owned. The mare had lots of potential, but was a bit lazy. Taylor would enjoy showing her sister how much better a trainer she was by getting that mare into such fine competitive shape that she couldn't possibly lose. However, the real prince of the barn was Aristocrat, who had belonged to Taylor his whole life. Sired by his mothers Olympic mount, his bloodlines were so fine that they made him the blue blood of horses. A proud dark bay, his color was so deep he was almost black instead of that dark brown.

The horses had been sent ahead, and Taylor had flown over after. The taxi she was in had a driver that would not cease talking, and a radio that was playing some form of disgusting ear shattering music. Burying her head in her hand, she asked herself once again why she was being punished after she had already handled that part on her own. Running her hand up her arm, she felt the scars on her skin underneath the fabric of her shirt, the melted feeling that still made her queasy. She still remembered the pain, the feeling of the fire on her skin. But she had to get Aristocrat, as he had been in the barn. One could not let such a fine horse, a future King, die in such a horrible way. Although, the reason in her heart that she rescued him was because she would not have been able to live with the guilt if he had died from a fire she caused. Remarkably, the horse had made it out unscathed, but a little spooked.

The taxi turned down a dirt drive, and she immediately thought of how pathetic this farm was. Unpainted wooden fences, a dirt path instead of a properly paved drive. Not her standards at all. No gate at the entrance, ready to buzz in those they see fit. For Gods sake, didn't they have a caretaker here at least? Wait, who was she kidding. This place was probably the bare bones of farms, as her parents would never actually give her something she could work with. The taxi pulled up to the main house and Taylor stepped out, impractical flats clicking against the gravel of the drive. The driver brought her bags around, although most of her stuff had been sent ahead. He stood next to her expectantly. "Can I help you?" she finally asked, raising one of her fine eyebrows.

"Payment for the ride, Miss," he said with a concerned look. She cursed under her breath, digging out her wallet from the purse she had her side. She thrust the correct amount of Euro's into his hand, and he furrowed his brow at it, opening his mouth to say something. However, the displeased look on her face as she looked around must have warded him off, as her mood was just getting stormier at this point. Nodding, he got back into the car and drove off. Looking about, she rolled her suitcase towards the barn, wanting to see what she was working with. Her accommodations were probably going to be horrible, so she rather go to the place that mattered most. Sixteen stalls, twelve of them housing horses. How small, how drab. This almost couldn't get worse. However, a car pulling into the drive made her walk to the end of the barn, looking out. When she saw who got out, she banged her fist on the door with a frustrated cry.

"Of course it is you, of course!" she cried out at Nigel as he made his way towards the barn as well. "Really, is this really happening? No. I refuse to work with you, you pompous jerk."

[Verdana]

It was all Medwyn's idea.

Not that everything was the same, since... Since. But there were some things that had remained unchanged. Medwyn and Nigel had practically grown up together. Med had gotten a job as a water-filler in the big show stables when he was twelve and Nigel was eight, and they had become firm friends almost instantly. Medwyn was a short, stocky young man with dark hair, huge beetling eyebrows and a torso like a keg of beer. The man could lift three saddles at once. He had moved up the ranks from stable boy to groom, and sat comfortably in the head groom position at Arrington Acres. Med had moved upwards, but Nigel had not. Perhaps it was for the best that he was leaving before anything else went wrong.
As head groom, Medwyn heard everything. He was the first to know that Nigel was looking for a place to call his own, and made it his own personal mission to find one. He had found the reasonably-priced plot of land, set up a partnership, helped Nigel buy his very own first car (a rusted white pickup truck which groaned past third gear) and a dilapidated two-horse box with what he had left of his trust money. So, off went Nigel.

Sure, the yard was in Scotland and Med warned him that it was in a fair state, but the further the better, as far as Nigel was concerned. He needed some space to clear his head. He had assumed, apparently wrongly, that everything would go back to normal as soon as all of the press coverage had died down. Well, the press had forgotten, but the horse world hadn't. Nigel just couldn't understand what all of the fuss was about! He had been young and passionate. Everyone makes mistakes. Their punishment seemed unwarranted, and while he had taken it (if not in good grace), he had been outraged to note the stares and sniffs of disapproval which had continued to be directed his way. Honestly! Who were they to judge an Arrington? Even worse, it had gotten to his mother.

She would come round. He was sure of it. She would miss him after a week, and regret her hasty words. He would stay a month - maybe two, to make a point - then return home quite redeemed. Wait and see.

Nigel and his truck trundled down a winding road ragged from wind and water. Behind him, the empty horse box rattled and clanked. He had considered driving his horses down, but he had thought it unsafe and flown them instead. It was the first thing that he and his mother had agreed on since... For a while. Medwyn had been unable to make the journey to Scotland with him, and everyone else had been busy too. Friends were like bees, he thought grimly. They loved you in your summertime sweetness, but when the gold faded away they simply moved on. It didn't matter. Not really. Nigel worked best alone. He always had. In fact, he would have gone into his new venture quite alone had his funds allowed it. No matter. Just because he had a partner didn't mean he had to talk to him. Or her. What if it was a woman? Would the same apply then? Probably. People were all the same: fickle and a nuisance. He hoped that there were two separate houses on the property.

In hindsight, there was a lot that Nigel had forgotten to ask.

However, he needed wait no longer. He had arrived at the turn-off, marked with a white-painted stone cairn, as promised. Only, the white was sort of a dirty beige, and it wasn't so much a cairn as a haphazard pile. Nigel would have to get one of the hands to make a more appropriate sign. Redemption Hills, the place was called, home of the defunct Redemption Riding School. What a name, he thought as he passed into what he assumed was the yard. There was no gate, no real fence. Where on earth did they turn out the competitive horses? Where was their mechanical walker? Their wash bays? What if they didn't even have a red light facility?

Shaking away his doubts, Nigel pulled the pickup truck to a stop. Ah, that was more like it. One of the grooms was coming up the drive to meet him. She would take his horses so that he could invest himself in managerial pursuits. He had to take stock of the grounds, work out where he was putting his horses, meet with the landlady... What an awful mess of a place. It wasn't what he'd expected at all. He opened the door to the pickup truck, and swung his legs out. He was dressed to make a good first impression, in his sleek tailored breeches and hunting jacket. He was looking a bit rumpled by the journey, but nonetheless was almost sure that he cast a dashing and professional image.

'Funny, though', Nigel thought as his full-length boots touched firm, damp ground. 'That groom looks almost like...'

No.

Oh no. There was no missing that hair. There was no mistaking that walk. It couldn't be happening. This could not be the reality. Nigel scrambled to look impassive. He needed the upper hand. 'Act like you knew. It's the only way,' he told himself, just in time to meet the furious green eyes of Taylor Malloy.

To his credit, Nigel even mustered a smile.
"Of course it's me," he answered smoothly, closing the truck door behind him and walking towards her.
"Who did you expect? And I must say I'm hurt by your insults. I'm doing you a rather large favour, letting you work under me. I'm sure it will be an experience of great growth for you. You should be honoured. Oh, and how's your sister, by the way?"

He looked around at the silent yard. It was too quiet. The home of his youth had never stopped bustling. There was always someone doing something, be it polishing a bridle or pruning one of the ornamental hedges in one of the quadrangles. If no person was to be seen, at least one of his mother's insufferable Jack Russells was gadding about, and the sound of horses filled the air. There was no note of activity in Redemption Hills. It was a dead land of disappointment.

Still, Nigel could not let Taylor know that. He clapped his hands once.
"So, where are my horses? They should have had their morning feed by now. The landlady said she would take care of the first feed. Sweet old bird, if a bit batty. She said she'd leave a note. Did you read it?" He talked to fill the void, because dead silence, and Taylor's glare, disconcerted him. Just then, though a feminine nicker rang out as if in recognition, and Nigel couldn't help but smile. Fifi. His darling little bird knew that he was there. He was sure that he could just -
But he was stopped dead three steps into his journey, by an answering neigh. This one was louder, more forceful, with a hint of...

Nigel wheeled on Taylor, his eyes hot and narrowed with disgust.
"Please," he spat, all over contempt,
"Tell me that that's a late-gelded horse, and not a stallion!"

[reynard]

Of course Nigel was dressed as if he just showed up for a triple A circuit show. Taylor wasn't dressed like a slob, but she also was not pathetically overdressed. Instead, she had on her tan britches with a polo that had the Malloy symbol over the right breast. The polo was a bitter reminder of what she had been forced to leave behind, but the family dynasty could work in her favour, even if she herself was out of favour. Quickly she ran her palms over the polo, making sure it was not wrinkled or shabby looking. If Nigel was her partner, this was going to take things to a whole new level. Of course those extra horses in there would belong to him. Rolling her eyes, she crossed her arms as one hip jutted out as she settled in her stance, glaring at Nigel.
"Your groom? You wish. This farm was bought with Malloy money too. I would say you should be my groom, but I wouldn't want you touching my horses, thanks," she said, tone dripping with contempt and scorn. "Reagan is fine, she's taking care of my other horses back home," Taylor said as she lifted her chin. Better to let Nigel think that she and Reagan actually got along at this point, and not that Raegan could very well be her own replacement. There was a reason she has taken Raine after all.
Turning on her heel, Taylor went to make her way back to the barn doors, next to where she had abandoned her suitcase. Leaning against the sliding wooden door, she continued her glaring at Nigel as he approached. "Haven't met the landlady, don't particularly care to. Barely been in the barn," she muttered the final bit, rolling her eyes. Had Taylor perused the place a little better, she probably would have had the forethought to move Aristocrat out of the barn. Not only would he upset the mares, but she didn't need him constantly jazzed up. A stallion around mares was no fun at all. Back at the Malloy Estate, stallions were kept in their own barn, and mostly stuck to their own facilities. Crossover should only happen at the breeding shed or in training and competing. There was no need otherwise.
Nigel's reaction was priceless once he heard the deep throaty nicker of the seventeen one stallion she had brought with her. Of course he would me furious, and honestly she was a bit too. After all, she would think it common sense that the landlady would not keep a stallion in with mares. When Taylor had sent him, she had assumed he would have his own facilities, and not have to share. Actually, she had assumed she would have her own barn, and the partner could have the other. If there was no other options, Taylor would have sent the stallion home. However, she had noticed on the drive in a shed in one of the pastures. The stallion had always enjoyed the outdoors rather than a stall, especially one this small. Back at the Malloy Estate, the stallion was of such high blood, he had one of the finest stalls they offered. Here, they had not realized just how high class of a horse they had in there presence.
"Certainly not a gelding. If I had made that poor of a decision with him, then I wouldn't even deserve to own him. You remember Aristocrat, right Nigel?" Her voice was sweet, but mocking. Many within the horse world knew of the Irish Sport stallion. His sire had been the mount that had taken her mother to many titles, including an Olympic bronze. That particular bloodline was kept exclusive and tempered, only breeding horses who would have the highest potential. Only Malloy horses had stood with him, with few exceptions here and there. Granted, he was retired now, and Aristocrat was currently his shining star.
Flicking open the stall door, she grabbed the halter she had sent out with him. A stallion chain was a granted as readied to put the halter on. Because it was a new environment with new and beautiful horses, Taylor opted to substitute the granted with a chifney. It took a few more moments to get on, but it also gave her bounds more control.
"Considering that we wouldn't want Aristocrat to cause any trouble, I am going to take the only field with a proper shed as his," she said, flashing a sly grin as she led the horse out. Taylor had no care to what Nigel would say about this, because his arguments would be nonsense. It was only reasonable that the outdoor horse (who happened to practically be royalty) get the best pasture. The stallion did fight a little, dancing and jittering on the line as he tried to take everything in as they walked out. The pasture was right outside the barn thankfully, a short walk. It would make mornings easier as well. Releasing the almost black horse, she smiled as he ran off, bucking and kicking away in the space he now had.
Walking back into the barn, she sauntered back up to Nigel. "I think the best way this is all going to work is you don't touch, look at, or even smell any of my horses. In return, I will ignore you fully. However, my favorite way we can go about this is you leave." Looking about, she also turned to ask Nigel a question that had popped into her head. "Also, do you have any idea what all these other horses are doing here? I only brought Raine and Aristocrat. Did you bring your entire damn barn?"

[ finalllyyyyyyyyyy O:
sorry if this is as terrible as my brain is telling me this is. i almost accidentally typed part of my psych essay in here. fail.]

[Verdana]

Taylor Malloy. Of all the people the fates could have chosen, it was Taylor ‘Bring My Own’ Malloy. There was a tradition amongst the top competitors on the eventing circuit. After your class, after results were announced, the inner circle would have a drink. It was a show of good sportsmanship, that there were no hard feelings (though often, feelings were rock-solid and seething with cold fury). The adults and some of the more rebellious teenagers drank whiskey. The juniors had orange juice. After the final round of the Summerhill Opens, everyone retired to the big tent. There they were, clustered around the juice jug, teasing and boasting, when Taylor walked past. He had been thirteen, so it must have been one of Taylor’s early shows. Someone - Nigel forgot who - invited her to have a glass with them. She was a Malloy, in the same way that he was an Arrington. They qualified for the inner circle by default, no matter their performance. Anyway, she had turned to face them and then drawn herself up, just as snobby as you please, and said, “No thank you, I bring my own.” The nickname, and the reputation, had stuck.

Still, Nigel was not going to concede defeat. The damage was done, and he could not back down. Never. An Arrington never retreated. So, realistically, he had two options. He could be very nice and agreeable, and he and Taylor could become best friends and drink cocoa and paint each other’s nails and - who was he kidding? That was not a viable possibility. All he could do was make life so unpleasant for Taylor that she was forced to flee, leaving the barn to him. The decision was easy to make. Planning and implementation would come later. First and foremost, Nigel had to check on Fifi and Rolly. Each of their legs was probably worth more than the entire pile of rubble Med had called a barn. Barn? Pah. The sooner Nigel could win and return home in a blaze of glory, the better. But first, Nigel had to survive Taylor. And the chances of that happening seemed to be dwindling by the second.

Aristocrat? So that’s who the nicker belonged to. A stallion, just as Nigel had feared.
“What, the Black Tank?” he countered effortlessly. “Can’t miss him. You’d see his lack of form a mile away. The way he drops his knees over oxers is shameful. Taught him to turn yet? If he breaks through the arena fence, I’m not helping you fix it.”
It was a low blow. So low, in fact, that Nigel almost regretted it as soon as it was out.
Almost.
In truth, there was little to fault with Aristocrat. His jump was clean, his rhythm strong. He dominated. There was no way Nigel would admit this, though. He just wasn’t Nigel’s sort of horse. Nigel liked speed and agility with lots of bend. Rolly was a complete deviation from his usual trend. An experiment, but one that Nigel was looking forward to. He had always been fond of the big, affable oaf. Rolly gave geldings their good name. He was unflappable, thoughtful and kind, though the clumsiest specimen Nigel had ever met.
That could be changed, though.

By the sounds of it, Aristocrat’s stallionhood could not.

“And you brought him here?”
Nigel stood in the driveway, deadpan and contemplative. What he didn’t say shouted into the empty space. You brought a stallion here? Here, where everything is wet and mossy and falling apart. Here, where nobody has seen an innovative thought since the middle ages. And you brought a stallion here. Nigel could not believe her. What were they going to do with him? He surveyed the lands, looking for anything he could work with. There was nothing. No mechanical walker, no lunge ring. Just one sand arena all over mud, and a patch of grassy sand that may have once been a dressage arena. There was the barn to the right (he could swear that it leaned over with each gust of wind), and the house on the hill to the left.

What a disaster.

Taylor solved the problem of what to do with Aristocrat. Nigel was not thrilled.
“Then what are we supposed to use for cooling?” he countered.
“There’s no quad for hand-walking, and the ground is loose.”
Still, he didn’t kick up too much of a fuss. After all, what choice did he have? The stallion had to be kept out of the barn. And if Taylor was kept busy washing mud off of him all day, so be it. In time, perhaps they would find a better solution. Nigel was nothing if not wise, and he knew when to choose his battles. This was not a fight worth having. Not then. But it looked like it would be, from the way the horse jittered and jived all the way to the field. A stallion like him, in a place like this? Nigel thought it was a recipe for disaster.

Taylor came back, and it was time for Nigel to take a stand. He planted himself firmly, and folded his arms.
“Oh no. Medwyn set this up. I’m not leaving. You want to be rid of me? Pack up and go. I am in this to win. Your horses, your problem. I don’t want anything to do with them. You stay away from mine, and I’ll stay away from yours.”
Just wait until that little sparrow couldn’t control Aristocrat on her own. She’d drag herself into the barn, bruised and whimpering, and beg Nigel to take him in hand. And Nigel? He would sit back and laugh, and remind her of this day.

But then she said something else. Nigel frowned.
“Wait, what do you mean, ‘other horses’? I brought two. Drumroll and Ophelia. What the hell is -”
He broke off and stormed towards the barn. There was no way, no way he was looking after more horses! Two was bad enough! They were damn expensive creatures, and they wouldn’t start earning their keep until the competitive circuits opened in Spring. Nobody had said anything about extra horses!

He walked towards the barn and pulled open the door. It creaked, shook, scattered dust and chips, but held. Barely. The barn was gloomy, and smelled of damp dust. No mildew, which was a mercy, but certainly no place to keep his horses. His frown deepened as he inspected the building. The foundation was solid enough. One central aisle, eight stalls each side. Four stalls in there was a break, and two other rooms stretched out. Tack rooms? An office, perhaps? The stalls themselves were roomy, but needed painting. Each had a window, but they were so crusted over with ivy and grime that no light shone in. The bare bulb had blown too. Great. Just great.
The first stall - the largest, with a solid grate on top - was empty. That would do for Rolly, or the stallion in a pinch. Eleven stalls were occupied. As Nigel watched, some of the occupants came out to investigate the disturbance. There was Rolly’s big fat rump. Then a nice-looking chestnut, and a black on the opposite side. A feminine nicker sounded, and there - Nigel’s heart warmed - there was his Fifi. He stepped over to her and gave her ears a rub. She leaned into his touch appreciatively.
“Good trip, Duck?” he murmured.

But there was more to do. For instance, who were the other horses, and what were they doing there? Some of them, Nigel noted, were very nice-looking animals. The black was lovely. But others... Nigel stopped in front of one stall, and stared down the offending animal within it.
“What are you?”
The horse flapped his lips as if in answer. He was an awkward creature, just between a horse and a pony. Once upon a time, he may have been golden. His sides were green and brown with mud and grass stains. His mane was matted with burrs, and his feet needed trimming. 
“Abominable,” Nigel growled, and stalked past.

There were two rooms in the middle of the aisle. One was a tack room. Nigel could make out some saddle racks, hooks, and indistinct shapes in the darkness. He didn’t much like the prospect of entering the cobwebby dimness to find out more. On the left, opposite the offending tack room, was what could be called an office. It was littered with stray hay from the loft above, dusty and greasy. In the middle sat a desk, nearly buried under halters, hay nets and spare girths. On top of the pile was a sliver of white. Nigel picked it up.

To whom it may concern, it read,

Welcome to Redemption Hills. My name is Gertie Mills. For many years I managed the barn and ran a small riding school here. However, my age and arthritis are catching up to me now, so I hand the beacon to you.

Some beacon, Nigel thought.

There are a few matters I would like to address by way of introduction:

1. I will pay this week’s bedding and feed bill as a welcome gift. However, from next week the bill will go to you. Deliveries are made on a Monday morning. Dave and his boys know where to put everything. He’s paid once a month.

2. You may use whatever you find in the office or tack room, free of charge. Please feel free to supplement it however you deem fit.

3. By now, you must have met my four ponies. They have been here since the riding school days, and these were the four I couldn’t bear to sell off. I have lowered the price of rent, on the condition that you feed and care for these four as well. Their names are Cheesecake, Black Winter, Fox Trot and Molly. I’ve moved the former three to the back of the barn. Molly is in Stall 1. ON NO ACCOUNT ARE YOU TO SWAP MOLLY’S STALL! She requires a very gentle, precise hand, and can be finicky! Darling thing.

4. Regarding the four horses that arrived before the rest, I was told to tell you to consider them a gift. I assume that you know more about this?

5. The house is up on the hill. Please find the key to the front door attached. I have left a full document on the kitchen counter. However, please note that water and electricity payments for the barn come together. Payments are due on the 28th of each month. We have a phone line here, but it is unpredictable. We do not have any of the internets. The house has does not have central heating (but there’s a lovely fireplace in the living room). Bedrooms are upstairs. There is only one bathroom, and an outhouse for emergencies. There is a bath and a shower, though the shower may give some trouble.

6. Finally, it has been five years since I officially closed down Redemption Riding School. Since then, people have been inquiring about whether or not we are looking to restart. If you would like to, I highly encourage it. You can even use my ponies. I encourage your innovation in this matter. Change is good!

If you have any questions, my cottage is just down the hill. Follow the path. It’s a 20-minute walk.

Warm regards
Gertrude Mills.

For several minutes, Nigel simply stared at the letter, dumbstruck. Slowly, the impact of what he had done rolled over him. He raised a hand, and ran it over his chin.

What on earth had he gotten himself into?

[reynard]

As she looked at the unknown horses around them, Taylor went to the one grey face she knew, stroking Raine's finely chisled cheeks and nose. Although Taylor tended to prefer the tall and muscular warmbloods when riding, Raine was the one thoroughbred she could get behind. Even though she took her with her in spite, it wasn't as if she hated the mare. No, the laid back mare pretended she wasn't a hot blooded thoroughbred, and watching her in the ring was no exception. If any horse was clunky and formless, it would actually be her and not the elite Irish Warmblood. Raine was of humble breeding, who just happened to end up having a spark of talent. The mare jumped like she had springs in her legs, it was just getting her to use them that was the chore. As well, her stamina was concerning for a Thoroughbred. The mare would start slowing and labouring far to soon when doing courses or cross country trails. They had gotten her examined to make sure there was not something physical, but apparently she was just out of shape. Lazy bum.
"For a horse that has such terrible form and jumping ability, you'd wonder where the multi-million dollar offers I've gotten for him have come from. I guess they were all blind, to offer on such a terrible horse," Taylor shot back with a smirk. Although she made it sound like she had been offered grand amounts, it actually hadn't gone over one and a half million. Still, that was a decent chunk of change for a horse that Nigel had dubbed poor. It was hard to insult a horse that practically floated on air and cleared anything put in front of him. If Taylor was not so attached to the stallion, she probably would have authorized a sale. However, the two of them had practically grown up together. Hell, they had made it through a fire together. There was nothing anyone could do to relinquish her grip on this magnificent steed. Although it may be an odd and noble notion, Taylor believed that everyone had a soulmate in this world, and that Aristocrat was hers. The connection that had was unheard of and intense, a perfect team that worked seamlessly.
"I thought the barn would be bigger. Figured he could have his own place to stay, with other horses like him. Just like back home," she said, her words dwindling as she thought of the stallions former stall and placement. A king, that was what he was. The perfect princeling. Aristocrat had been treated with the utmost regard by the grooms, his needs always catered too. The biggest stall belonged to him, as it had been formerly inhabited by his sire. There was no doubt that the stallion had been the ruler of his own little kingdom.
As Nigel began to wander, cussing and fussing about things, Taylor took the moment to peak in at some of the horses. The ones in the higher numbered stalls seemed a bit more run down, laid back and watching her with detached interest. However, it was the horses in the middle stalls that grabbed her attention. Something about them resonated within her. Looking at them, they seemed different from the others. All seemed to have at least decent breeding, and that sparkle in their eyes that she looked for when purchasing. As she looked at the horses, she began to note that they did have a whole array of personalities before them. Different breeds, different ilk...it was definitely not a coincidence. Looking for their names, she reached for one of the leather halters that hung on their stall doors. That was perhaps the other clue that something was hinky with these horses. They all had leather halters with name plates, opposed to the higher numbered horses, who had the standard old gear.
Running her finger over one of the name plates, she squinted in confusion when she noticed something. A shamrock was engraved before the name of the horse on this halter. It read "♧ Ambassador" when she peered at it. It was at that second she realized what these horses where. Going to where Nigel had disappeared into one of the tack rooms, she held up the halter. "I know where the horses are from," she said swiftly. "My mother sent them." As quick as she had walked into the room, she swooped back out. Quickly, she began to check the other halters, looking for that shamrock that would give them away. Sure enough, the horses who went by Aristotle, Ambassador, Alaska, and Lady Luck all held the engraved mark.
The Malloy's had used a shamrock as their symbol for many generations. Perhaps it was a rip off of the Irish culture, but they had embraced it and used it. Every Malloy horses halter had their symbol on it, as well as official things like blankets and gear. Usually it was filled in black, with green text over it spelling their name. But no, on halters, they had preferred the shamrock outline before the horses name. It had made identifying easier, as well as allowed for some conformity. Closing her eyes, Taylor had recalled a conversation she and her mother had just a few months ago.
Donna was suggesting that retraining and reselling horses would be a good way to get Taylor back on her feet and out of her moods. As well, it was to be a punishment, as it would take time away from her horses. Taylor had yelled until blue in the face, and the matter had been dropped. Her biggest argument was that she didn't even need the money, so there was no need for her to stoop so low as to begin retraining. Now though, she would need that money. Donna had told her there was a gift from her at the new barn. Taylor had been hoping for a new horse or perhaps something else, but this was typical of the Malloy matriarch. Donna had given them horses to make revenue.
"I still have no idea what the other horses are for though," she called to Nigel as she ran her finger over the halter in her hand.

[Verdana]

It seemed as if Nigel was not the only person feeling disillusioned by their set-up. But really, what had they expected? Nigel gritted his teeth. Somehow, he had always believed that every barn was equipped with certain features. A certain standard, if you would. Every yard he had ever visited had been clean, well-maintained, sturdy and modern. Each aisle had a hose. Everything was in order. He’d never considered any alternative. He must have known deep down that it wasn’t all like that. He must have. So why was this such a bitter pill to swallow? It didn’t seem fair. None of this applied to him! He was an Arringtons, and Arringtons only accepted the very best. As soon as he could, he was driving to town and…
And what? Enlisting help? Buying up the town’s supply of whitewash and non-toxic paint? Remodelling everything from scratch? Even if he had known what paint to buy, who to hire, how to build fences and stalls and a mechanical walker, he hadn’t the money. Not with an extra eight horses to feed.
“Bugger,” Nigel muttered, running his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t thought it would be this difficult!

No matter. He was an Arrington, and the Arringtons always adapted. He straightened up, the letter clutched between his fingers. He gathered his composure moments before Taylor returned. To his credit, she noticed nothing amiss. Instead, she solved one of the mysteries: four of the extra horses belonged to her mother.
Well, good.
“Excellent,” he said, with deceptive brightness and good spirits.
“If they’re your mother's, I assume I’m not allowed to touch, look at or smell them either. So much the better.”
If it meant he wouldn’t have to pay for them, Nigel couldn’t care less where the horses came from. But while Taylor had solved one mystery, he had solved the other.

“I do,” he said in response, walking out into the barn. It was almost ridiculous, him standing there in his third best shirt and jacket, his paddock boots pristine against the filthy floor. It was deplorable that the old woman had let her property get so run-down. And she expected him to return it to some semblance of glory! Not only that, but he was expected to do it without grooms, without staff, and with only the black sheep of the Malloy family for help.
Not her. He would have chosen anyone, anyone rather than her. There she was, standing in the aisle in her family shirt, obstinate to the point of offensiveness. It was the principal of the thing. That was what annoyed him most. They were not friends, and they certainly weren’t partners.

But that wouldn’t stop Nigel from acting the gentleman.

He proffered the letter with a flourish. Taylor might show disgust, but Nigel would never let his discontent show.
“Milady,” he said with acid sweetness, quietly mocking. Let her think he was enjoying this. Then he straightened up, and was all business.
“The four remaining ponies come with the barn. The rent rate reflects their upkeep, apparently. They used to be in a riding school. Though what child could learn from them is beyond me.” He threw a look at the grubby palomino. Its one blue eye made it look confused and lopsided, which did not add to the overall impression. The ponies of Nigel's had been clipped and neat, pristine miniatures of the larger horses in the barn. He had never sat on such a seaside donkey, and did not intend to do so.
“It’s all in the letter.”

And so it was. Including the ominous information about Stall 1. Nigel had been at the purchase of enough horses to know the lingo, and what was said in the spaces between words.
‘Good temperament’ almost always meant ‘poor conformation’. ‘Forward-going’ really meant ‘tendency to bolt’. When the landlady described the horse in Stall 1 as ‘finicky’, Nigel interpreted this as ‘a downright pain in the neck’. He pursed his lips, and marched back up the barn. Time to see this trouble-maker. Molly. Must be a mare. A biter, Nigel was sure. Probably a chestnut mare. Everyone knew about chestnut mares. Stringy thoroughbred, hot and aggressive. Probably broody and with some sort of glaring conformational faults to boot. Fantastic. Just what he needed, two bratty redheads to fend off. Vet fees would probably be through -

Nigel’s grim predictions were abruptly cut short. Stall 1 was empty. Just as he had first thought, there was nothing there. He peered over the top gate. No horse in -
Wait.
He unlatched the bottom door, and swung it open a crack, cautiously. He peered in. He froze, torn between scowling and laughing derisively.
“You have got to be joking,” he said casually, swinging the door all the way open, and throwing the grate open too. Nonplussed, he put his hands on his hip, and stared down the inhabitant of the stall.

Standing close to the door, staring him down right back, was a tiny pony. She was predominantly green and black, but Nigel guessed her to be a little grey. She was all frizzy mane, tangled tail and obstinate expression (much like Taylor, but with slightly more charm). He could not see her eyes through her forelock, but he thought she was sussing him out.
Well, he would show the ‘finicky’ little horse that he was not an opponent to trifle with.
“This is ridiculous,” he told her firmly.
“There is a perfectly good pony stall at the end of the aisle. That is where you belong. Come on.”
Her halter was on the wall beside the stall. Nigel grabbed it, and pulled it over her tiny face. He had to hunch over to get it on, but the little mare stood still and took it without protest. Nigel led her out into the barn, down the aisle and into Stall 15. The stall was made for ponies, with a lower gate and smaller size. It was already bedded down, and even had some hay in a net. Perfect.
“Must have been out of her mind,” Nigel muttered grimly. To think of her coddling the pony like that! Ridiculous. He took off the halter, and closed the door, being sure to latch it firmly behind him.
“See?” he told the pony, “Much better, isn’t it?”
The little horse stared at him, docile and still. Finicky? What had the woman been thinking? The pony just needed competent handling, was all.

It took a matter of seconds to move Rolly into the large stall. If the stallion got the pasture, Rolly got the best stall. The bedding was thick enough, but only barely. Nigel would have to reassess the way things were done. With a surge of triumph, he realised that he could do that, just change the schedule. This was his barn. His! He didn’t have to consult anybody in order to make changes. He was the master. For the first time in his life, he was his own boss, and he found that he rather liked it.
There was only one obstacle in his way, and she was wearing a Malloy polo shirt.

Nigel did not look for Taylor, but called out. His voice echoed eerily against the rafters.
“I am not pasturing my horses until I’ve looked at the fences,” he said.
“I am going to look at the house, figure out what we need before I go into town.”
Did she think to bring a car? Nigel wasn’t sure. He hadn't seen a car, and there wasn't exactly a wealth of parking space. Nigel supposed that Taylor would be begging lifts from him. Not bloomin' likely. She could walk if she had to. He didn’t care, and wouldn’t wait for her, this time or ever. He hoped that she would leave him to his house inspection. That way, he could choose the very best room for himself.

Chivalry was very important, but sometimes it was worth sacrificing for a greater purpose. Namely, Nigel's satisfaction.

[reynard]

"When I say they are my mothers, I meant they are now ours," she said shortly. She didn't bother to look at Nigel when she addressed him to focused on looking over stall doors at the horses that they had been giving. When she came to the appaloosa's stall, Taylor actually cringed. The redhead had never liked the spotted variation of equine, thinking they looked foolish and that their manes and tails were usually pitiful. The quicker they sold that one, the better. "Unless you want me to have them. I would love to keep the revenue from selling them after they are trained up. Thats why they are here. Turn them and sell them. Source of money." Why would anyone want to buy a few of them, she was not sure at all. Maybe after she got her hands on them they would actually have some potential.
Nigel's discovery of the other horses origin was a pleasant surprise. At least she would not have to do all the detective work around here. She took the letter out of his hand, eyebrow raised at his addressing of her, making a quick tsking sound with her tongue. "Now now Nigel, only the royal family can address me so formally," she said offhandedly as she scanned through the letter he had handed to her. Lesson horses. Of course. Peeking out of the corner of her eye, she made sure Nigel was not paying attention to her while she thought about it. No, he was preoccupied with the little pony, good. Allowing a small smile to appear on her lips, she read about the former lesson barn. Taylor had actually taught a few riders at some point. Word didn't get out much, as it was usually within the Malloy circles. A cousin or two had learned at least basic horsemanship under the oldest Malloy's critical gaze. She was a hard trainer, shouts and insults bandied about often, but the people she taught turned out well. After all, she had a hand in Reagan's training after her mother had deemed that the youngest Malloy had needed a change from her mother. A few of the horse world fans had noted that Reagan and Taylor both had similar styles, while different from their mother.
Once she finished the letter, she folded in her hands, crisping the bend by running her fingers along it. "Lessons may be a good idea," she said, her tone matter of fact. There was not animosity in it, just a general statement. Almost clipped and emotionless. "They would be a decent source of revenue. And it isn't like it would be that hard or terrible. Horses are our life, we took lessons too once upon a time. I still take refresher lessons when my mother has her old teammate friends over." Perhaps this was an odd quirk about Taylor. Her passion and love for her horses was boundless, and part of her wanted other people to feel that too. When she was a little girl, riding was the highlight of her whole day. Even before she was competing, she just loved the feeling of flying with her mount. When people connected with their horse, it was a magical moment. When two individuals turned into a team. Part of Taylor, a deep, secret part, liked seeing that. When the riders face and shoulders would suddenly relax, as if melding into the horse. Their mounts ears would flutter, before hitting the perfect frame and moving with what seemed like one mind.
Nigel's comment about wanting to see the fences before he turned his horses out brought her back to this reality. Blinking a few times, she shrugged. "These horses seem to go out all the time, judging by their coats. I doubt there is any damage to the fences. I'll go ride them in a little bit, but I am thinking that besides some run down boards, they will do." Without saying anything further on the matter, she walked after him as he turned to go to the house. Grabbing her suitcase, she snapped the handle that guided the wheels back in, grabbing the normal handle. Although Taylor rarely did any of the actual barn work, she was used to heavy loads. All of her tack and horse related things were only touched by her. And odd tradition, but she was the one who cleaned her horses after a ride, and polished her saddles, and made sure everything was all set. It could perhaps be called a superstition, that it would be bad luck if someone else did her ritual. Perhaps the more honest assessment would be the fact that Taylor trusted most people as far as she could throw them. Therefore, the things that she cared about and mattered to her were handled directly by her.
Walking into the house behind Nigel, she scoped the quaint farmhouse out with feigned disinterest. A modest house indeed. The kitchen was tiny but useable, the dining room table having high bar style chairs. A grimace appeared on her face, as her shorter frame made those chairs funny to sit in. She practically had to climb up onto them! Looking past that though, she was pleasantly surprised to see the small yet quaint fireplace and living area. She could already tell that she would be spending many nights down here reading the latest equestrian news while sipping a mug of tea. Moving past the downstairs, she climbed up to the second floor. Every stair creaked and groaned, showing just how ancient the house was. Poking her head into the first bedroom she saw, she immediately laid claim to it. Maybe not the biggest in the world, it had enough room for her to put her things and still have floor space. A desk was pushed up against the corner, and a small bed against the other. The floorboards moaned as she stepped on them, giving her a bit of a worry. The thing that had caught her attention about the room was the fact that it had a beautiful window, which looked out over the barn and some of the pastures. From her vantage, she could see Aristocrat munching on the Scottish turf, tail swishing with content.
Stepping back out of the room, she raised her voice as she called out. "Nigel! We should probably go to town. I need some things, the barn needs some things, the house needs some things, everything needs something!"