HOME | DD

Description

.x. Name: Mors

.x. Breed: Mustang

.x. Age: 4

.x. Height: 15.2

.x. Tracker Link: Tracker

.x. Origin: Mountains

.x. Preferred Terrain; Forest or plains

.x. Color: Grullo

.x. Geno: EeDD

.x. Markings: one pastern, star

.x. Eyes: Brown

.x. Other:

N/A

.x. Personality: Loyal – curious – quiet – sarcastic – patient – holds grudges – authoritative

.x. History:

Mors was born to the mountains, like his mother, and her father before her, and his father before him. The mountains were his blood, the cold of their winters and the chill of their summers. His father was a careful stallion, older when Mors was born, and black as night with naught but a single snip on his nose to mark his hide outside of a lifetime of scars. Gaius was a crafty thing, and it was perhaps his long life in the mountains that kept his heard safe for so long.

Either way, he protected his family fiercely, well, he and the massive co-stallion who led with him. The two stallions guarded the herd of six mares, both content to share duties as they needed and teaching the foals that came along, season after season. Mors was three weeks old when he met his best friend, a dark colt with light mane and tail and brown eyes that gleamed with secrets he’d only share with Mors. The pair of colts were inseparable, when not by their mothers’ sides. They grew up together, sparring and leaping through their home with the sense of security that belied the dangers all around them.

The two colts were two years old when tragedy struck, and the pair of them learned of the danger that surrounded their world, in all sincerity. It was late winter – early spring, in all honesty – and the herd was on the move for water, for food. The two colts were taking turns harassing each other and other herd members, weaving in between their family until they were shushed and chased back deeper into the herd again. The snow was wet and half-melting beneath their hooves and it was too quiet in their joint opinion. However, things happen – and what happened was the sound of a rumbling crack, and then a noise that Mors had never heard, the sound of snow breaking away from snow, sliding and moving. When all was said and done, the only thing Mors can clearly remember is the sound of his sire’s bellowing, panicked cry that scattered the herd.

In hindsight, it was luck that Mors wasn’t killed, that his legs weren’t broken. He was swept into a river, coursing with snowmelt from higher in the mountains, and carried away, screaming for his father, mother, anyone who could hear and help him. They couldn’t, of course, and just like that his life with his family ended with the sound of breaking snow and ice.

He came to on the bank of the river, aching, agonized and freezing. Despite the wave of bad luck, there was some left to him in the opposite direction. An old bay stallion had found him, pitying and curious of the half-drowned colt he’d found in a frigid river. August was not the kindest of company, but he certainly helped Mors – made sure he didn’t try and rush off like a fool, and made sure the colt didn’t starve. The pair of them traveled once Mors was capable of doing more than hobbling after him. The plains and forests fascinated him, and he fell in love with the new lands he saw. For a year and a half, Mors stuck close to August, as if the stallion were his own father. Waking one morning to find the old stallion still and lifeless was a blow from a bear, or what the then young stallion imagined it felt like. For a day and a half he lingered, torn between leaving his guardian’s body behind and fleeing from the danger it presented.

In the end, a bear bumbling out of the forest, drawn by the scent of death sent Mors galloping off and into his own story.

.x. Health: 100%

*Stamina: 3

*Speed: 2

*Strength:3

*Stealth: 2

*Band:

Mares: 0

Foals: 0

Stallions: 0

Description

.x. Name: Mors

.x. Breed: Mustang

.x. Age: 4

.x. Height: 15.2

.x. Tracker Link: Tracker

.x. Origin: Mountains

.x. Preferred Terrain; Forest or plains

.x. Color: Grullo

.x. Geno: EeDD

.x. Markings: one pastern, star

.x. Eyes: Brown

.x. Other:

N/A

.x. Personality: Loyal – curious – quiet – sarcastic – patient – holds grudges – authoritative

.x. History:

Mors was born to the mountains, like his mother, and her father before her, and his father before him. The mountains were his blood, the cold of their winters and the chill of their summers. His father was a careful stallion, older when Mors was born, and black as night with naught but a single snip on his nose to mark his hide outside of a lifetime of scars. Gaius was a crafty thing, and it was perhaps his long life in the mountains that kept his heard safe for so long.

Either way, he protected his family fiercely, well, he and the massive co-stallion who led with him. The two stallions guarded the herd of six mares, both content to share duties as they needed and teaching the foals that came along, season after season. Mors was three weeks old when he met his best friend, a dark colt with light mane and tail and brown eyes that gleamed with secrets he’d only share with Mors. The pair of colts were inseparable, when not by their mothers’ sides. They grew up together, sparring and leaping through their home with the sense of security that belied the dangers all around them.

The two colts were two years old when tragedy struck, and the pair of them learned of the danger that surrounded their world, in all sincerity. It was late winter – early spring, in all honesty – and the herd was on the move for water, for food. The two colts were taking turns harassing each other and other herd members, weaving in between their family until they were shushed and chased back deeper into the herd again. The snow was wet and half-melting beneath their hooves and it was too quiet in their joint opinion. However, things happen – and what happened was the sound of a rumbling crack, and then a noise that Mors had never heard, the sound of snow breaking away from snow, sliding and moving. When all was said and done, the only thing Mors can clearly remember is the sound of his sire’s bellowing, panicked cry that scattered the herd.

In hindsight, it was luck that Mors wasn’t killed, that his legs weren’t broken. He was swept into a river, coursing with snowmelt from higher in the mountains, and carried away, screaming for his father, mother, anyone who could hear and help him. They couldn’t, of course, and just like that his life with his family ended with the sound of breaking snow and ice.

He came to on the bank of the river, aching, agonized and freezing. Despite the wave of bad luck, there was some left to him in the opposite direction. An old bay stallion had found him, pitying and curious of the half-drowned colt he’d found in a frigid river. August was not the kindest of company, but he certainly helped Mors – made sure he didn’t try and rush off like a fool, and made sure the colt didn’t starve. The pair of them traveled once Mors was capable of doing more than hobbling after him. The plains and forests fascinated him, and he fell in love with the new lands he saw. For a year and a half, Mors stuck close to August, as if the stallion were his own father. Waking one morning to find the old stallion still and lifeless was a blow from a bear, or what the then young stallion imagined it felt like. For a day and a half he lingered, torn between leaving his guardian’s body behind and fleeing from the danger it presented.

In the end, a bear bumbling out of the forest, drawn by the scent of death sent Mors galloping off and into his own story.

.x. Health: 100%

*Stamina: 3

*Speed: 2

*Strength:3

*Stealth: 2

*Band:

Mares: 0

Foals: 0

Stallions: 0