Post by Swede on Mar 6, 2010 11:53:34 GMT -5
Name: Medea
Age: 8 years
Breed: Mustang x QH
Height: 15 hh
Colour: Sorrel
Eye Colour: Dark chocolate brown
Gender: Female
Markings: Hind socks
History:
She wasn’t very popular in the herd where she grew up. Her mother was an escaped Quarter horse, and was considered something of an outsider, a view which was passed on to Medea when she was born. Yes, her father was a Mustang, but she was still not quite like the others of the herd. But it did not matter much; the other foals still played with her, and she was taken care of. But she was not treated like a little princess, not quite as doted upon by her father as he doted upon his other fillies.
Then, as time passed, he grew harsher. He banned her to the outskirts of the herd, and the other mares ganged up on her, forcing her to become the lowliest member. Hatred began to grow in Medea’s young heart; hatred for those who treated her so wrongly simply because she was different. They had chosen to accept her mother by now, so why could they not extend the same grace to her?
She was still part of the herd, but she could not socialize normally, could not graze in the best areas like the others did, so she took to a different life. Speaking with sly foxes and solitary snakes, she learned the secrets of the forest; the effects of various kinds of plants, from poisonous to those which could induce euphoria; how to predict the weather by observing the shapes of clouds and the taste and direction of the wind; how to find water when it was hidden away inside roots or running through overgrown ditches. Medea learned to take care of herself. She longed to leave this place, but strangely, despite their disdain for her, the herd would not let her leave. She was an ideal scapegoat for them, it seemed.
But then… he came. She will not speak his name now, but back then… He was after her father’s territory. Medea found him roaming the woods, spying on the herd to determine the stallion’s weaknesses. She instantly fell in love with him, and he loved her. She agreed to help him, and gave him information and helped him plan his strategy, on the condition he take her as his own, free her from this place.
The battle took place. There is little to say of it; because of Medea’s help, he was victorious, and not only defeated her father, he killed him. But Medea’s brothers were furious, and gave chase. Luring the youngest near her by feigning injury and pretending to need help, Medea then suddenly turned on her brother and killed him, pushing him off a rocky ledge. The others stopped to run down and see if there was any hope of reviving the colt, which gave Medea time to escape with Him, her love.
She was exiled now; she had killed her own brother, plotted the death of her father. But it didn’t matter, because He had promised her the world, loved her dearly. Medea idolized him, and though he did claim a few other mares, she did not mind. It was what stallions did, gather mares; and she was the lead, his favorite, and he would have driven the others out if she asked. She bore two foals for him, two sons, and he loved them just as much as he loved her, for they were the continuation of his bloodline, what every stallion desires in life.
But then, another mare came. She was not like the earlier ones He had claimed; she was pretty, and domineering. Medea had gotten along well enough with the others, but not this one. Their dislike for each other grew to the point where the herd could not exist peacefully with both of them in it; one had to go. And He chose her. The shallow, backstabbing traitor chose the newer, prettier one; he was tired of Medea. Medea, who killed her own kin for his sake. He gave her one day to plan where to go, and in the morning he would drive her out if she did not leave willingly.
Oh yes, she would go willingly, though it broke her heart to say it. But, but, you should never have given me a day to prepare! She found lethal flowers among the shadows, and carefully laid them in the grass where that other mare most liked to graze, and then settled down to wait. A few hours later, the other mare died in throes of agony, unwittingly poisoned. He knew that only Medea had that sort of knowledge, and quickly sought her out.
But what had she done then? There was no limit to her hatred for Him now. And she attacked that which was dearest to him; Medea killed her own sons. One a yearling, the other hardly more than a week old, those two precious lives which she held closest to her heart. It hurt her even more than it hurt Him; but she did it, because it would hurt Him. She killed her own beloved sons, and then she fled.
Exiled, once more; but hate has twisted her heart into something sick and unrecognizable. Medea wants revenge; revenge on Him, revenge on life, revenge on Fate which did this to her. She cannot see the light, or the flowers, or the little foals playing in the fields; she sees only the shadows and poisonous weeds, death and destruction. Death; destruction; hatred; fear. She wishes to see the world enveloped in darkness, so that He will know the pain he caused her. And if he never finds out? Well. No matter. She will cause misery anyway.
