Post by Swede on Nov 13, 2010 22:00:45 GMT -5
Name: Trace
Age: 7 years
Breed: Dalt Mustang
Height: 14.3 hh
Colour: Greyish blue roan
Eye Colour: Black
Gender: Stallion
Markings: Twin scars on his neck, various other battle scars
History: Trace grew up among the Dalt herds, raised like all other Dalt- to hate the Strath. He began his training at a young age, learning to fight with the best of them. His first battle was in the spring of his fourth year- it was also nearly his last. Atira, one of the highest Strath horses, managed to get his teeth on Trace's throat, severely injuring the young Dalt stallion, and leaving him for dead. Somehow, his fellow warriors managed to get him home, and he slowly healed, coming back from the brink after several days on the edge. The scar running down his throat will follow him for the rest of his life, but he doesn't see any shame in it; it serves only as a promise to himself that one day he will kill Atira with his own hooves.
~
Trace was eventually given the task of training two young Dalt warriors, Fire and Payton. Gradually, despite their disagreements and the aggressive air between them, Trace soon realized he loved Payton- and she loved him back.
And then the day of the grand battle arrived. It began with heartfelt promises of everlasting love, and a happy life together after the fight.
It ended in tragedy. Trace found Atira, and immediately attacked. But the older stallion outmatched him, tearing a new scar in his neck and crushing his side. It was Payton who killed Atira in the end, but despite their promises to each other, for Trace it was too late.
Except it wasn't. While the heartbroken Payton left with Fire to join his fledgling herd and raise Trace's son, Trace was left behind, presumed dead. And it was true, his warrior heart was failing as his blood pooled around him, and he remained unconscious throughout the night into the afternoon the next day. The battlefield was a haven for scavengers, and as a pair of coyotes tugged on his leg, fighting over the food, the stallion's body shifted just enough to allow air to flow more freely into his battered lungs. It wasn't much, but just enough for him to regain some form of consciousness. The coyotes fled in terror as the dead horse moved. With blood and mud caked all across his body, Trace stumbled away from the scene, taking several hours to cross the hundred or so yards to the little creek. The water revived him just as he was on the verge of collapsing again.
Severely weakened by his injuries, lost and alone in a harsh desert landscape riddled with dangerous cliffs and holes and with few edible plants, it seemed things could not get worse. Unfortunately, winter arrived just a couple of weeks later. The constant pain and cold and starvation was overwhelming, and Trace's mind switched to autopilot. Days flowed into months, as he lost all track of time and reality, but winter did end eventually. When spring came, he was a walking skeleton, but he was alive. Had he been more lucid he may have given up and let death take him, but his body simply took care of itself, letting his mind wander into a sort of peaceful silence.
Being so alone and so damaged, though he became stronger he also deteriorated. Trace was a walking wreck, but it seemed he wasn't able to pull himself out of this misery. The desert hills became his new home, and though he occasionally had vivid dreams of his old friends and the mare he loved, they were forgotten as soon as he awoke. Life passed in a weary daze.
Age: 7 years
Breed: Dalt Mustang
Height: 14.3 hh
Colour: Greyish blue roan
Eye Colour: Black
Gender: Stallion
Markings: Twin scars on his neck, various other battle scars
History: Trace grew up among the Dalt herds, raised like all other Dalt- to hate the Strath. He began his training at a young age, learning to fight with the best of them. His first battle was in the spring of his fourth year- it was also nearly his last. Atira, one of the highest Strath horses, managed to get his teeth on Trace's throat, severely injuring the young Dalt stallion, and leaving him for dead. Somehow, his fellow warriors managed to get him home, and he slowly healed, coming back from the brink after several days on the edge. The scar running down his throat will follow him for the rest of his life, but he doesn't see any shame in it; it serves only as a promise to himself that one day he will kill Atira with his own hooves.
~
Trace was eventually given the task of training two young Dalt warriors, Fire and Payton. Gradually, despite their disagreements and the aggressive air between them, Trace soon realized he loved Payton- and she loved him back.
And then the day of the grand battle arrived. It began with heartfelt promises of everlasting love, and a happy life together after the fight.
It ended in tragedy. Trace found Atira, and immediately attacked. But the older stallion outmatched him, tearing a new scar in his neck and crushing his side. It was Payton who killed Atira in the end, but despite their promises to each other, for Trace it was too late.
Except it wasn't. While the heartbroken Payton left with Fire to join his fledgling herd and raise Trace's son, Trace was left behind, presumed dead. And it was true, his warrior heart was failing as his blood pooled around him, and he remained unconscious throughout the night into the afternoon the next day. The battlefield was a haven for scavengers, and as a pair of coyotes tugged on his leg, fighting over the food, the stallion's body shifted just enough to allow air to flow more freely into his battered lungs. It wasn't much, but just enough for him to regain some form of consciousness. The coyotes fled in terror as the dead horse moved. With blood and mud caked all across his body, Trace stumbled away from the scene, taking several hours to cross the hundred or so yards to the little creek. The water revived him just as he was on the verge of collapsing again.
Severely weakened by his injuries, lost and alone in a harsh desert landscape riddled with dangerous cliffs and holes and with few edible plants, it seemed things could not get worse. Unfortunately, winter arrived just a couple of weeks later. The constant pain and cold and starvation was overwhelming, and Trace's mind switched to autopilot. Days flowed into months, as he lost all track of time and reality, but winter did end eventually. When spring came, he was a walking skeleton, but he was alive. Had he been more lucid he may have given up and let death take him, but his body simply took care of itself, letting his mind wander into a sort of peaceful silence.
Being so alone and so damaged, though he became stronger he also deteriorated. Trace was a walking wreck, but it seemed he wasn't able to pull himself out of this misery. The desert hills became his new home, and though he occasionally had vivid dreams of his old friends and the mare he loved, they were forgotten as soon as he awoke. Life passed in a weary daze.
