iBrevity
Darby
Technically speaking, the name "Darby" comes from a related English word of "Derby", a shire in England. Derby was a common English surname but was made into a unisex first name shortly thereafter. Both Derby and Darby come from the word "doire", which means "a forest abounding in deer". Darby's mother named him that because when he was born he was small and thin-boned and a very dark brown; she called him her "little deer" for nearly a month before she decided on Darby.
male
pansexual
Darby is the sole Buttermilk at Clovercliff Stables, an establishment that specializes in breeding genetically sound Tolters. He was purchased by the owner, a Ms. Grey, to provide companiship to the horses, particularly to the ones who did not get along with others. He is the frequent companion of Viceroy, a bright, playful stallion who is more comfortable on his own than with others. He's simply too submissive to get along well with the bachelor band but Ms. Grey didn't want to sell him just because he couldn't find himself a place; so she bought Darby and decided to give it a try.
Because Darby is so calm and gentle him and Viceroy are perfectly fit for one another. Although they make a strange pair, the broad-shouldered bull and the long-legged horse, they are almost always found together. Occasionally they share a stall in the stable, Darby positioning his girth just so to leave a comfortable space between them. During their introduction Viceroy was afraid of him, as he'd never seen a cow before and he had no idea how to proceed with him, but Darby was so even-tempered about the whole thing that they became fast friends.
I am not an artist to forgive me for this crappy art, but I wanted to at least try and sketch him ;3;
Three Little Birds by Bob Marley
[listen via YouTube here]
guileless || genuine || open-minded || boyish
Darby was born soft and kind and he has never grown past that. He's a fairly big bull, broad in size and girth, but he doesn't show it in the way he moves. He's light on his hooves, so happy in his heart that he's the sort to prance about on the particularly good days, and he loves nothing more than taking a stroll through the dappled light of the forests. There's a small thicket of trees on Clovercliff land that Darby frequents on quiet afternoons. The woods remind him of his mother, the stories she would tell him of deer and trees, the mythology of the forests, so he likes them for the solitude they lend him. He also has a soft spot for listening to birdsong, and he can find plenty of that in the woods.
He's straightforward and friendly enough but sometimes he comes off as too blunt because he isn't afraid to tell it how it is. He's young at heart and still finds really dumb jokes hilarious due to this; he's far more likely to laugh at a simple pun than he is at a more complex joke. He likes harmless humor and listening to laughter, though he isn't altogether that good at telling jokes himself. He's happy to learn new things and is extremely open-minded when it comes to life philosophies or even just random ideals. He is flexible in spirit; he likes applying things to himself, mythologies and the like. Darby likes imagining that there's something big about everyday life, something purposeful about spending a day happy.
Darby wakes up on Tuesday to rain.
A thin trickle has wormed its way between the stable's ceiling panels and a steady rhythm is dripping down onto his flank. He can feel it running over the line of his ankle and soaking his hoof; the hay beneath his belly is damp and already smelling of wet. He lifts his head with a disgruntled sigh and rises from his handmade bed only to shake violently to rid himself of the clinging straw. Then, he ventures outside.
It's raining harder than he could first hear, a storm hanging with dark clouds over the horizon like grey wool stretched tight between the trees. He can smell the rain now, smell the softness of the soil and the mud. Distantly he can hear a couple birds singing despite the weather, though their songs are drowned out by the noise of the storm. They sit on thin branches weaving a melody that comes in and out through the sound of the rain and Darby smiles despite himself and the wetness of his coat. It's nice to hear them, especially today.
The horses are out only in small number, braving the rain and the muck. Mostly its stallions who don't mind so much the mud and a few braver mares. Darby wanders among them, sharing a few bites here and there of musty straw. The horses have grown tolerant of him over his stay here, have gotten use to his calming presence. He walks past them and into the woods, where the rain comes intermittently through the branches and leaves speckles of color on his back and sides. He doesn't mind so much the noise anymore; he can hear the birds clearer now, standing beneath them.
He settles in a clearing that he is particularly fond of, turns a few circles to flatten the springy grass before he settles himself onto one side. He twists and turns his ears to rid himself of the lingering rain but for the most part he is content now with the storm. The birds venture out onto the ends of their homes where they can be most clearly heard and call back and forth to each other. They know Darby in presence for he visits often enough and so they don't hide from him but rather sing over his head, hopping about, shaking their wet feathers out with quiet peeps.
Darby smiles. He extends a foreleg and rests his chin on the knob of his knee, half-closes his eyes against the raindrops that slide in rivulets down the plane of his face. He's happy, like this. A rainy Tuesday is still a good Tuesday, his mother used to say. Darby finds he cannot help but agree.
