Dawn 'til Dusk [Invite only - PM me]

[tigeress]

As the cockerel sung his morning crow to the background chorus of song birds, Conor was already out in the stalls. The metal scrape of his shovel on the stone floor of the stable was a comforting rhythm as he cleared the stall of the horses’ nocturnal digestive creations. The smell wasn’t overly disgusting to Conor, he was used to all the smells horses produced, and none of them were as disgusting as human smells. Yet another reason to prefer horses to people.

Horses didn’t lie, they didn’t hide anything and they certainly didn’t do anything without a good reason. Overall they were definitely a preferable creature to befriend than people. The only downside is that they didn’t clean up their own mess. Scooping the last of the dung into a bucket, Conor sloshed some water on the floor and swept the remains out of the stall and into the drainage ditch along the centre of the stable block.

Dressed in his usual light leather breeches and fabric shirt, the young curly-haired blond Irish man was a familiar sight in the stables. He worked in the place with every hour of light and then some more. He loved the horses as much as his own family, and could never imagine being anywhere else. Nottingham was too crowded to raise good horses, where as Knighton was a small village where there was space to put horses in a good few meadows with the wooden barn full of stalls for both local and visiting horses.

Satisfied the floor was clean, he returned the brush and spade to their home and went to empty the last few buckets onto the dung heap at the far side of the main pasture. A few horses trotted over to sniff at the buckets but upon realise he carried no food, they returned to grazing. Conor wondered why they came to sniff them every morning, it was never anything different. They were ever hopeful, or perhaps just curious.

Emptying the buckets onto the heap, he crossed the pasture again and set them out of the way where no horses would trip on them. Grabbing a halter, he went to the pasture and uttered a short whistle. Most of the horses at varying speeds rushed over and after petting each one, he slipped the halter over the head of a palomino mare and led her out of the grassy field.

He tied her outside the stables and gathered up some brushes and hoof picks and began to groom her. The work was calming for both him and the horse, and Conor was soon ignorant to all but the loudest of sounds about the stables. The soft rasp of the bristles over the mare’s coat and her slow breathing was hypnotic and Conor was completely entranced. The mare nickered and relaxed, her head dropping until her white-marked nose was almost brushing the floor.

Eventually when all the mud and dust was removed from her coat, her white socks and blaze were pristine and her flaxen mane and tail had been brushed through with a metal comb, Conor was distracted from his reverie by the thought of more work that had to be done. He longed to go into the tack room and gather the palomino’s saddle. To place the finely crafted leather, wood and metal creation upon her back and tighten the girth around her beautiful flanks, place the smooth lose-ring snaffle bit in her willing mouth and slip the leather straps over her delicate ears was a daydream that he had often, and always concluded with them racing together across the fields and between the old trees of the mighty forest.

Lizzie was his obsession. He doted on her and was rewarded with her sweet attentions. She would always be the first to greet him in the morning. She’d follow him across the field while he patched up the fences or cleaned up weeds and droppings. Riding her was like floating in the air! Her gait was flawless, she was never lame and she loved to run. She was the most responsive horse he’d ever ridden. He barely had to think about what direction to take and Lizzie was whisking them away. She could even jump the most impressive obstacles. Fallen trees with trunks as tall as her chest not to mention the fences around the meadow. But she never once escaped, knowing where her home was.

Conor had bought her from an old man who was selling his farm after he could no longer run it himself. He was desperate to sell the young filly and her mother and as soon as Conor laid eyes on her, he had to have her. Barely a month old, Conor had traded his best skins, a leather jacket and the softest blanket he could ever craft for the little foal and her mother. That had been three years ago. Now, Lizzie was a beautiful mare and with Conor's patient handling she had turned into a horse fit for a queen. Conor would never part with her. Lizzie’s mother, Mara, had died the previous winter. Lizzie had been distraught for months, but she had finally gotten over the grief and was back to her playful self.

With a whinny, she tossed her elegant head and pawed the ground impatiently. Lizzie loved to ride as much as Conor, but the stable-hand had too much on the agenda to relent to her charms today. He patted her neck and stroked her withers absently. ”Sorry girl, I’ve got work to do.” Untying her, he led her back to the pasture and watched for a few minutes as she took off bucking and frolicking with the other horses. There had been a time when he could leave her standing free while he groomed her but then about a year ago she had discovered the fun of nibbling the brushes. Conor had laughed, but after the third one was reduced to tatters, he had to tie her up while he groomed. She had sulked for a few months but she gave up eventually.

With a sigh, Conor left the pasture and went into the workshop that was inside the stone building beside the Smith's family home. The front door to the workshop was a giant portal into Arnold’s smithy. It was almost the width of a barn door, and had two hinged old-oak doors fastened to the frames. Arnold made many things, some that were cumbersome and he needed a large door to get them out of. The windows were all open; the shutters were forever fastened wide except at night. The furnace was burning brightly, and Arnold was stood beside it with a client dressed in his usual thick leather apron, gloves and chaps. Conor had made them as part of his rent. Arnold needed a good thick apron to keep the scolding sparks and spits from the fire and molten metal he worked with.

The three crafting professions, blacksmithing carpentry and leatherworking were twined together. The carpenter needed his tools and clothes, the smithy needed his wood shapes and handles plus his overalls and the leatherworker needed tools as well as wood and metal for the saddles in particular. He consulted Arnold many times while working on his saddles for the dimensions of stirrups and buckles, and he sometimes sought out the carpenter to make light-weight saddle parts that metal was just too heavy for.

Arnold was talking in his usual gruff tones to a man about horseshoes. Conor often helped when Arnold needed to play farrier for clients. He held the horses or fetched and carried while the burly smith fixed his crafted shoes to the horse’s nerveless hooves. Conor admired the smith’s skill, as most of his shoes were more reliable than most.

Passing through the sweltering heat of the smoky smithy, he made his way to the small but cosy back room where he made his saddles. Inside was a stool, a wooden stage that mimicked the shape of a horse's back and along the walls was a bench stacked with tools. The walls held shelved that were stacked high with skins of all shapes and sizes. Some still needed treating, either to make tanned leather or skins for clothing.

Conor could make anything out of leather, be it clothes or his personal favourite: saddles. At the moment, many disjointed straps lay on the bench ready for holes to be bored and buckles fitted so he could craft it into a bridle. Pulling up the stool, the young Irish man rummaged for his borer and started punching regular holes in the end of the straps. Leatherworking was almost as distracting as grooming his Lizzie. The clang of metal on metal from the smithy provided a familiar background sound as Conor worked.

By mid-day, the bridle was taking form. The dark brown leather had all the delicate buckles fastened and holes punched in the opposite ends. Conor began to assemble the bridle until a few minutes later, it looked like the masterpiece it was. With delicate stitching across the head and noseband to make a pattern, the bit-less bridle was ready for sale. It was the right size for a horse like Isabel’s Vern, a large horse, but not quite as wide as a working horse.

Working horses required a heavier bridle that could withstand more stress. Hanging the bridle on a hook opposite the shelved wall, Conor picked up a giant boar skin and laid it out on the table. The first treatment had already been done to smooth the underside, but boar hair was too course to make a good skin. Finding a scraper, he set about removing the hair from the outside of the skin. The thick skin would be good for saddles and Conor had a pretty good idea about who this next one would be intended for.

The problem was if Isabel could ever find a way to ask him for it? She was sure her father would practically disown her if she had a men saddle made for Vern that she could ride in. The current saddle was too old for the stallion and was bound to cause trouble in a few years. The stallion was magnificent, and Conor didn’t want to see a good horse be put out of action so young when he could craft a saddle that would last for a couple of decades more!

Conor could make side-saddles, but Isabel said she detested the things and a discomforted rider made an edgy horse. One option was to make the small men’s saddle for her and hide it elsewhere and make a second side saddle that she could use for public appearances and to satisfy her parents. But what could she possible pay with? Arnold would make him pay the fee himself if he worked for free.

Conor sighed, carefully taking more fur from the skin and littering the bench and floor with it. Isabel’s family was supported only by the little livestock and the crops that they sold at the market. Conor thought long and hard about the problem as he worked and eventually his mind wondered t the horses as usual.

Millie and Lillie needed some new blinkers for their bridles; they were old and getting rotten. He needed to ask the carpenter boy – Jon – about some new wheels for their wagon too. Arnold would need to make new metal bracers for them along with the axel pieces. If he was going to make Vern a saddle, he’d need some stirrups too. Vern was a large enough horse to carry the weight of metal supports in his saddle, though he would have to make sure they were not too heavy so Isabel could easily lift it onto his back.

He wondered how Isabel’s family had come across the magnificent beast. Vern looked like the type reserved for soldiers and royalty! His quality was apparent in his confidence and stride. He wondered again if he would make a good stud for Millie and Lillie. The black cob he had already had his eye on would make good farming horses with the pair, but a cross with Vern might make an exciting crossbreed with both the strength of their mother and the sheer size and the regal stature of their sire. Not to mention, if he could sell them to knights, they would fetch a pretty price.

He wondered if Isabel would be able to trade a studding from Vern to the cobs for the saddles. If Arnold agreed, then it would solve all their problems! Conor was excited by the prospect, and put his heart and soul into working the leather at his hands. He’d make the perfect saddle for Isabel and her bay stallion; reliable, sturdy and beautiful.

OOC: 2137!

[xarae]

She was back in her father's saddle, urging Vern along at a steady hand gallop. Isabel felt right in the saddle, as if everything was intensely clarified. There was a fair tomorrow, and she certainly planned on going, but there were just a few loose ends to tie up first. Namely, those of Conor and Jon. After meeting them at the well the day before, Isabel decided she'd make them her new pet project. After all, a girl needed some friends. Especially a girl as strange as herself, though she didn't like to think of herself as "strange."

The stables were her first stop, as she figured it would be the more enjoyable part of her day. Issie always loved being around horses, no matter the size or color. Isabel could see the pasture ahead and various horses hanging their heads over the fence. With a devilish grin on her face, Issie spotted the sturdy wooden fence with an experienced eye. It was as tall as her abdomen, perhaps as tall as her chest, it was hard to tell. Isabel leaned over Vern's neck, whispering comforting words in the large stallion's ear before giving him a feather light kick.

The horse threw his head up, whinnying loudly. Issie winced, though she supposed it was the price she'd pay for her fun.

Vern launched into a powerful gallop, his hooves eating up the ground as he headed straight for the pasture fence. Issie laughed, leaning over his neck as he paused briefly before the fence, then at the urging of his mistress, launched himself over the obstacle. Equines on the other side scattered, but Isabel restrained herself from letting out a whoop of glee. Vern hit the ground on the other side with a thud. Issie allowed him to run wide circles until he had let out his pent energy, pulling him to a stop by the pasture fence.

Isabel vaulted off, landing neatly on the ground. She tied up the stirrups so they wouldn't bother him and gently removed the bridle, hanging it on a fence post. Deciding that the visit would be short, and she wouldn't want to lose the bridle to a common thief, she slid the cumbersome leather working over her shoulder. Doubting that the owner of the stables would mind an extra horse in his pasture for an hour or so, Isabel strode back into the stables, humming under her breath.

Issie poked her head into various doors on the interior of the building, entering a smithy and a carpenter's shop before she finally found him working with the leather. She paused briefly at the door, watching him work with the treated material before knocking lightly on the door frame, the heavy bridle weighing her down.

I lay here on the floor
We speak but you're not listening

You feel I've missed the point
But its just you I'm missing

[/size]

[tigeress]

The leather was almost finished when Isabel knocked on the door frame. Setting his tools down, he turned and upon seeing Isabel he grinned. The smile was bright and wide, and his eyes lit up with the gesture. He rarely smiled at people, the expression was usually reserved for the amusing antics of the horses. His hair flopped over his face, and he pushed it back with a warm dry hand. It was unexpectedly nice to see the girl, and he blushed when he realized he was smiling. The grin faded, but he maintained a half-smile. Usually only Arnold or a client came to his workshop, so seeing Isabel made him wonder what she wanted. Was it business?

He looked to the bridle over her shoulder, scanning it for breaks or stress marks. It was old and heavy, though the bit was looking alright. "Good afternoon." He bowed his head, carefully not looking at her eyes. "Can I help you?" He reverted to professional speak, not knowing how to start a conversation. Could he lead it to the subject of Vern and his idea as payment for a new saddle or two? He sunk into the normal shy demeanour, the confidence he usually had when he worked fading into the awkwardness he always experienced with other people.

[xarae]

Isabel smiled faintly when he grinned. It was odd - she barely knew the boy, but seemed almost ecstatic to see her. It's nice to know some people still care... Issie glanced curiously at when he looked away and blushed, feeling slightly privileged that he'd smiled in the first place. Conor didn't seem like the type of young man to smile often, so Issie didn't waste time in tucking away the image of him grinning full force into the back of her mind for safe keeping.

She giggled softly when he pushed his hair back, imagining it must trouble him when it wasn't tied back. Isabel hefted the bridle farther up her shoulder, the warm creak of leather becoming a familiar and comforting sound.

"Yes, good afternoon, sir," She replied pleasantly, albeit the unappetizing taste of the word sir. With effort, she kept her opinions to herself and concentrated on toying with the cheek strap piece of leather, running her slim index finger up and down the cracked and worn leather. It was easier to keep her thoughts to herself when she was focused on something else - usually some mindless, pointless task - such as stroking the leather of the bridle.

"Hmm... well, help is not quite what I'm seeking. Company, more like, if you don't mind?" Isabel tilted her head to the side and gestured at the interior of the room. It seemed warm and cozy, a fine place to work. Issie thought she'd much prefer this to the hustle and bustle of the market. Quieter, it actually gave her room to breathe. A smile flickered across her lips at the polishes saddles and other leather workings holstered at the walls, supposedly waiting for customers to come pick them up. "May I come in?" She inquired again, lingering at the doorway, still unwilling to intrude on his workspace without permission.

It's not as easy as willing it all to be right
Gotta do more than hope it's right

I wanna hear you laugh like you really mean it
Collapse into me, tired with joy

text in purple © snow patrol
[/size]

[tigeress]

Conor scolded himself. His manners failed him in times of embarrassment, and seeing as he was often flustered with company, he seemed rude and insolent to his betters. Isabel had called him 'sir', and he hadn't called her 'miss' or 'ma'am'. He blushed a little harder, his face pulling an expression of chagrin. He fumbled to think of something to say in apology. He sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he was doomed to be a klutz for the rest of his life.

When Isabel said she wanted company rather than his services, he thought he’d heard wrong. Conor had no friends, a by-product of being an unsociable hermit, so a request from a pretty woman nonetheless warranted a healthy dose of confusion. “Err…” He glanced up as she asked for an invitation to enter. “Oh! Yes, certainly miss. Ma’am. Uh…” He grabbed his working stool and set it by the wall. With a second thought, he dusted it off with his sleeve, his cheeks now burning red.

“Can I take your coat?” He managed, feeling proud that he’d remembered to offer. He held out his hand, eyes trained on anything but Isabel. Vern’s bridle captured his gaze for the most part being the only familiar thing she carried. He could see her fingers running over the cracks in the leather, and the thought of such a magnificent horse as Vern wearing an old rag-tag piece like that made his brow furrow. “You need a new one, it’ll break soon. Bit’s good though, who made it?” He flushed realising he’d asked aloud. “Sorry.”

[xarae]

Isabel rolled her eyes slightly as he jumped. Was it really so startling that she was lonely these days? A benign smirk flitted around her lips as he called her miss. It'd been too long since she'd been treated with something that resembled respect. Issie shrugged. "Formalities are wasted on me, don't bother. Just call me Isabel - or Issie, if it suits you," Isabel didn't like anyone out of the family calling her that, but she supposed she'd throw it out there to be nice. The boy looked like he needed some kindness.

"Oh, no, don't worry about my coat. I won't be staying that long," Isabel faltered as her sentence ended, realizing how terribly rude it sounded. "Er... what I meant was..." Issie sighed and rubbed her head, then shrugged slightly, nibbling on her lower lip. Isabel shrugged it off, hefting the creaking leather higher on her shoulder so it would stop slipping downwards.

Issie started slightly, jumping before calming herself down. "New bridle would be nice - can't afford it until this one breaks, though," She said, smiling ruefully. "Oh, don't mind it. Next time I'm out on the field happens to snap, I won't scare as much," She added dryly, winking. Her eyes strayed to the door, as if she could see the paddock through the wood blocking her view. Issie tried to settle her jumping nerves and ventured farther into the room, sliding onto the stool he'd brushed off for her. The girl managed to cross her ankles in a ladylike manner, folding her hands primly in her lap and trying to think straight.

"So... How do you go about making a saddle?"

Got the radio on, my old blue jeans
And I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve

Feeling lucky today, got the sunshine
Could you tell, me what more do I need?

text in purple © taylor swift
[/size]

[tigeress]

Conor shuffled around awkwardly, finally resting himself against the work bench. Nobody but him usually stayed in this room for more than a few minutes, and it was surprising how small it felt with two people in it. Almost claustrophobic.

He saddened a little when she said she wouldn't be staying long. He didn't know why he had expected anything else, but company was sounding like a good idea. He spent too many days alone working in his little room. The idea of having an actual friend was appealing, but daunting at the same time.

"Making saddles?" His eyes brightened. "It’s easy. First, I measure up the horse and give the carpenter the measurements. And while he's making the tree, I work on the flaps and the straps and Arnold makes the buckles and the rivets..." His expression was suddenly one of interest, bright and open. He took one last look at the bridle over Isabel's shoulder and set his resolve. "May I?" He held out his hand to take it, grabbing the pre-made bridle he had fitted together that morning with his other hand.

Maybe her father wouldn’t pay for it, but he was going to propose his idea to Isabel in his sudden fit of bravery before he sobered up and shut down again. He loved the horses, and the novelty idea of breeding good stock from them was his dream.