James Allan Henley (jimhenley) wrote in ainsworthu, @ 2010-06-10 14:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | (char) james henley, (char) olivia fairchild, (player) alex, (player) lex |
Who: James Henley and Olivia Fairchild
What: Meeting up near the stables.
When: Thursday, June 10th, afternoon.
Where: The Ainsworth equestrian stables.
Warnings: None.
Ridiculous. Rain should be a season, not a random event. Apparently though, the weather gods did not agree, and James had found himself checking the forecast on his phone before striding out to the stables that day. Isolated thunder storms? It looked fine at the moment, and that was all that mattered for the time being. He suspected he could cut and run if he stayed close to home, but not if he got too far afield. A fat gray cloud drifted by overhead, bearing a suspicious crescent shape not unlike a nasty little grin. How smug. Fine, he thought to himself, he’d just be in by five. All he really wanted to do was spend a little time, anyway.
The young man was dressed in a navy jacket, a little stuffy for the day’s humidity, close-fitting linen pants, and black boots with a slight heel. He had a helmet tucked into the crook of his elbow. He stepped through the back gates of the stable and as soon as he was in and hit with the sweet scent of hay, could not help but begin to whistle a light, rolling tune. A stablehand nodded to him in familiarity, and he returned it with a two-fingered salute of greeting. James made his way down the rows of horses until he found the one he favored – a nice little chestnut mare with a big white blaze on her nose.
“Heya, sweetie!” he trilled to her. She responded with a toss of her long hair, and pointedly tapped her front heel on the ground. What was this then? Oh, the lady wanted a manicure! Well, that was just fine. James was as much a sucker for a demanding girl as the next lad was. He entered the stall and grabbed up a pick, having a look at that hoof. Technically, the stablehands were supposed to be doing this, but he didn’t mind if they would pretend not to notice. It helped him miss his horses at home a little less. There was the problem, he noted, a bit of a pebble trapped under her shoe. James pulled up a three-legged stool and plopped down, dropping his helmet onto the hay, and went to work.
“So, Miss Briar Rose,” he muttered as the tool clicked at the pebble. “You’ll be tipping today, won’t you?”