#black horse with stocking and blaze

[baby-scranner]

week 7

[anaberrry]

My horse died in Minecraft today. Considering moving into the ocean.

[thosearentcrimes]

The Achaemenid/First Persian Empire is kind of wild. At the time of its greatest conquests it was the largest empire the world had ever seen, by a significant amount. Like any good empire it's a triumph of logistics, of course, but what's unusual is the character of the logistics in question. The kinds of empire we're used to are generally either basically maritime (Roman, Spanish, British, American) or basically horselord (Xiongnu, Parthian, Mongol, American) or Chinese (special case, the general tendency for there to exist a Chinese Empire is impressive in its own right but relatively familiar).

The Achaemenid Empire touched a lot of seas and bodies of water (Indus, Indian Ocean, Persian Gulf, Tigris and Euphrates, Red Sea, Nile, Mediterranean, Aegean and Bosporus, Black Sea, Caspian Sea) and certainly these would have been used to facilitate logistics to some degree (Persian invasions of Greece relied on naval support, for example), but it certainly seems like the fundamental lifeline of their state was their extensive system of roads. The Romans talk a big game about their road system but ultimately the major logistical corridors of the Roman state were maritime and riverine. The Inca Empire was similarly road-based, likewise a hilly/mountainous region, and is also extremely cool, but didn't last nearly as long and was much smaller.

Herodotus says: "There is nothing mortal that is faster than the system that the Persians have devised for sending messages. Apparently, they have horses and men posted at intervals along the route, the same number in total as the overall length in days of the journey, with a fresh horse and rider for every day of travel. Whatever the conditions—it may be snowing, raining, blazing hot, or dark—they never fail to complete their assigned journey in the fastest possible time. The first man passes his instructions on to the second, the second to the third, and so on." A different translation of a section of this passage is famously associated with the US postal service.

Herodotus may be wrong in the details because the actual intervals between adjacent waystations seem to have been on the order of 16-26km, a distance a rider could reach in an hour (and perhaps most relevantly, a pedestrian or army might reach in a day), and as such it's certainly plausible horses were changed more than daily, as is attested in later relay postal networks, but it's easily possible he was right about their incredible speed. A perhaps somewhat generous estimated speed of government messages along this route is ~230km/day, by analogy of the pirradazish to the Pony Express and barid systems. This would make them faster than Roman communications, though certainly we have to recognize that maritime transport is ultimately faster and more convenient for trade in bulk goods and food. All figures taken from H.P. Colburn, "Connectivity and Communication in the Achaemenid Empire" Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 56 (2013).

That's so cool! It's several hundred BCE and they have a complex permanent relay system with stations every couple dozen km, on a system of roads running throughout an empire thousands of km from center to edge. Just for one road, like the Sardis-Susa section that the Greeks usually talk about, that's over a hundred stations, each with a stock of supplies, backup mounts and riders, accommodations, anything else they might need, and Sardis-Susa was just one possible road stretch among many. That's incredible! I wish we knew what the people who made it and ran it thought. What was the life of a gas station attendant waystation operator in the reign of Artaxerxes I like?

It's kind of tragic that the Achaemenid Empire has been marginalized historiographically for so long. Generally it was treated as significant for its invasions and meddling in Greece, for ending the Babylonian captivity, or for providing a ready-made empire for Alexander to take over. It's not nothing, other places and time periods end up with much less of an imprint on our contemporary understanding of the past. We know a lot of cool stuff. But I wish we had more reflections on Persia from within. Most of what we seem to have is reports from Greeks, fragmentary letters and steles, and precious few excavation sites.

[askthedarksidersfam]

Empty Saddle

The Black Stallion

Summary: After the skirmish with the demons, you come face to face with the beast you’d charged into battle for. What are you to do now?

A/N: omg I’m so sorry this came out later than expected, but with college, writers block and personal matters I’ve been swamped. Hopefully this’ll make up for the wait!

‘What have I gotten myself into?’

It’s the only thought that swirls around your cranium like it’s caught in a lazy whirlpool, spinning endlessly. The only thing you’re able to manage is a single blink, feet frozen in place as if you’d been cast to forever be stuck to the broken road.

You’re sure there’s reason to be stock still like a rabbit caught under the sight of a wolf. You just can’t find yourself to move away, not even if your life depended on it. Not that you could outrun this absolute monster.

The stallion stands tall, but if you weren’t an expert in knowing horses aren’t supposed to be the size of a goddamn elephant you’d credit his sheer size on his breed. At least, what breed he mimics, given this is no animal of Earth. If you’d have to bet, you’re between a Clydesdale or Ardennes given his heavy, draft-like build.

He’s huge, your mind still can’t comprehend an animal so enormous as he, yet here he was before you. He bears a solid coat black as soot, yet it doesn’t hide the flex of every single muscle nor the scarring both old and new from times of unknown battles. What gets your eyes to widen in a world full of impossible creatures such as real demons and angels was the endless plume of flames radiating from each hoof, glowing a blazing orange under the molten slabs of rock protecting the foot walls.

Perhaps you were too quick to assume that was the most bizarre factor of all once you incidentally make contact with his glowing reddish eyes, framed behind a wispy lock of flowing dark gray bangs despite the lack of wind. It’s eerie how intelligently they gaze back at you, no doubt gauging your threat level given how his ears are pinned back to his skull.

The silence is interrupted when a shoulder bullies you backwards, pushing you by the hip to make a safe distance away. A familiar black spine protruding from a muscular back was hint enough to tell of your loyal savior who’s quite well aware and conscious of the still lying danger. Yes, the main threat was eliminated, but that didn’t mean that the horse wasn’t as dangerous.

Pongo pushes you back again, but this time you make a sound from the back of the throat in protest. The hound however doesn’t listen to your half attempt of resistance, instead making it his mission to act as your shield, even as you try to walk past.

“Pongo,” you try to command him, “cease, it’s okay!” He doesn’t let up, instead turning his head to growl warningly at you as if to say ‘I hear your commands and that won’t stop me because I’m suddenly deaf!’

“I know you can hear me! C’mon!” You uselessly beg, keeping an eye on the horse who seems to be warily gauging Pongo. The hound however, yaps at the order as he tries to again shove you away.

“Pongo! Sit! Heel! Something!”

The hound chuffs. The stallion snorts softly and for a second you’d assume it was a laugh.

“Pongo look at him!” You say, not thinking about the fact you’re literally talking to an overgrown dog as if it were a person. ‘They’re more intelligent then they let on,’ Grace’s voice rings distantly, ‘speaking as if they are people gives them respect and they return it in kind.’ Blessedly, either from the thought of the teen herself that pacified his frantic attitude or maybe the urgency in your tone that Pongo is ever so responsive to, he actually stops.

You place a hand in his shoulder, stroking the leathery skin as you gesture gently to the stallion again, looking far more exhausted than before. “Just look at him, he’s tired, he’s bleeding out, he’s weak. He needs our help.”

Briefly you wonder when such a beast seemed so… feeble.

“Pongo please…” please let this work, “what would Grace say if we left him behind?”

That makes the hound stop. His taut muscles that quiver with the urgency to run cease their movements, his own fire tipped tail had lessened its protective glow. Although a spark of guilt had begun to rise in you for having to use such a tactic against him. Guilt tripping an animal-demon wasn’t exactly the best thing to do.

Despite the beast being your companion, he still held an attachment for the one who saved him from an untimely death in the streets. The girl who’d patched up their wounds and fed their empty bellies comparable to the company of demons who’d kick or starve in the name of cruel self satisfaction.

A kind hand was alien to them and upon first contact of affection, the rescues had been unwaveringly smitten since.

In a sense, they’d seek her approval in return for genuinely caring for them.

Like a child to their mother.

Presently, your companion chuffs as he stares at you, but behind those bright eyes, you can see the thoughts running about his brain. The meticulous picking of the choice words you’d used to coerce him. At least, attempt.

Pleading, you stroke the fin that juts from his back, just between the shoulders, scratching the good spot that he could not reach. Pongo gently grumbles under the ministrations, leaning into your fingers to encourage you to keep going. You do oblige his request, watching the way his tail swishes as his tongue peeks out his maw.

Now to try your luck again. “Please? Just let me help him,” cautiously you glance to the stallion whose ears are pointed at you, listening intently, do you lower your voice to a whisper. “If he does try to hurt me, you’ll know what to do.”

Pongo huffs, sending an almost nod your way. Then he lifts his nose to the air, sniffing cautiously, huge ears flicking to the horse, then swiveling about for any faraway sounds. You know what he’s doing. He’s searching for any nearby threats.

Your heart picks up, a smile slowly stretching on your chapped lips. He’s done this ritual before giving the okay to pass a dilapidated threshold.

A few moments of deliberate slowness pass by at a snail’s pace with your thrumming heart. Each second feels like an eon moving at a glacial speed. One flick of the ear, a twitch of the nose.

The snort of a weakening horse.

Huff!

The okay was given. And you waste absolutely no time. Running to the untouched wagon, you push the clothes away until you could get a glimpse of the gardening supplies below. Wedged between the wagon wall and fertilizer lay the object of your needs. Wire cutters.

Snatching the tool, you keep pointed downward as you then make your steady, careful approach to the stallion, determined not to spook him. Having just been attacked you’d guess he’d appreciate not having more metal weapons pointed at his face. Pray he just isn’t wild enough to try and kick you with those monstrous hooves that can knock your head clean off.

Pongo keeps a vigilant eye as you approach, hackles raising when you reach within arms length. He offers a terse growl to the horse who hasn’t even made a move. But the threat is clear as day.

Touch them, and I’ll kill you.

As you start to enter the steed’s personal bubble, you keep your movements slow and deliberate as to not upset him. And in the time you spend nearing him, you can really take in the sheer size of this beast.

True to your assumptions, he’s impossibly tall, with your head just barely reaching the elbow. His head hangs low and you can see it’s the size of your torso, and nearly just as wide. Those eyes, intelligent and eerily aware of you, never once break away from you as you finally come to his legs where the problem lay.

The damage is far more intense than you’d expected before, barbs digging into muscle and wire choking the limbs to a painful degree. The left hind leg hung like a dead weight, blood pooling down the gaping wound that brings you to gag. The acrid taste of your meager lunch stinging the esophagus as you try to swallow down both the food and your nausea.

He must be in unimaginable pain. The pitiful thought comes to mind, and your brows furrowed as tears sting the back of your eyeballs. You blink back the tears as your jaw locks up, lip quivering dangerously. No, don’t cry, not now. He needs your help.

Though you attempt to push away the onslaught of tears that threaten to fall out of your eyes, it’s inevitable as you lift the cutter to assess the situation. The wires are messily tangled across his chest, caught in the metal of a protective chest piece that you hadn’t noticed before. They coil around his legs and trail down the chain link straps connecting to his oversized saddle and entwine into the soft- er, well, softer skin of his belly. Just a few stray cables manage to snake around to his bad leg tight enough the limb is unable to even meet the ground. All in all, a terrible position.

Before your brain catches up, your mouth opens up for you, “Oh, you poor baby,” his head picks up at the words, ears pointed to you. Impulsively a hand raises up to stroke the tiniest bit of unmarred skin just under the stirrup nearly as big as your face. Whoever rode him must’ve been enormous.

His side quivers under the touch, with a snort he leans just centimeters from your hand. A deep grumble you’d come to realize as a warning growl from the beast. ‘Don’t’ is all but he conveys. Pongo from behind snarls, sending his own threat to the two of you. You send out a placating hand to the hound, attempting to ease his mood so he won’t feel so inclined to do anything you’d regret.

“Easy boy, it was my fault okay? Just stay there.” Pongo scoffs, but obeys, the tension in his hackles lessen just a millimeter. Returning to the task at hand you take the handle of the tool in each hand, then place the metal mouth to a wire on the leg and begin to cut.

At the first, glorious sound of the cable snapping the steed grumbles, whether discomfort or elation you’ll never figure out. He does shift ever so slightly when the cutter presses flat against his hot skin to pry off the especially stubborn strands, but he makes no further fuss.

Peeling the cut cords free, you toss behind you, far away from the three of you. Thankfully it seems your efforts are beginning to shine through, although the work is far from done, your acquaintance seems to be satisfied with the slow, but steady progress. His huge head is held higher, tilted just the slightest of a fraction to watch you currently work on untangling an especially confusing knot on his chest piece.

“Piece of shit, Ugh- wire!” You mutter to yourself, using the clipper to snip away the stubborn knot. “How exactly can something get so tangled, makes no damn sense.”

Snip snip snip.

“You know, I have to say something,” the silence is unnerving and the pairs of eyes focusing on your work doesn’t make you feel the slightest comfortable. You just had to fill the silence for some peace of mind. And maybe, just maybe, the big lug might under the microscopic chance, appreciate some small talk. It could help you win him over if you’re to bring him back to Haven.

Am I actually doing this?

You stopped for a moment, thinking about what would happen if you just came in with a hellish horse trotting along into the settlement.

You wouldn’t be the first one to bring in an otherworldly creature to the tree, that title being given to several predecessors. It wasn’t the size or type of animal, but rather the type he was, most likely demonic.

Now even though there are plentiful demonic companions, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park when they’d first step foot in. You vividly remember the absolute shitshow between Grace and Ulthane when she was commanded that her two ‘friends’ were to be separated and most undoubtedly… dispatched by the other Makers after being relocated to the Maker Tree. You’ve never seen the mild mannered girl lose her temper like that, or scream as loud as she did between the onslaught of tears.

You know the Maker would pitch a fit. He’d definitely tell you to take the beast out to the streets in the prospect of his rider coming back if he still lived, or cull him as an act of mercy. Maybe even for meat. He’d be final in his decision.

But just as stubborn as the Maker was, he was just as ironically, a pushover in the face of human begging. You witnessed the great giant turn to an absolute mush at the sight of survivors pulling puppy dog eyes or a well placed lip quiver. Perhaps, with a bit of luck and some acting if worse comes to worse, you’d be able to keep him.

“I don’t quite understand how a big old thing like you,” his ears pin back when you refer to him as a thing, but you digress, “could get all tangled up in wires like this. How did you even manage that in the middle of a city?” You clip him free of an especially irritating wire. You don’t expect an answer, but you’ve heard how some animals are just injury magnets, especially with horses. So you don’t put it above that possibility. Oh to be as lucky as he.

You wipe away the sweat that has begun to trickle down your brow, the sweltering heat from his hooves the culprit. But strangely despite the flames damn near licking your own arms, you don’t feel the sting. It then occurs that in your manic need to help him you plum forgot those fire spitting legs of his.

You decide not to question the legitimacy of fire physics and logic coming from an elephant sized horse. Lest there be a headache from picking apart the science of it. Just chalk it up to magic. Magic, as if that answer doesn’t send your head into a tizzy.

Shaking your head loose from the tizzy, you refocus on the task at hand, clipping away mindfully. You were making progress as you’d managed to clear him of most of the cable, freeing his legs and chest. The only bothersome pieces were those too far entwined into the metal saddle to properly dislodge in the dying sunlight.

It was starting to get late, far too late. Enough time had already passed that the sun was nearly behind a cover of clouds. Soon enough it’ll hide behind the horizon and leave you in the dark. The only guide would be half functional street lamps and the sight of your own eyes. Pongo would help, but you'd rather not leave it up to him to guide you in a rubble ridden city with a questionable stallion with an unknown temperament.

With time running out, and a job not finished, you looked between the horse and the hound who picks his head up under your gaze. You had to think of a plan.

‘It took me about forty five minutes, I think? to get all the way over here.’ You set your hand to the sky, palm facing you as you stick your fingers out. Lining up your fingers to the sun, you squint under the light as you adjust your pinkie just below the horizon. If memory would serve you right from time lessons with the hunters, you’d have about an hour of light at best.

Now you have two options: finish the job thoroughly, but likely risk a run-in with a hungry demon or livid Maker, or botch the job for the sake of time and get back to Haven before a search party gets to you first.

And most likely not let you get this beast to Grace so you can get her more expert opinion on what to do. Yes, you know she isn’t exactly a surgeon, but has done her work or two patching up the beasts.

Normally you’d turn to one of the people who knew how to fix up human injuries. The Makers were out of the question as they were the last person you’d turn to at the moment. You wouldn’t call them medics as no one was properly trained, but only a handful had some basic knowledge with first aid. This one is on a much more colossal scale and the “patient” might object to the prospect of surgery. He’d need a person who has more experience with handling as you have next to none, current demonic company notwithstanding.

“Pongo,” the beast lifts his head, tail thumping on the concrete as you tilt your head, “go get the wagon.” Obediently Pongo trots over to the plastic wagon to retrieve it. Leaving you to turn over to the horse and look back at the half finished job. You’ve noticed that his big head is turned more to face you, those fire red eyes flitting over you, a question hidden beneath.

“The sun’s going down, and I have to get back before dark.” Rolling your aching shoulders to soothe the strained muscles, you return to the job, eyeballing at the largest barbs, mainly the ones holding his bad leg. The salty stench of the wound is enough to make you pause, trying not to gag when you get an unfortunate closer view of his muscles. Suppressing a shudder, you swallow the urge to make a strangled sound of the grisly sight, instead taking one deep breath despite the odor.

Biting your cheek you begin to angle the cutters to his gaskin where the culprit cable coils painfully into his limb, lifting it several inches above ground. Just one last cut and this would be the end of the job for now, as you’d made the final decision that an angry Maker isn’t how you want to end this day.

Technically, this wasn’t the end to the day you’d imagined. You’d imagined returning back with your haul in tow and maybe a few moments of congratulations that would lift your spirits. Hunters and gatherers alike were given praise that they’d mostly sheepishly accept as it’s nothing more than a job to feed hungry mouths.

Maybe show off the seeds to the others so they’d get the greenhouse started, then end it with tonight’s dinner- undoubtedly a stew of sorts mixed in with savory spices and the hunks of meat from the latest kill. Definitely give Pongo a few scraps of the stew for his good work, before curling up in some undistinguished corner with a salvaged book the others had scrounged from the old stores. Then drift off to sleep.

And in the bouts of moments you wake from the dreamless sleep, drowsily wondering what tomorrow will bring. If not the same pointless, meaningless day that drones by one after the other. Isn’t that what this life had been reduced to after the apocalypse? Since you’d been shuttled into the tree? The same, wash, rinse and repeat of the day, going nowhere in a hurry.

At least in the old camp there’s been a sense of urgency, and that made the days go far quicker…

A whinny from your left interrupts whatever train of thought is running through your head, making your heart leap to your throat. Frightened that the horse sees a threat that you can’t, your head whips around in all sorts of directions, searching for a hidden predator in the creeping darkness. Pongo would’ve caught it, or chased it off, but there he was, the rope tied to the wagon’s handle in his mouth. Hauling it with little difficulty and little care to the threat the horse sees.

“What is it?” You try, turning back to the large herbivorous (at least you hope) animal, following the direction of his ears pulled back to his neck. Those big eyes pointed not at you, but the space between him and you. A sound that you can only describe as a growl rumbles deep in his throat that you can feel in your chest.

Hurriedly you follow his gaze and understand immediately why. In your daze your hands had lost their place and moved the clippers away from the cable and rested on the piece of flayed skin that hung limply. He’d thought you were going to cut him.

“Oh shit!” Pulling the cutters away as if it were to set him on fire, your brows shoot to the air as you look at the beast. His huge ears point back to you, the hard stare lessening as his tail flicks, swatting your shoulder. “Okay, I deserved that. Sorry big guy,” he tilts his head upon the word ‘sorry’. “I was just… distracted.”

Distracted isn’t even half the truth. A distracted mind at least would return from the deep recesses of the subconscious and carry in with the day, the last thoughts lingering in the cerebellum. What you’d be able to describe, at least to the best ability, was a constant never ending cycle of brain numbing thoughts that piled one after the other.

It was endless, this constant battle of the weak attempts to stave off the endless images and wonders that could be described as killing the human spirit. Like putting a resplendent bird most beautiful and free into a rusty barred cage in a corner. Slowly killing the beast with each slow, excruciating day.

It was simply best to try and cope. Emphasis on try.

Placing the mouth of the cutters to the wire, the horse from beneath it began to shift his weight, pulling himself away.

“Hey, no, no, no, you’re fine, it’s okay,” you attempt to soothe him, stubbornly following him as to not lose your position on the last piece. “Look, it’s no problem just stay-” he doesn’t simmer down as you’d hoped, but you’d take this chance as you’d expect to not be given another one.

Clip!

The result is immediate, as his leg is finally freed from the strangling hold, “-still, there see? All better!” You pry the pieces away and toss them aside, admiring the fruits of your work. At least he didn’t look so gnarled up as before. The damage however still stands, evident by the big wounds that need immediate medical attention, but for now you’d take this little victory.

Pongo huffs from behind you, his hot breath fanning on your wrist as his mouth comes to tug on your sleeve again. The wetness of his nose is cold to the touch, but grounding. He’s giving you the message, ‘it’s time to leave.’ One glance to the retreating sun and you take one moment to take in the orange painted clouds, the hue glowing so brightly against the inky evening sky.

You don’t remember seeing the sky so alive before. Not in a long time. The small tug of your lips pulls into something bigger, you don’t let it die even as you tuck the tool away in the wagon.

“Alright boy, let’s go home.” You hand off the rope to Pongo for him to bite on, giving him responsibility to pull it. The hound wags his tail as he gives the rope a playful shake of his head, accepting his duty with no complaints. Your smile doesn’t fade away when you watch Pongo gnaw at the rope, not hard enough to sever the fibers but just enough to sate his need to bite.

Upon the sight, there’s a pull in your chest almost nostalgic as you think back to the times before… everything. Images recalled by a hazy brain reminisce of scenic parks lush with spring flowers filled with the yapping of playful dogs big and small. Seated on a bench, you’d watch a German Shepherd wrestle a knotted rope toy from an especially competitive Golden Retriever.

Although Pongo was far from a fluffy Goldie, he was so alike to those dogs in the park all those years ago. Playful and lively. In this instance alone you’d thought he would’ve fit right in with those canines. You could practically hear his bark mix in with the ambience, chasing playmates and huffing greetings to the rare trustworthy stranger. Perhaps snooze in a patch of sunlight next to the older dogs after the play wears him down.

Briefly, you chuckle at the thought of a park for Hellhounds. What would it look like? And would the other demonic “companions” you’d seen be allowed to enter. Maybe giant bird perches and toys ten times the normal size would be a hilarious sight to behold.

Speaking of things ten times their size…

You make your way to the horse’s shoulder, hand brushing gently on his side as you go so as to not spook him, muscles quivering under the touch. Although he is heads taller than you at just the withers, you can get a clear view of the chain link reins resting on his thick neck. You briefly think about the weight, pondering if you’d be able to lift them as each link was almost as large as your fist. No time like the present.

Rising to the top of your toes you barely make any difference in the height that the horse holds in spades, however you’re determined to get the reins unhooked from the saddle horn. You lean an arm against him as the other strains to reach far above your head, the distance isn’t going to be closed and you know this but it won’t hurt to try. Bending at the knee, legs spring upward with a jump to offer a momentary boost, and your heart rate jumps when you actually feel the pads of your fingers just brush against the cold metal.

Thankfully the beast doesn’t spook as you noisily collide with the pavement. He does however cock his head to watch you with curiosity, ears pointing at you whilst you prepare for another jump. Tongue sticking out in your concentration, legs push off with as much strength that could be mustered, sending you several inches higher than before, yet still out of reach.

“Oh come on!” You send a glare at those towering legs that oh so easily outsize your torso. He blinks lazily with those big, glowing red eyes. It almost feels insulting to be stared at with such disinterest, as if he’s enjoying the show.

Eyeing the stirrup that’s just above your head, you begin to think of a plan. Gears whir as you try to calculate the best approach to this next idea. There’s a chance this could work and the end result of getting the reins is reached, but if it fails? Probably kicked to the face.

‘Would it hurt him with the additional weight?’ One voice whispers, wincing at the fresh wounds.

‘It won’t, it’s only for a minute at most.’ Another voice protests, more urgent than the previous. Abandoning logic in an effort to find a quick solution.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Taking a moment to take in a shuddery breath, you look up to the stirrup that’s well within reach. Just in perfect range of the reins. Yes, this’ll do you good, now all you have to do is jump one more time.

Your hand shoots up to powerfully grip the blood flecked metal, there is very little give as it barely buckled under your probably feather light weight compared to the beast who rode this animal. Gathering strength for hopefully one last go, you push off the ground whilst simultaneously lifting yourself onto the beast. Your leg struggles to find a foothold on the saddle, but you don’t let that stop as your free arm scrambles for the saddle horn where the precious reins lay.

Unfortunately as you’re distracted, you don’t hear the panicked yelp coming from behind, nor the horse’s ears pinning back as a pair of heavy paws run in your direction.

Though you’re not completely without upper body strength, you’re not an Olympic athlete either. Which makes everything even harder when the black stallion starts to agitate beneath you, jostling you so roughly you nearly lose hold. He grumbles a warning, warning you to get down.

In an effort of strength you hadn’t performed before in your life, you pull yourself up with one arm that would’ve put gym bros to shame. Then in one fell swoop, you unhook the unbelievably heavy reins from the horn and toss them aside, sliding down the steeds neck to hang loosely. Success!

But before you can celebrate, something clamps down on your leg and yanks you down. You scream when your grip rips free from the stirrup. You don’t know if the fall won’t break anything too vital, but you know it will hurt.

If Ulthane finds out you broke a bone he’ll kill you. If he finds out at all.

That old Maker would eventually sniff out any injuries sooner or later, so hiding wouldn’t be an option. You’re so fucked.

Bracing for a hard fall,you come to a surprise when your descent falls short as you land on something cushy. The wind is knocked out of you. Although it was better than concrete, you don’t appreciate the jutting surface that digs painfully into your back. It’s just then when hands come to push you into an upward position so you feel a familiar leathery creature under you. Pongo.

He broke your fall.

If you weren’t still reeling from the breathlessness you’d be singing praise. However any thoughts you’re able to formulate are cut short as Pongo backpedals, roughly jostling you while he growls. Dizzily, you push yourself upright, but cling to Pongo’s fin so as to not suffer falling off him as well.

But was it an accident? The giant slobber mark on your pants tells otherwise.

“Pongo, are you serious?” You swing one leg over his head and soundlessly slide off his back. The hound huffs, offended at the tone. His huge ears are pulled back as he tilts his head to send a half hearted glare your way. ‘Are you serious’ is what his gaze practically screams.

Here we go again, you think mildly annoyed. “Listen, I was fine,” you gesture to your whole uninsured self, but his hard glare doesn’t break, not even as you slowly inch back to the horse. “I didn’t die right? And you’re here to save me anyway. My hero.” The Hellhound gruffs at your sardonic tone.

It isn’t until you feel the rolling heat on your back do you turn to the horse whose eyes don’t leave you. The reins dangle from his mouth. You smile, now that this whole debacle is almost over with. Taking the heavy chains in hand, your thumb runs over the tiny nicks and scratches that litter the chains. The untold stories behind every mark like a scar, you wonder what tales would be told if the beast or his equipment could speak.

What of his rider? Would he return to tell one more epic in the form of a daring rescue? You pray not, having dealt with enough drama for a lifetime.

“Come on boy,” you click your tongue, amazed when he obediently follows after a few moments of resistance, “I know someone who’d love to see you.” You then begin leading him back down the route you took, Pongo in tow.

You just hope this big beast will be able to handle the trek back to Haven. You have to get to Grace, she'll know what to do.

———

The human is odd. Ruin has come to finalize in his mind. An anomaly indeed. Though the age widened beast had no personal contact with humans in his long lifespan, he has heard about humans from his rider and all other company he’d been with.

All talk of the species had been boiled down to a few defining features: young, vulnerable and most notably, flighty in the face of danger, like prey.

But it was this young foal of a human that had the Red Horse tilt his head in questioning. In his scrap with the demons, Ruin had been taken in for a huge surprise when he’d seen the tiny creature, barely reaching his shoulder, so courageously charging headfirst into battle. It briefly reminds him of War in the visage of similar snarling teeth, but far more reckless.

You’re certainly something to keep an eye upon. That battle prowess is not exactly impressive in the company of immortal warriors, but the quick thinking left much room for desire. Under a guiding hand, who knows how well the human could turn out to be.

Typically, Ruin wouldn’t have come so willingly for anyone, but within his exhausted riddled mind, rest and recovery was a priority. In such poor shape he’d certainty perish in worse battle conditions. Though proud and stubborn to a fault, Ruin knew where his limits had been strained thin and when it was best for a tactical retreat.

Under these dire circumstances he should’ve been just as on guard with the human as he was with demons, yet he couldn’t find himself to. Since he’d first laid eyes on the tiny creature, he’d felt no ill will, not a single whiff of malice in their actions. Even the pats on his neck were delicate and soft, as if he’d break, which was rather foreign but… oddly nice. The human even deliberately kept a slower pace to accommodate his heavy limp, although it was a wound to his pride.

What he found most intriguing was the loyalty the Hellhound held for them. The beasts had only loyalty for their keepers, which were all demons. Yet this hound seemed to have known this fact and kept it to heart, not in savagery against them, but a fierce protectiveness like a mother to her pup. This strange relationship reminds him of his own companion.

War…

Ruin could not feel his connection any more, and what frightened him most was how similar this was back when he’d carried the Abomination with him. Was it possible his rider was dead-?

Yet, who could be excited to see him if he wasn’t? No one else would be except War. Maybe, in the greatest impossibilities against him, War was indeed alive and with humans? Ruin had heard one tale through the mouth of an angel of humans taking care of sick creatures outside their own species for the sake of their compassion.

Although Ruin was as practical as a horse can get, he didn’t stop the gentle rise of his head. Something ignited within his chest that left him just a slightest bit lighter.

———

It isn’t until you see the familiar winding roots of Haven do you finally feel the weight on your shoulders lift. It’s nearly sundown and you’ve managed to shave enough time before a certain Maker will begin his obligatory ‘class attendance’ as everyone liked to jokingly call it. There’s enough dying light to illuminate the winding root roads back to the impressively massive trunk.

Almost there.

Pongo can sense it too, with his tail haphazardly thumping against your leg. It hurts a bit actually. The horse too peers through heavy eyelids, attentively taking in every detail. Gently you pat him on the neck as you steadily hop onto a carved root, the beast slow to follow.

When molten hooves meet solid wood, blackened scorch marks form beneath. You grimace at the fresh blemishes, as if the giant ass horse wasn’t a screaming giveaway. You can’t even think of the nightmare of trying to sneak him in.

Oh shit.

Oh shit…

You hadn’t thought about that until just now.

There’s plenty of eyes from overprotective Makers who’re more than likely keeping an eye out of the doorway for stragglers scrambling back to safety. Not to mention the other humans who’d incidentally rat you out when you’d drag him in, clamoring to get a close look or shrieking in fright. You shudder at the thought of one of the refugee Angels finding out.

And there’s the matter of Grace’s own companions. Her winged companion, a territorial GrimHorn as they're known as, would try to chase the horse off. That is if the GrimHorn, known as Tarya, wasn't in the tree canopy tonight and out for a late night hunt.

Peering up at the expansive canopy above, you squint to get a better look through the branches to spot a silhouette, maybe even a tail poking through the greenery. So far you don’t spot the red tipped tail, or the patterned striping of the demon’s wings. Then, just as quick as you are to start your search, you end it, finding no point in trying to spot the creature that’s well over 400 feet in the air and striped in a manner that’s meant to blend in. You’d rather waste your time continuing this crazy task than play Where’s Tarya?

Your eyes do follow the flow of the monumental trunk down to where root meets concrete, lazily trailing the twisting paths they create across the city and-

Wait a minute…

There’s something that catches your attention just barely hidden behind the trunk's natural curve, it’s so subtle you’d almost assume it was a trick of the eye.

Moving along with the natural growth of the twisting wood is a flat surface of a shoddy carved out path from a rogue root that snaked up from its original spot to coil around the tree. It almost seemed too coincidental to be a chance happening, the mathematical possibilities were probably in the trillions in the chance of this stroke of luck.

But with the fact that the winding path is partly carved hints it’s been in use. So that means that it leads inside, it could be the advantage that you need. Now, all you had to do was find a way down.

Eyes trailing over the haphazardly grown roots, trying to trace a path to lead you in the direction you need. Though you had to admit it was a hell of a security measure to have a fuck ton of roots made into a maze to keep unwanted intruders out. At least those who can’t fly or just climb up.

Before you can finish your searching, Pongo pads ahead with a huff, as if scoffing for you taking so damn long to get a move on. “Hey, where are you going?” You don’t get an answer as Pongo takes his haul down a root that merges with the one you’re currently on. You actually hadn’t seen it, now that you notice it, it’s so cleverly blended in to appear as a knot or growth too thick to cut through, on top of the moss that stubbornly clings to the top, a perfect camouflage.

You’d come down this route this morning and didn’t even notice the growth. You feel like a fool for missing it, but you supposed it’s good that it’s hard to spot if you’re not paying attention.

As you watch the hound slowly slip from view as the pathway dips and follows the curve of the road before breaking off to hang in the air almost dangerously if it weren’t for its strong frame. Even though you’d spent a good while in Haven almost a hundred feet up still doesn’t make your heart lurch when you see the view below. Seemingly since Pongo knew a shortcut away from the main entrance, it was best to follow him.

With a click of the tongue, you carefully guide the stallion onto the new path, taking extra special care to ensure you wouldn’t fall as you turned around to helpfully encourage him with a gentle pull of his reins. You wouldn’t blame him since the root was without any railings or protection from a lethal fall. The hesitance was natural, so you’d allow him to take some time to adjust before resuming to be his guide. Though you have to admit, the beast, if he really shared the mentality of a real Earthen horse, was rather well mannered in the face of new and frightening things. He hadn’t spooked once, nor fought you when normal animals would.

If only you could be half as level headed as he is.

After finally getting back to a sensible pace, you finally let your shoulders relax as the comfortable silence between the three- well two of you, fills the oncoming night. Pongo was far ahead by now, tail wagging with eagerness to finally be home. “Mood.” You say to no one in particular.

It wasn’t long until the road mended with the tree and thankfully was far more safer, or rather felt safer, than dangling in the air and praying nothing goes astray. Your new companion, although new to him and his behavior, you’d recognized his own relief with his head more lax than before. A small smile worms its way on your face, gently you pat him on the shoulder, his skin hot to the touch.

That’s slightly concerning. He wasn’t this hot earlier.

It’s enough motivation to make you pick the pace, your company not too far behind with his huge strides.

“Pongo, you better know what you’re doing.” You say to him, hoping that this won’t be a disaster. You won’t waste anymore time getting this animal the help he needs.

Ahead, Pongo chuffs, and you take it as a yes. But you’d doubt putting your trust into a mysterious road from a Hellhound is the best idea. And it’s about to be tested. Wonderful.

Dead ahead hidden behind a curtain of dangling vines laden with moss is a gaping mouth of an entrance. Mushrooms and small flowers doggedly grow around the lip of the doorway. Its width is almost double your arm-span and nearly as tall as the horse.

You can only gape as Pongo’s head pokes out from the curtain and roughly barks at you insistently, it’s far from a pleasant sound, but you know there’s no malice. ‘Come on!’ He’s all but conveying.

Questioningly, you share your new companion an unsure glance that he reflects back at you with those almost inhuman glowing eyes. He tosses his huge head forward with a snort before stamping a hoof on the grassy road. You’d almost take it as a ‘get a move on’, especially when he takes a few steps forward without your lead. Clearly more confident in entering a never-once-set-foot-here door.

Jogging to get ahead of him, your hand goes out to pull at the curtain, surprised by its light weight. Peering inside, the last of the evening's dying light filtered into the dark tunnel. From what little light is provided, you can see the tunnel overall remains the same width and height. Plenty to sneak your cargo in.

Clicking your tongue, you take a tentative step forward, free arm forward to act as a guide in case of any unexpected turns. That plan however is thrown out altogether when the horse’s fire laden legs illuminate the dark hole with his warm glow.

The sound of his clopping hooves was amplified with each step, each echo felt as loud as gunshots. It’s as if the beast wanted you to get caught, but he can’t help it being as large and weak as he was. But the grimace and white knuckled grip on the reins doesn’t fade away as you traverse deeper into the tunnel.

“We’re almost there bud.” You gently say as the first signs of light stretch out from the other side. He heaves a huge sigh so powerful fire spurts from his nostrils, eliciting a barely contained shriek you have to bite down. “You’re just full of surprises.” You humorlessly joke past your racing heart. His ears pull back, sending you a half hearted glare.

As you continue deeper into the passage, you come across a most curious sight. The walls themselves shift upwards above your head, your legs bowing down to accommodate a gradually steepening floor. Just dead ahead, the source of the light, the exit, is not parallel to you, but just above your current position. It seems for a good portion of the walk, you’ve been climbing uphill, or rather, up-tree.

Thankfully after being stuffed in a cramped spot with an on fire horse for a handful of minutes, the choking heat was gone as you poke your head out of the tunnel and into a new room. The cool, fresh air kisses your skin as you take in a lungful of crisp oxygen. Momentarily you take a moment to spy the surroundings about you.

There is a plethora of junk ahead of you. Boxes and crates filled to bursting with all sorts of items. They’re stacked almost haphazardly, reaching several feet above you. You peer above the mess to further investigate the new room.

The room rises high above your heads, probably almost twenty or thirty feet at the top at most. Through the stacked boxes and other miscellaneous items that lay strewn haphazardly around the tunnel entrance there’s a multitude of stalls you spot. They’re all in different stages of being built, with at least four in the stages of completion, but they’re all empty.

‘The livestock pens.’ Your brain recognizes, this is what the Makers and survivors were planning on in their meetings. You knew about it, as did almost everyone, but you’d never seen it in further detail such as this. You’d never really concerned yourself with this project, at least, until now that is.

Behind you, a hot breath fans across your back, an aggressive snort coming from behind, impatient. Jolting from your spot, you utter an apology as you walk out the opening, carefully you help bring the big beast up, mindful of the boxes and junk that would otherwise hinder his space. You resort to pushing them aside with a foot when you’d deemed it too hazardous to keep close to open flames from his legs.

Your heart thrummed ferociously beneath your ribs, sending blood to roar in your ears as if you’d run a mile despite standing. Now that this was over, now came the hardest part of all: getting help. You decided against running around Haven looking for the girl, since anyone could stumble on the beast, or he would go wandering where he shouldn’t, but you couldn’t just sit and wait while he bled out. You in no way had the proper equipment or even basic first aid to do a DIY surgery. It was a total stalemate.

‘Maybe if I store him in a pen, it’ll be enough for me to get help.’ Yeah, as if he couldn’t tear the walls down like wet cardboard if he felt like it. But it’s worth the risk if it means it can give you the break you need.

“Stay here.” Letting the reins go for just a moment, you carefully tiptoe across the minefield of a storage area, mindful not to knock anything over lest you make a ruckus. You wonder briefly how Pongo was able to navigate this mess, wherever he is now. Once you’re at the edge, you take a moment to peer at the area with a better view, and find it to be totally empty. Excellent.

Now all you have to do is-

THUD!

Your heart absolutely lurches to your throat as you can hear what’s almost like an avalanche to your ears. In the periphery of your vision you can spot a stacked pile of plastic tubs tumbling across the floor. You don’t have to guess the culprit, as his huge head bends over the tubs to glare at them, grumbling angrily. You shush the beast, scrambling to grab his reins and stop his huge head from knocking down anything else.

Someone definitely heard that.

“Leave it alone!” You whisper-yell, not wanting to tempt fate right now as you freeze in place as you can hear distant footsteps. The muscle beneath your breastbone pommels under the bony cage, fierce as a war drum as the footfalls only got louder.

Shit, shit, shit!

In a mad scramble that your own brain failed to comprehend, you start to push the horse’s huge head, attempting to get him to move back. “Move! Come on, come on!” He doesn’t budge under your hands, but offers a glare as your hands remain firmly on his muzzle. If you weren’t so worried about trying to keep him from being kicked out or killed, you’d be very uneasy about the unnaturally sharp canines he’s currently baring under his pulled back lips.

The heavy thuds are practically just around the corner. You’re out of time, and your body feels as if it’s never been more than ready to fall apart at the atomic level.

In one last spur of the moment desperation, you snatch a heavy quilt from a woven basket of rolled up blankets and toss it over his head, hoping it was enough to obscure him. He snorts from underneath questioningly, but otherwise remains in place. Maybe if whoever is coming is going to make a quick glance, they’d assume he was a bit of storage. You’d take a lecture of not being in here or why blankets shouldn’t be so lazily strewn about to prevent damage or attracting pests to nest in the fabric.

“Who’s in there?” The voice growls, it’s deep, rough and familiar.

You turn around just in time to see the very rugged, but memorable face of Jones, a fellow survivor like yourself. He’s got his serrated combat knife in hand, unsheathed and poised at the ready to strike. His teeth are bared, gleaming dangerously against the coarse beard that frames his half shadowed face.

Before Jones is able to take another step, you beat him to it by breaking the silence, “It’s me, Y/N!” Waving a hand, you catch his eyes and watch as the tension steadily seeps out of his body, his eyes lose their protective ferocity as he realizes it’s nothing more than a friendly face.

“Kid, what’re you doing in here?” He questions, lowering the blade to fall to his side, though he doesn’t sheathe it. You don’t blame him considering, well, the Apocalypse.

“Oh, nothing really…” you draw out, shrugging too casually as if you didn’t have the crimes of the day standing behind you. You can feel the horse’s muzzle bump your back, but you play it off as merely rocking on the balls of your feet. “I’m just…” you hesitate to come up with a lie, “looking through the storage, I was just wondering if there was something in here one of the others might’ve moved.”

‘Oh fuck please don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask. Just go away!’

You swear if your shit acting skills don’t expose you, the beads of sweat that are collecting on your brow will.

Jones raises an eyebrow, but whether from skepticism or amusement you’ll never know. He merely cocks his head, “Well that’s strange considering no one’s really been in here, you know how this is more of an active construction zone.”

‘Good, good, he’s not completely onto me. Maybe if I can just redirect him out of here.’

“Yeah well,” you nervously wring your hands, and nearly freeze as a snort sounds from behind you, the best you can do is roughly clear your throat to drown him out.

“Since when does anybody ever really listen? You know how we all are, yeah? Giving Ulthane heart attacks and such…” Please just turn around and go away is the only thing your mind chants over the roaring of your racing heartbeat.

The silence is deafening as Jones remains silent. It’s almost as if a pin dropping would be a tactical nuke in this choking emptiness. A single breath felt like it could alter the outcome of this conversation. It explains why you’re holding it.

That is until Jones chuckles, the sensation like shattering glass, sudden, loud and scattering as you nervously join in despite the fearful jump of your shoulders. “Yeah,” he drawls, storing the knife away to its holster, “well I wouldn’t put it past you knuckleheads.”

“So uh, yeah…” you begin awkwardly, the back of your neck rippling with waves of hot embarrassment, or maybe it was the animal’s fire hooves. “I’ll just be, a few more minutes. Still gotta search. So don’t mind me.” It’s the best you can manage without outright dismissing him.

Blessedly, Jones seems to get the message as he starts to backpedal. There’s an invisible weight that lifts off your shoulders, and the stale air in your lungs scrabbles free in a sigh. Just a few more milliseconds and he’s gone.

Just as Jones is teetering between the carved entrance between the stable room and the main room, he pauses to give you a lazy glance back. There’s an easygoing smirk on his rugged features, “Anyways, don’t take too long in here, or…” his eyes widened considerably as he trails off. Those dark eyes are pointed just above the apex of your head, and hot breath fanning on your hair makes your blood turn to frozen slush.

Jones’ mouth does a wonderful impression of a goldfish, completely dumbfounded. Thankfully he doesn’t run away or pass out as you’d expect, but his frozen in place gaping isn’t exactly any better. Especially at the mouth of the door where any wandering eyes can see.

Without even thinking, you bolt forward to grab Jones by the wrist and drag him back until you two are hidden within the room. Stopping just before one of the finished pens next to the storage space, you slap a hand over his mouth before he could scream. That is, if he’s capable of doing so as he claims nothing really bothers him. But it doesn’t mean he can’t.

Jones’s hands come up to clamp onto yours, brows furrowing as his wide eyes dart between you and the horse behind the pen wall. You grimace in panic as you hear his muffled voice throwing a million questions at you. Still riding the waves of the anticipation of being caught, you shush him until he calms down enough.

“Listen, I know this looks bad at the moment,” an absolute understatement, “but I need you to calm down. I found him while I was out and he’s friendly.” Distrust glints in his dark brown eyes. You continue. “You’ve got a million questions I know, but I need some help. That’s all. Can you do that?”

Jones doesn’t respond. You gently shake his head to bring his attention back, pleading. “Please Jones?”

His lips purse under your palm, considering the question. In your opinion, he’s taking too long to come to a conclusion. Until, finally Jones nods his head, though his willingness doesn’t match his eyes. Satisfied, you peel your hand off his face, and he takes a deep breath.

“Alright fine I’ll help. But this does not mean I’m fine with it. I expect answers from you. Now.” You shake your head and he frowns.

“Not yet,” Jones shoots you an incredulous look, “this big guy needs help now. Where’s Grace? She knows how to patch up demons and such.”

He raises a bushy brow at the mention of her name. It’s no secret Jones knows where she is at all times as he’s always checking on her as she is rather reclusive. You’d say he has something of a soft spot for her.

“The kid? She’s up in her nest as usual. She’s probably out watching the world below with Tarya as usual.” The ‘nest’ as it is commonly called, is a makeshift room in the tree canopy naturally formed by a pocket of space between the branches and the trunk. Apparently, it was accessed by the winding staircases that climb the tree’s trunk, the lift and some climbing by the teenager purely by accident when she was exploring. You don’t know every intimate detail, but Grace soon turned it into a living space for when she needs some time to get away from everything as she is rather asocial. Others have been up there before for peace of mind, but not many frequent that place like her. In fact, you’re sure she snuck a mattress up there when Ulthane wasn’t looking. Either way, total hermit behavior.

It makes Ulthane worry about her with how often she won’t show her face for hours on end.

Before you can think, your feet carry you forward, but Jones grabs your shoulder and you wince. His eyes widen as you can’t stop the hiss that comes from your throat, a curse whispered beneath his breath.

“Stay here, I’ll go get her. If Ulthane sees you like this… he’ll lose his shit.” You snort humorlessly, hand protectively wrapping around the bruise whilst the other wipes at your bloodied chin. Flakes of already coagulating blood coat your fingertips, but you spot redness of fresher blood from the still open wound. Ouch. He does have a point.

“I won’t be long. Just stay here.” Jones breaks away from you, and there’s a weight that lifts off your shoulders. One burden lifted. As he whisks away into the darkness, you begin to slouch as the events from earlier this day finally hit you like a freight train. With the adrenaline finally wearing off for good and the safety of solid walls steadily putting you at peace, your whole body aches fiercely.

You’re finally aware of the full pain running through your arm that you’re suspicious of having been sliced open to a degree. If not just heavily scraped. Keeping a moment to stay in the pen, you take a small breath before peeling back the torn sleeve as far as you can to inspect your forearm. Hissing gently, you can feel the fibers separate from skin, welded together with the sticky substance that is blood.

Suspicions are confirmed. There’s a gash that runs along the outside of your forearm, starting at the wrist and fading to your elbow in a litter of smaller, less severe scrapes. Must’ve been from the litter with that scrap with those demons.

Demons. You fought actual demons.

That thought is disconcerting as it is badass. If you were a video game character and not a real, breathing person with real problems in the post apocalyptic world. But it still sounds cool.

A snort emanates from the side, drawing you to side-eye the huge culprit who peers at you most curiously, ears pointed to you. Distracted, you give the horse a weak, toothy grin as you keep inspecting the wound that is beginning coagulation. You’d have to get it cleaned soon. Surprisingly, he seems to be staring at the wound intelligently, taking in the fact that this is somewhat similar to what he is sporting.

“Heh, look boy. We match!” You give him a once over and see the further extent of his own before deflating. “Sorta…”

You can’t fathom why, either from his own pure empathy for a wound on another creature, curiosity or boredom, the beast with precision gentleness, bumps his muzzle against your arm. Though a bolt of pain shoots through the tender spot, you hold back a wince. The soft whiskers tickle your flesh as his lip carefully feels the cuts.

“Ah don’t worry about that,” you say as he continues to inspect the gash, ears flitting slowly as his hot breath fans over your skin, “it’s just a cut, nothing more. I’ll be right as rain after I get it patched up.”

Not thinking, you raise your free hand to pat him on his muzzle, feeling acquainted enough to warrant a little pet. What you didn’t expect was for him to pull his nose away from your arm and stare down at you. A bout of newfound fear shoots through you as you fear the beast isn’t taking well to the ministrations and he’s about to take a bite. You fear those fangs of his may be coming to use soon.

In those brief seconds that you are betwixt bolting and being bit, time never seems more suspended.

Until he simply huffs a hot plume of flame from his nostrils, blowing harmlessly on your face. You smile at him again, glad to have not been bitten.

——

There were many things Ruin had seen within his very long life. But yet it seemed there were still many surprises left in store for the old warhorse.

More intelligent than he puts on, Ruin had listened to the whole conversation between the human who brought him here and this Jones. Something about this Jones man sent alarm bells off in his head, even for the brief minute he was in his vicinity. He seemed… familiar. Strange considering he’s never met a human before.

Ruin would have to keep a close eye in the meantime.

After you’d peeled your flimsy sleeve back, he had been greeted with a well known sight. Torn flesh, although in this case very mild in the eyes of a great war beast like him, it was concerning on a creature like you. A young foal like yourself would’ve, no- should’ve squealed or panicked at such an injury considering how delicate you are. Instead when you inspected the laceration, you barely flinched and even smiled and showed it proudly with a grin.

Although you weren’t his own companion, he felt a twinge of pride. A small foal such as yourself showing off your marks of battle! Truly the making of a warrior!

In a moment of encouragement he’d felt your cut as to, in his own way, commend you on the new upcoming scar from your victory. When you did an unexpected move even he couldn’t predict.

You’d placed a hand on his nose and gave him the softest pats he’s ever felt. Sure, War gave him affection on the rare case of his own accord, but none had been so featherlight and foreign. It felt rather wonderful, not that he’d admit it.

But it had shocked him how openly you gave it to him. Briefly Ruin wondered if you’d continue to do so.

However, he brushed the thought aside, refocusing on the person who’d you promise would like to see him. War must be here then? Yet he doesn’t feel or sense him anywhere within this spot. Perhaps somewhere else recovering from his fight?

But Ruin can’t find himself to imagine tiny humans such as yourselves dragging his hulking form out of rubble and into this place. Not with those huge winding roads and twisting root pathways, you’d all be winded carrying him!

Just before the Red Horse could continue to rationalize his thoughts, his supernatural ears pick up the footfalls of two approaching people. One heavy and the other much lighter. His head swivels to the doorway as he awaits the approaching culprits. He doesn’t recognize them as War’s, and his mind is put in the familiar practice of going on the defensive.

“Whoa easy boy,” the human intervenes as he tries to position himself to face head on, giving his huge hooves a perfect direction for clobbering. A tiny hand shoots up to grab the reins, keeping him from fully facing the assailants. Not that he couldn’t just swing the tiny creature across the room with a sneeze of effort. Though, he doesn’t think they’d appreciate that.

“Nobody’s coming to hurt you. They’re here to help.”

———

You’ve never felt more anxious until now. Not when you fought those demons, dragged Ruin here or left Haven this morning without a word. Without warning, the horse started to fuss, ready to bolt or strike. Either way, he’d make noise and draw unwanted attention. The organ between your lungs never pounded so hard and fast as he stared you down when you’d snatched his reins in a mindless effort to stop him.

As hard as he might try to melt you with his eyes, at least he stopped.

Good thing too, for help had just arrived in the nick of time. The girl of the hour was finally here and you let your shoulders sag ever so slightly. Thank fuck, you don’t know how long you can take this.

Just as she steps into the premises, Pongo jumps to his feet, giving the girl a quick lick on the cheek as she greets him back. Wait a minute, was Pongo in the room this whole time? ‘How’d I miss him?’’ you think as Grace gives his neck a few good solid pats. Jones is right behind her as he pushes her in your direction, reminding her of the job at hand.

As her eyes land on you two, Grace’s brows nearly shoot up into her hairline as her lips pull back into a huge open mouthed grin. Her unoccupied hand shot up to cover her mouth to catch the awed gasp that leaps out of her throat.

“Oh my…! Is that fire from his legs?! Holy shit, you weren’t kiddin’!” Grace exclaims, her southern accent slipping in her awe as Jones nods, not as enthusiastic as the younger.

“Oh he’s beautiful!” The teenager says, stepping forward she begins to give him a once over, her bright expression slowly falling as she assesses the damage. You notice Jones’ grimace, a contradiction from the girl. Just before the teen could do anything else, you elect to speak up.

“I- uh, found him in the streets, he was fighting some demons when I came in to help. He was caught in some barbed wire, and I got him out. But the real problem is his back leg.” You point to the limb in question, and she hisses through her teeth as she skims past you to inspect the wound. Grace readjusts her glasses as she starts to get a closer look at the injury, standing on her toes just to get a closer look due to his incredible height. And you’re not the only one to notice.

“Maybe you need a stool.” Jones says from behind, his smile is damn near heard as he pokes fun at the girl. She sends him a sideways glance, lips curling in a smile. “Har de har,” she deadpans, Jones snorts into his hand. You can’t stop a small chuckle.

“Maybe I’ll steal your kneecaps old man, then see who’s laughing!” She retorts, inspecting the wound a bit further as Jones chortles. “That’s if you can even reach them!”

You nearly choke on air as Jones pokes at her height once again. He was strangely playful despite his earlier attitude. Jones wasn’t exactly a stoic man, but you’d never seen him do anything too crazy up close. But then again, fun wasn’t on the top of the list of important things to have in the post apocalyptic world.

“Oh, I’ll reach them alright.” Grace says, dropping back to her feet, she turns to you. “So uh…” she snaps her fingers, muttering several names to herself before Jones chimes in, “Y/N.”

“Yes! Y/N! Sorry about that, I’m horrible with names. Thank you J,” she brushes her hand through her red-dyed hair, sighing heavily. You perk up as you can finally get an opinion. “Yes?”

“There’s a lot of work to be done here. He needs a lot of stitchin’ to close the big cut. But the good thing is, he doesn’t seem to have any severely broken bones. It all appears to be skin and muscle that got nicked.” You release a huge sigh, completely floored by this good news. He wouldn’t need any amputation, or have to be put down as your worst fears had assumed.

“He’ll need a lot of time to heal, and it will be difficult. Without proper medication, I’m afraid he’s likely to have a limp. It’s a miracle there seems to be no infection.” Lucky indeed. Especially with those odds working in his favor.

“What about the smaller cuts? I cut him free from some barbed wire that he got tangled in” You press on, feeling that he’s not out of the woods yet. Grace can merely offer a heavy sigh, clearly overwhelmed with the mountain of problems. “Given that they’re shallow cuts, it’s not impossible for him to heal just fine, but I’ll go over them to ensure there’s no leftover metal that will cause infections or delay healing.”

Nodding, you hold on to each word. Hopeful that things might turn around for him.

“First thing we need to do is get this saddle off him, then get him tranq’d so he’ll be calm during surgery.” Jones tilts his head as you do as well.

“Tranq’d? But I thought you said you didn’t have any medicine?” You said, and Jones gives the girl a suspicious glare, lips curving into a scowl. You don’t wish to know the implications of that stare.

But the girl doesn’t falter much, bringing up the rusted box kit in hand, “I had some… help greeting my hands on some meds. I would’ve given it to y’all, but they’re veterinarian use.” The hesitation in her assistance sends Jones into an overdrive as his loops pull over his teeth.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been dealing with that demon!” He spits the word like it’s rotten on his tongue, “He’s nothin’ but trouble!” Grace’s shoulders sag as her face falls considerably, “Vulgrim ain’t that bad if you’re nice to him! ‘Sides, he owed me a favor.”

Jones’ head nearly snaps off his neck at the speed he looks up, “He what?!?” The man nearly shouts, but the girl shushes him. “You can yell at me later, but I need to get to work.”

“Oh, we will have that conversation.” he says, and the girl ducks here head down under his hard stare. As the two stared the other down, you never felt so out of place. It was rather awkward.

However, she clears her throat, cutting the silence with a call of your name, “Y/n?” Your head snaps to attention, and she gives a brief smile. “Can you please help me? I need you to keep him steady as I patch him up and he might get fussy.” Although you doubt you can keep this big guy calm, more likely to be trampled under him, you nod. Grace will need all you can give her.

“Jones,” the man’s lips pull to a scowl, “I need you to help me as well,” he scoffs, crossing his arms on his chest as he cocks a hip, Grace shoots him a tiny frown. “What?! Me? I’m not going near that thing,” the horse whips his huge head around, nearly smacking you in the process as he sends an impossibly scornful glare, he snorts a plume of flames and his ears are pinned back impossibly flat to his skull.

Jones points at the beast just as he starts to pull his lips back to bare his teeth, making his point, “Hey- see?! He’s going to kick the shit out of me as soon as I get close!”

“I’d say more likely to bite you with his leg,” Grace says plainly. Even though she said it with little humor, you can’t stop from snickering. Jones’ head whips to you, offended. Your lips seal themselves shut to prevent any more of Jones’ ire.

“He won’t.” She reassures, though you doubt that genuinely despite her confidence, “Y/n will hold him. You’ll see when he’s coming for you.” ‘Likely after he throws y/n’ is the implication she gives. She’s rather… straightforward with her point.

You don’t know if that trait is reassuring or disconcerting.

Jones still only sends her a scathing look, his nose curling distastefully as the girl gives him a pleading glance. The tension between them is thick until finally, Jones cracks.

“Fine!” He throws his hands in the air in finality, tossing his head back to release a groan as Grace merely grins. “I knew you’d come around.”

Just as if a switch is pulled, Grace’s light banter is traded in for professionalism. She carried herself with a more serious air as she started to get to work, giving orders to Jones to help get the saddle off as she promised.

Together, Jones and Grace work effortlessly to unlatch the cinches, all the while you kept the stallion busy with pets so he wouldn’t freak or bite. Even if it was best to keep close to a horse so the kick wouldn’t hurt as bad, does the same rule apply to this one? You’re sure he’d lob your heads off at point blank…

The jingling of metal meeting solid ground fills the air as Jones unlatches the flank cinch, the metal compartment clattering gently on the floor. Jones then, in a complete show of impressive strength, pulls the impossibly huge saddle of the horses back with little effort. The does place it down with a gentle toss aside with a grunt, the horses flanks quiver at the sudden loss of weight.

How many pounds was it? It was nearly larger than Jones!

Grace starts to give the horse another once over, your eyes follow her as she walks all around him as her gaze rove over him. Noting each and every injury that might need her attendance

Then, after making her round she nods to herself before coming to you. “I’ll give him the medicine now, but after that can you please guide him to the stall so we can get him started. He’ll be nice and drowsy after I stick him.” She produces said medicine in hand, a small, but full vial of tranquilizer, the label is barely legible aside from the printed words “equine usage only”.

You nod, allowing her to duck under your hand holding the reins as she picks a clean needle from her kit. She sticks the needle in the vial top, and siphon the medicine into the plastic barrel.

Then, after inspecting the bottle for any bubbles to rid, Grace turns to the animal who seems apprehensive at best. You’d guess between his exhaustion and weariness from giving Jones a hard time he doesn’t have it in him to fight much. But you’re still on guard.

Quick as blinking, Grace jabs the needle in the horse's huge neck and administers the medicine. The animal startles, nearly yanking the reins out of your grip with how quickly he jolts his head up in surprise. You place a hand on his nose placatingly, distracting him from the sting. “Easy boy, it’s all over, see?”

He sends Grace a hard glare behind drooping eyes, snorting a plume of flames in your face and you sputter. You pat him on the neck, even as you try to spit out a bit of ash between your teeth.

Briefly you wonder if the ash counts as mucus, but that’s quickly brushed away as Grace gives you a direction. Obeying her task, you click your tongue and guide the big beast to follow, and he does at a very sluggish pace. Almost lackadaisical in his huge strides, the animal gives little fuss as you take him inside his stall, taking a few seconds to even eye the location with lazy interest.

But whatever curiosity within him is sniffed out as he begins to lower himself to the ground, finally on his last leg of consciousness. You keep watch over him as he slumps to the ground with a deep groan, thankfully on the proper side so you wouldn’t have to bully him into the desired position for Grace. Poor thing just seems so exhausted…

Just as you feel the weight of that huge head of his pull on the reins in your hands, you slowly slacken your grip until his head is lying flat on the ground. He stares up at you with those intelligent eyes, and now instead of a raging fire of a wild stallion, you see something gentler. Something tired and dare you say… nervous? You almost feel sorry for the poor thing.

You don’t stop yourself from lowering down to his level and plopping down next to him, gently stroking his neck as he fights the effects of the working drugs. He releases a hefty sigh as you keep close, not even giving a notice to the teenager who’s now at work fixing your little stowaway companion.

You give him a small smile just as his eyelids finally seal shut, losing the battle of staying awake. However despite that fact, you don’t stop the ministrations, feeling every scar and muscle under your fingers.

To your side, Grace is deep in her work, hands already stained with his blood and covered in a small sheen of sweat, but you don’t pay her any mind as you remain glued to your spot. Unwilling to leave him, not that you’re sure you’d even want to. There’s a conversation between the two of them, but you don’t take the time to listen as you’re only focused on the horse in front of you. Taking in the fascinating creature, you’re able to notice the tinier details about him.

You’d never noticed the markings before. So sharp and precise you’d almost confuse them for brands or tattoos. On his neck, the color of burning coals and even holds the same dull glow are unknown sigils. There’s a total of six, with the largest ones easily twice the size of your open hand. Strangely enough when you peer at the sigils closer, you swear four of the strange symbols spell out ‘CAGE’ in harsh, scrawled writing.

“Y/n?” Jones brings you out of your reverie, looking up to him with tired eyes, he stands but a few feet away, a bottle and gauze in hand. “Come on kid,” he gestures to follow, “let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

Turning back to the animal, you give him one final pat before slowly rising to your feet. You cast a hesitant glance to Jones who patiently waits at the stall door. He moves his head to gesture for you to come, and finally, you go, but not before giving some parting words, “Please take good care of him.”

The teenager offers a two finger salute from her spot, “Will do boss, go and get some rest.” Half heartedly, you chuckle as you finally find the willpower to step out of the stall.

[p0rchc0ll4ps3]

it's time for jean himages (horse images). i want to trace and color some of these digitally but itll take three years so here's what i have for now. so im posting on this blog for the headcanons and bc they're not full art pieces yet

anyways these r just sketchbook doodles so theyre not the greatest anatomywise (bc i fix them in post (ie digitally)) but you know what i stare at them so much so here

jean rides his horse in the french style which involves Lightness (a way of like. communicating with your horse and making sure the horse's needs are met, i think) so he's. really gentle with his horse. he braids the horse's hair in dressage style so button braids on top and then plaited tail. it's a big black horse with a white blaze and white socks (yeah im a horsegirl too) (in my digitally lined version of that third image, i spent like an hour making sure all the tack was accurate to the riding style. this is just the initial sketch so it's not accurate here, so you're just going to have to pretend)

harry rides horse a mixture of western and english bc he always does everything his own way, and kim (and judit not pictured) rides english bc that's the standard rcm procedure for horse. also as part of the mounted cop uniform, they have to have riding helmets lol

i think harry's horse is a small chestnut mare with a blaze and stockings, and kim's is a little bigger dark bay. they're quarter horses / thoroughbreds mostly. tho tbh they're probably elysium / insulinde specific horsebreeds that i don't know about

kim hates doing horse bc the horse never listens to him. he's used to kineema! so he's too tight on the reins. but then he ends up liking the horse anyways

obviously a lot of these r not too canon to my headcanons bc there's a few ooc phrasings and some things aren't solidified to events that i want to write about but that's ok. i'm working on writing some kinda' post-Martinaise dynamics bw Jean, memory-loss Harry, and Kim as well as the others at the 41st, and I want a lot of 'Jean has to teach Kim how to ride horse' in there. coz i think it would be fun to write kim 'wow jean is competent??? and i have to take orders from him even though i fucking hate his guts???' kitsuragi lol. making kim not good at something for once and he hates it so much how tf do you stay professional when the horse keeps misbehaving and you can't control her

also im headcanoning that all the motor carriages in insulinde at least are the british way: driver on the right, passenger on the left. carriages / horses on the road on the left (bc the rcm patch is on your right shoulder, so when you pass people on the left they can see it (if you're doing it the "normal" way ie driving/walking on the right, people can't see your patch when you pass them (i know this from experience bc i put white tape on my trenchcoat rcm-style)))

transcript for my handwriting under cut

First Image: jean on horse in the top middle: It's not a motor carriage, Kitsuragi. Loosen up on the reins. kim on horse in the top middle: I know that, Officer.

kim in the car middle left: It's not a horse, Officer. You're driving too carefully.

jean in the doorway bottom middle: Hah! You're talking to the horse! Sucker! kim with the horse bottom middle: I was just putting on her bridle Vic!

Second Image: Jean to Kim bottom right: Maybe next time you'll actually pay attention when someone's trying to fucking share knowledge with you.

Third Image: Jean on left: Hurry it up back there Lieutenant, we don't have all fucking day. Harry in middle: He's got this, Jean! Jean: Don't Jean me. Harry: He'll be fine! Kim on right: If you had let me keep the Kineema, we'd be there by now.

[maggicktouched]

Drabbles; Arya

@burnnouts

They’d had two horses. At least for a while. After she’d first been taken by the Hound, she’d been forced to share a horse with him until the night at the Crossroads where she’d reclaimed Needle. She’d taken a small sorrel horse the soldiers had tethered outside the inn. The gelding was quiet, if a bit underweight, but well suited to her needs. She’d even been considering giving him a name until he somehow managed to escape the pen of the broken down stable they’d been squatting in, and had bolted off into the night. Now they just had one horse, a large black brute built for heavy loads, but he was wavering under the strain of two riders and their provisions. The Riverlands had been victim to ceaseless rain for nearly a week, and they’d been forced to use the horse sparingly as the floodwaters spread over the land.

Arya squinted, shielding the sun from her eyes with one hand as she stared out over a field. The morning was still young, but the early light managed to cut through the billowing gray clouds to warm a small stretch of land. The lingering water on the field shone like jewels when the light danced along its surface. She hoped that it signaled at least a brief reprieve from the rain. 

At first she didn’t see the silhouette moving in the distance. It was far away and the glare of the sun on the shifting, shallow water made light and shadow dance in a way that fooled the eye, but one shadow in particular moved with all the speed of a cracking whip. Behind it, a curtain of water flew up into the air as the shape charged frantically to the side. Arya rubbed her eyes and focused on the shape as it turned a wide, arching circle, and then stopped once more. A snort rang out through the thin, crisp air, and her eyes finally made sense out of the silhouette: it was a horse!

Arya glanced back over her shoulder to where the Hound was. His back was to her, and his chest was rising and falling at a languid pace that suggested he was still asleep. She toed her away silently across their ramshackle camp and found the saddle bags slung over a crooked fencepost. Inside she found a dried cob of corn and half a carrot that she shoved into her pocket. If the Hound heard her rummaging through the supplies or slipping away from the camp, he made no move to show it.

She picked her way carefully down the small hill where they’d made camp. A fall probably wouldn’t hurt, but the horse had drifted close enough that a sudden noise or movement might catch its attention and cause it to spook. Every step she took was slow and gentle, but not light enough to be silent; she didn’t want to surprise the beast. It was grazing with its hind quarters facing her, and when she gave a little whistle, its head shot up and it turned on its hindquarters in one fluid movement.

For a moment, Arya was stunned. Standing no more than thirty paces away was a small horse in an old, battered saddle that was twisted off to one side. It was the kind of tack suited to drays or mules—bulky and plain—but the horse beneath the saddle was no beast of burden. In fact, she’d never quite seen a horse like it. The coat was a dark liver chestnut, nearly brown, and its flaxen mane was almost silver in the tender light of the morning. It had four stockings as white as fresh snow in the spots the mud hadn’t touched, and a white blaze that led down to the smallest bit of pink on its muzzle. It was built differently from most of the horses she’d ever seen as well—too small to be a destrier, too lean to be a courser, and too delicate to ever be called a garron. Perhaps it was some kind of palfrey? But its movements were bouncy and fluid. Whatever it was, it was certainly not a horse a farmer could ever afford. 

“Hello there.” She said gently, squatting down and reaching into her pocket to snap off a bit of carrot. The horse was wearing a halter too, though it had slipped off of one ear and the rope attached to it seemed to have snapped entirely. Arya slowly extended her hand and showed the meager offering in her palm. “Have you lost your rider?”

It couldn’t answer her, of course, but its fluted ears locked onto her, and it tossed its head anxiously, as if it wanted to approach but couldn’t find the courage. Once more she whistled softly, and the horse spooked on the spot, but didn’t bolt. Whoever had owned it clearly lacked the horsemanship required for such a wellbred, hot-blooded steed, but she’d been riding horses for nearly all of her life; if she could only catch the beast, she was sure she could settle it.

“Come on.” She coaxed. “Let me fix your halter.” 

She didn’t move—positive that any sudden motion would send the creature running off into the hills. So even though her legs ached and the water was soaking through her breeches, she kept perfectly still. After a long few minutes, the horse snorted again, as loud as a lion’s roar, and took a few tentative steps toward her—only to startle itself and take off at a bouncing trot several paces away. Surprisingly, before she could even curse in frustration, it turned back around and started to inch forward again. More time passed, and Arya soothed the horse with gentle words, until finally it stretched out its neck as far as it could, and carefully took the carrot from her palm. 

Three more times the mare retreated, but each time it returned a bit faster. Arya didn’t dare grab the rope and try to wrangle it before it let her stroke it on the withers, for fear that it would bolt and either drag her through the mud or lose the halter and rope entirely. Then she’d have no chance at catching it. When the carrot was gone, she switched to little offerings of dried corn, holding out a little more each time until the horse let her brush its muzzle with her fingers or stand up on her feet. The ear of corn was half gone when she finally inched back far enough to stroke the horse on the withers. She gathered up the dry rotted remnants of the rope and wrapped it around the horse’s neck before daring to reach up and fix the halter.

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” She praised, replacing the frayed rope with a length of her own that she’d brought from camp. Now, with the horse properly in hand, she wasn’t quite so nervous. It, reluctantly, yielded as she led it onward and up the hill onto dry land where the Hound was stirring on his bedroll. 

“What the fuck is that?” He grumbled, spitting off to the side and cracking the bones in his neck before he stood up. 

“It’s a horse.” She replied simply. “Haven’t you ever seen one?”

“I know that.” He snapped. “Where the hell did you get it?”

Arya shrugged, “I found it in the field. It looks like it broke its lead and ran off.”

There wasn’t a town for miles, and even if there was, she wasn’t about to go looking for whoever had lost their horse. She couldn’t stand another day trudging through the mud and water, or pressed up against the stench of the Hound again.

“That thing will buck you off the second your ass hits the saddle and prance on your corpse.” The Hound growled through his mouthful of bread. He tore off a bit and tossed it at the mare, hitting the horse’s flank, and it squealed and jumped back. Arya kept a firm hold on her rope, and glared at the Hound, but she didn’t argue with him.

She let the horse graze while they picked at what few provisions they had, and it calmed down enough that she was able to fix the saddle properly on its back. The way it bumped its head against her chest almost seemed grateful. She did, however, let the Hound tie the horse to his without complaint. They didn’t have another bridle, and without a bit to keep the beast under control, she feared it would run off with her.

For two more days they traveled like that, side by side as the Hound endlessly complained about the hotheaded mare. Arya didn’t let it bother her. She was quickly becoming attached to the spunky little steed, and a part of her longed to see just how fast the horse could go if it weren’t constantly tethered to a brute almost twice its size. The mare had a springy gait, but still moved smoothly. Through muddy waters or on steep rocky paths, the horse never once stumbled, even when the Hound’s did. 

“That saddle’s too big.” The Hound complained one night, pointing to the withers of her fine mare. Sure enough, a couple of sores were blooming on the horse’s otherwise flawless coat. Along the line of the girth, she could see it chafing as well. Though she didn’t understand why he’d point that out; there was nothing she could do about the saddle. 

“Maybe I’ll ride her without a saddle.” Arya said stubbornly, and the Hound only barked out a laugh.

“And maybe she’ll sprout wings and you’ll soar up into the clouds.” He shook his head and laid back on his bedroll. “It’s a miracle that beast hasn’t killed you yet.”

“She wouldn’t hurt me.” Arya said hotly, fully prepared to argue with him, but the Hound only closed his eyes. She didn’t press the issue, only because deep down, she knew he was right. The horse was wellbred, but certainly not well trained, and there was a glint in its eye as if it not only distrusted people, but was largely unfamiliar with them. Every time she put her foot in the stirrup it felt like she was doing something she wasn’t meant to.

There was something wild about her little mare, and Arya wasn’t certain that it should be tamed, or even if it could. Still, in spite of her wide-eyes, high head, and obvious fear, never once had she bucked or bitten or even reared. 

Arya turned her back to the Hound, only to come face to face with the horse. Her soft muzzle pressed up against Arya’s cheek, and the young girl stroked her gently—not even realizing that somehow, the horse had come untied from the tree where she’d left her.

“Tempest.” She said quietly, finally settling on a name for the beast. Her tired hands stroked the silken fur of the mare until they fell away, and her eyes shut as she was lost to slumber.

She woke the next morning to find the mare’s head lowered, her neck stretched out over her sleeping body as if she were a foal. The Hound was stomping around the camp cursing, and any time he took one step to close, the horse would pin back her ears. He mostly ignored her, until he reached for something by Arya’s foot and Tempest opened her jaws and went for his outstretched hand. The bite only missed him by a hair.

“Why didn’t you tie that fucking thing up?” He snarled, reaching for the halter of the horse, but the mare was way too fast, and not only did he fail to grab hold, she used the chance to toss her head and ram it into his arm, sending him back several steps. By the time he had recovered, Tempest’s hips had swiveled in his direction in a deadly threat to kick him in his face.

Arya laughed, but reached up to get control of her mount. Clegane was already angry, but the mare’s attitude put him in such a foul mood that he refused to tie her to his Stranger. She was forced to make reins from rope and tie them to either side of the halter, but she wasn’t afraid. Her leg swung across the horse’s back and she didn’t startle, so Arya pressed her forward with a squeeze of her legs.

For two hours they kept a leisurely pace, and Tempest behaved far better than Arya had ever expected. When she pulled on the reins, the mare would often toss her head or stomp a foot, but ultimately listen to her guidance. Around midday, they came to a fork in the road, and the mare paused. Arya clicked her tongue and pressed with her legs, and they were off again—only in the wrong direction. The Hound’s horse was headed north, and Tempest was trotting off to the west. She pulled the reins, even called out to the Hound, but it was too late.

As soon as Stranger was wheeled around, Tempest broke into a canter, and just as Arya settled into the canter, it became a gallop. Stranger, despite having longer legs, could have never hoped to catch up. The mare ran faster and faster, until the speed felt impossible. Arya didn’t dare jump for fear of breaking a limb, and no amount of pulling on the reins steadied the horse.

“Whoa!” She demanded, but her orders fell on deaf ears. Their pace was frantic, but the mare beneath her didn’t seem spooked. Her ears were focused on one single direction, her neck was stretched out rather than raised and stiff, and she didn’t even appear to strain after running for several minutes. They broke off from the main roads and into the forests, but still her stride never faltered. They vaulted over fallen logs and charged through creeks, and Tempest never stumbled. It carried on that way until the sun had completely fallen and the world was pitch black around them. Arya would have been stunned if she weren’t so exhausted. She rode as hard and as fast as she could, but eventually the horse’s stamina even outlasted her own. Somewhere in the dead of night, atop the charging steed, she fell asleep.

When she awoke, it was to a gentle rocking motion. Beneath her, Tempest was walking steadily forward, and by some miracle, she had both stayed in the saddle and remained asleep until morning. When she pulled on the reins, the horse stopped by the river to slake its thirst. Arya nearly fell as she dismounted, but the mare stretched out her neck, and she fell onto it. She too drank from the cool river, and then pulled a crust of bread from her saddlebag and numbly chewed away at it.

Nothing felt real. Nothing made any sense. She looked over at the horse, frothing with white sweat where the saddle rubbed against her, only to be broken out of her thoughts. She frowned at the pink tinged foam on the mare’s shoulders, and when she clambored to her feet and reached out to wipe it away, she found a handful of small, ugly sores weeping blood where the saddle had been rubbing against her so forcefully. Dazed and frightened as she was, she couldn’t bear the sight. She flung the saddlebag over her own shoulder, and uncinched the girth around the mare’s chest. With a groan of effort, she shoved the battered, sweat soaked saddle off of her horse for good.

The horse nudged her, walked over to a cracked stump, and stood totally still, watching the little girl. When Arya didn’t move, the mare circled back around, shoving her forward a few steps, and returned. When Arya still didn’t follow, the mare began to walk away.

Panic seized her at the prospect of being left alone in some desolate corner of the forest, and she ran after the horse, jumping up onto her back gracelessly. Tempest grunted, but carried on in the same direction they’d been going the whole time. When Arya tried to steer her away, she refused.

“Stupid horse!” She shouted, giving her a hard kick. She instantly regretted it when the mare grunted and sucked in her stomach painfully. Arya winced, rubbed her hand across the uninjured portion of the horse’s neck, and let the reins fall. She had no need for them, apparently she was going wherever Tempest wanted.

A full day passed until they broke out of the woods and into a large field. In the distance, she could see an enormous bustling war camp, and just as she gathered up her reins to try and steer Tempest away, she caught sight of a huge grey wolf, trotting alongside a man on horseback. The two were coming right at them.

“Robb?!” She could have sobbed in disbelief. Her legs pressed closer to the mare’s side and Tempest cantered forward obediently until she could be absolutely certain. It was Robb! It was her brother! The horses slowed as they came closer to one another, but Arya practically leaped down to the ground, charging forward as quickly as her sore legs would allow. She hit Robb’s chest at full speed, wrapping her arms around him. He returned the embrace with crushing intensity. 

“Arya!” He had never sounded so happy in her life. He took her face in his hands and searched her for injury, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It’s really you. You’re alright.”

He let her go and stepped around her in the direction of her horse, and Arya reached for his hand. “Careful! She doesn’t like-”

But there was no horse when she turned around to face them. Though she had not heard the thunder of horse hooves or seen the mare run off into the distance, Tempest was nowhere to be found. Instead there was a small woman with golden hair letting Robb draw her into his arms as he whispered out words of thanks. 

“Arya this is Beck. She-”

“Is very pleased to make your acquaintance.” The woman cut in, bowing her head respectfully for a brief moment. She looked at Robb and pointed said, “She’s tired, Robb. Go and take her back to camp. I’m sure your mother will be happy to see her. We’ll have plenty of time later.”

Arya was too exhausted to argue, still searching for her horse in the surrounding field. She forced a smile at the strange woman and watched her turn and walk off in the direction of the woods. As she did, Arya just barely caught the sight of the back of her dress, where her shoulders were spotted with crimson drops, as if there were small wounds beneath the fabric. She stared, opening her mouth to say something, and then Robb was there, leading her off in the direction of the camp.

“Have you—have you seen my horse?” She asked quietly.

Robb chuckled. “She’ll come back. She always does.”

[horsesource]

Black n white coats make me so crazy. Always been nuts about black horses with blazes and stockings, black paints, border collies, Stevie Rae terriers, b&w SHELTIES.. etc

[piosplayhouse]

okay so, my horses aren’t danmei they’re star trek. but they do prance around in my head like the silly little guys they are.

kirk is a chestnut dutch warmblood, mccoy is a palomino spotted blanket appaloosa, spock is either an arabian or a clydesdale (i’m debating) but absolutely black with a blaze and half-stockings. scotty is a mouse highland pony, uhura is a reddish bay dongola horse, sulu is a black tokara horse, and chekov is a grey tersk horse.

i just think horses are neat and I had to merge my fixations :)

OHHH COOLL!! I only know the bare minimum Star Trek lore but if I am allowed to offer an opinion I think since Vulcan is a desert planet, Spock being an arabian would be a good fit as the breed originated in an arid desert climate :) Half-arabians are also pretty popular and well established if you want to fit in that mixed element-- I've never heard of them being crossed with clydes, but if it's the draft element you want to get in there, apparently percherons are a natural, if somewhat uncommon nowadays, cross with arabs! Very nice on all of your headcanons, im happy you're building your mind stable <3

[only-horse-polls]

Grullo Tobiano

Eliminated - Round 3-3.5

Description: Grullo is a grey or silver colored coat with black legs, mane, and tail. Brown eyes and dark skin. Dun also comes with so-called primitive markings which include: a dorsal stripe, a dark stripe that runs along the horse's back, dark points, which appear at the fetlocks and knees, and a face mask, that is dark and reaches from the muzzle up to the eyes. See Grullo for a more thorough description of the coat. Tobiano is commonly identified as white patches that appear on the horse's topline between its neck and tail dock. Tobiano horses commonly have facial markings and white legs as well. Tobiano can cover as little as 2% of the body (leg and facial markings not accounted for) and up to 95% (percentages are approximate). The skin will turn pink in the areas the white patches reach while the rest will be dark. The eyes may be blue, more commonly so if surrounded by white, however, brown is still more common. In some cases, heterochromia may be present.

Genetics: See Grullo for Grullo genetics. Tobiano is a dominant trait meaning only one allele is needed for tobiano to appear (T/T, T/n).

Featured with markings

Head; Blaze

Front Right; Stocking

Front Left; Stocking

Back Right; Boot

Back Left; Boot

Grullo Tobiano in Real Life emhtopdunchex (Instagram) super.star.chex (Instagram) Check Out My Jeans (Posted by All-the-Horses, Tumblr) Chips And Dun* (Posted by All-the-Horses, Tumblr) Pinterest Pinterest *Chips And Dun is not tobiano but overo.

[mclintocksdaughter]

Sharing a Fence - Chapter 1

Pairing:Harry Hook X OC/Reader

Summary: Elain finds a loose horse on her property and acts accordingly.

Warnings: Fluff (Let me know if I missed anything)

Chapter Word Count: 595

Series Masterlist

She hummed a tune as she checked her cows, the early morning sun rising and setting the sky alight with colors. The air was crisp as Elain and Silver walked through the grazing cows. Jagger was running around the pasture, checking out what had been where and when. Silver occasionally had to dodge a set of horns as some of the cows scratched themselves.

They walked toward the last bunch of cows, and a taller figure eating alongside them. As she got closer, she realized it was a horse.

A stunning buckskin with black stockings, a star, and a blaze was standing next to one of the longhorns. Elain grabbed her rope and made her loop. Holding the rope in one hand, she climbed down and held the other hand toward the horse. His head shot up and he eyed her. She looked him over and he wasn’t hurt.

“Hi, big guy. You’re very handsome.” He took a step toward her and smelled her hand. He licked his lips and smelled her hand again. She laughed a little and reached into one of her pants pockets. She produced a cookie and offered it to him with an open palm. He took it from her and she rubbed his head. She worked her way back and wrapped a hand around his neck. Elain then slipped the loop over his head and rubbed his neck.

No part of the fence had been down, so he had to have jumped. He wasn’t torn up or bleeding anywhere, which was good news. Now, she had to figure out where he came from and how to return him.

She introduced Silver to the gelding, which seemed to go well. Neither tried to bite the other or kick out, so Elain coiled the extra rope and pulled herself into the saddle.

She walked through the rest of the cows, always watching out for their horns. The buckskin trailed along, never causing an issue. She looked around, trying to figure out where he had come from.

Coming down the neighboring fence, was someone on a horse. Elain walked across the pasture, hoping to meet them before they rode off. He slowed from a lope to a walk as he came toward her. Only then, did he notice the horse he’d been looking for while heading out to check cows.

Elain smiled and gestured to the gelding, “Do you know who he belongs to, by chance?”

“Yes! His name is Buck and he belongs to my friend, Harry. My name is Gil, by the way.” He stuck his hand across the fence.

“I’m Elain.” She shook his hand and moved to give him her rope, which was still around Buck’s neck.

“I have to go check some pastures, would you be able to take him to our barn?”

“Yeah.”

Gil opened the gate a few fence posts away, and Elain, Silver, Jagger, and Buck walked through. Gil went on to give her instructions on how to get to the barn from the pasture they were in.

She followed his instructions and made it to a blue-grey barn with the trim, doors, and window covers a tobacco brown color. It looked very elegant yet homey at the same time.

She waited outside the barn for a little bit before she took Buck inside to find his stall. She let him lose in it and was talking to him. Jagger stood in front of Elain and growled. Someone had been watching her.

[baby-scranner]

week 8

[dragonstepp]

Hi, ya'll

Sorry I haven't been here in all my "wisdom", but my internet went down over the weekend and I didn't get to call them until today. I have a landline, which comes through my WiFi box, and I had to gothi

I have been thinking about so many things these past few daysoh City came out on top in their league; I don't actually have a fave team, but two of my friends love them, so I was happy for them; I also watched some golf from the PGA; wow, that fellow named Block made a really cool hole-in-one: watched some stock car racing at a venue which had been renovated, but there are few drivers left that I know much about; and I watched the Preakness, but no triple crown this year. I watched Mage win the Kentucky Derby - I chose that horse just because I loved his name; I believe, as a pagan, in high spirituality, but also in magic. But he came in third in the Preakness.

I also thought a lot about all the mass shootings. I have been alive for many wars America got involved in: WW II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. You know the saddest thing I have ever known is that all those wars were fought in other lands. Our military seems to have the idea that destroying other places is what we should be doing. Only two wars have been fought on this country - the Revolution and the Civil war (that is a real oxymoron). Even George W.Bush said we go there to keep them from coming here.

So even though it is not exactly the same thing, the actions of these so-called white supremacists with their mass shootings may be wear us down a little. However, the damage to buildings so far seem to be only the twin towers and the Oklahoma City bombings back in the 90s seem to be only physical damage to properties. But we sure did some damage elsewhere; I think about Dresden a lot.

However, the white supremacists seem to be carrying on what has been problems for a long time; starting with the native Americans, through all the years of blacks/African Americans/whatever name they prefer to be called, against spiritualities other than christianity, Asians, Latinos - it just doesn't stop.

I had a bit of a quarrel with what some of these christians are saying; that the Ten Commandments should be in every school and public buildings. Don't these idiots know what they are saying? They are saying Hitler was right to go after the Jews. But the Ten Commandments were written for the Hebrews/Jews. If they want to want everyone to believe them, they should be paying attention to the Beatitudes. Oh well, I am a pagan.

I am fed up with the beliefs that corporations and other organizations want us, we the people, to follow their rules. They want us all to become faces in the crowds. Individuality is not looked on with favour. I suspect there are a lot of people here, on tumblr, who feel the same irritation I do over those thoughts. Toe the line. I think I have found here a lot of folks who believe as I do, that we are all individuals who deserve to live our lives the way we want, not be sheep. I got suspended from Facebook, and I am thinking it was a blessing. I like this site, and I like Instagram.

So thank you to all who have decided to follow me. I imagine that time will show me there are a lot of people I need to start following in return.

I love you all.

Carol in Austin, Texas

I would blaze this, but I don't have enough money in my checking account to pay for it.

[thehorsedispatch]

New Post has been published on https://horsetoloan.com/horse-breeds/belgian-horses/

Belgian Horses

Belgian Horses

The Belgian horse breed is easily recognizable as a draft horse, and this large breed is known as being one of the strongest breeds of draft horses out there! As the name may suggest, they came first from Belgium before spreading across the globe. It is believed that these horses descended from the Great Horses that were bred for medieval knights. They are still the most popular draft horse in many countries today. Below, we will go over some of the unique characteristics and personality traits of the Belgian horse, as well as some of the breed’s long history. 

Belgian Horse Characteristics 

The Belgian horse has some distinct characteristics that set it apart and make it easy to identify. These characteristics are distinct even among other draft horses. For instance, the head of a Belgian horse is small compared to its body. They also have a straight nose and a kind eye set into their small head. Stallions, especially, have a thick neck, though this is a trait shared across the breed. Belgians also have short, wide backs, and broad chests, and their legs are short and have feathers around their hooves.

Belgian Horse Size

The Belgian is one of the tallest breeds of draft horses out there!

For height, this breed stands between 16 to 18 hands high. Big Jake, the record holder for the world’s largest horse, is a Belgian. Big Jake in 20 hands and 2.75 cm without shoes. He hails from a farm in Wisconsin in the United States.

Typically, the males of this breed average to be taller than the females are, which is true of most breeds of horses. Young horses will grow to their adult size in the first 5 years of their life. Belgians from the United States are also taller than Belgians from Europe. 

Belgian Horse Weight

As Belgian horses are very tall and are a stocky breed of draft horse, they are a heavy breed of horse, too! Some of the factors that affect the weight of a horse are bloodlines and the height of the individual horse in question.

European Belgians, for instance, weigh more than Belgians from the US. In addition, stallions weigh more than mares, which is clear from some of the breed characteristics such as their thick neck. The Belgian breed averages between 1800 and 2400 pounds in weight.

When they are foals, Belgians are usually around 125 pounds at birth. Big Jake, the world’s largest horse record holder, was 240 pounds when he was born. However, there is a different horse on record as the heaviest horse, and this is Brooklyn Supreme. Of course, Brooklyn Supreme was a Belgian that weighed 3200 pounds and lived between 1928 to 1948. 

Belgian Horse Colors

The Belgian horse can come in many colors, but some are much more common than others are. Usually, Belgians are chestnut, blond, or sorrel, and have a light blond mane and tail. These colors are common in the United States and it is typically how people imagine the breed. However, you may also come across a Belgian in shades of bay, brown, or blue or red roan. This is not as common, and gray or black Belgians are the rarest of all. With all coat colors, we usually see white hairs interspersed throughout the coat. Belgians may also have white markings, like blazes on their face or stockings or socks on their legs. 

A Big Belgian Horse Eating in a field

Belgian Horse Temperament

The Belgian breed is beloved for being a gentle, kind horse. In addition to this, they are willing to work and cooperative, making them easy to handle. This is common in draft horse breeds and is why they make such great working horses!

Also common in draft horse breeds is the tendency not to spook and to have a calm temperament, which the Belgian breed has as well. Belgians do have a sense of humor and distinct personality, too— it is not all work and no play! All of these make the Belgian breed well suited to working with and interacting with humans, and these can be humans of all ages. They can be a great horse for children, despite their large size. 

Belgian Horse Care

Belgian horses are easy to care for, but it is also important to remember that they are still animals and will need a certain amount of care and maintenance to keep them happy and healthy.

The lifespan for a Belgian horses averages at around 20 years, but of course this does depend on how well they are cared for, and factors such as their diet, nutrition, and more. They are a hardy breed that is able to withstand cold temperatures and often chooses to spend most of their time outside.  

Belgian Horse Diet and Nutrition

When it comes to the diet of a Belgian horse and the food you feed them, a Belgian is going to need a lot of it! As this is a very large breed and one that is larger than many other horses, it can be inferred that they eat more than other horses, too.

This inference would be correct. Interestingly, Belgians also have slower metabolisms than other breeds of horse. This means that they eat more but need less energy.

Grass and hay are the most significant or predominant part of the Belgian horse diet. You will want to do a hay test to ensure the nutritional content of the hay, and can then add grain supplements to the diet of your Belgian after you are aware of the hay’s nutritional content.

Another thing to consider is the metabolism of the Belgian. This breed does gain weight quickly if they do not work hard and burn energy, so you should keep an eye on both their food intake and their activity level. How the two of these factors intersect is important to keeping your Belgian horse happy and healthy. 

Belgian Horse Health Issues

There are some common health problems that pop up with this particular breed of horse. One of the issues that Belgians can get is called azoturia or “typing up”. It occurs in horses that are working hard, but can be avoided by administering electrolytes and ensuring that the horse drinks enough water.

In addition to this, the Belgian suffers from some genetic problems. One of these is chronic lymphedema, which is an issue that manifests by swelling in the legs, as well as distorting the horse’s skin.

Another genetic issue is junctional epidermolysis bullosa.This causes foals to lose chinks of their skin when born, and results in them having to be euthanized. It can occur when two horses with this gene are bred. Due to this, testing is required by the United States breed registry and research is ongoing to try and laminate this genetic condition. 

Belgian Horse Grooming

It is also important to groom your Belgian horse every day. Draft horses require daily grooming as part of their maintenance. Luckily, the breed’s calm and relaxed temperament makes grooming easy! You will likely need to enlist the help of a stool or a ladder, though, to reach when you are grooming a Belgian horse.

Belgians are especially prone to scratches or mud diseases, which is why daily grooming is so important. Dermatitis and other skin issues can painfully affect their pasterns, and bacteria is able to hide behind the feathers on their legs if not cleaned regularly. Another daily grooming task is to clean the hooves daily to provide any abscesses or hoof rot. 

Belgian Horse History

The Belgian horse breed has a long history as a breed of draft horse. The history of the breed begins in an area of Belgium called Brabant, hence the name of these horses! First, they were used as Belgian war horses, and then as workhorses.

They have a calm demeanour which is well suited to these roles, and led to them being exported to North America and throughout Europe. Work horses and draft horses are not as needed these days, due to technological advances, but the Belgian horse is still a popular breed and beloved for their status as gentle giants. 

Belgian Horse Origin

Some people still call Belgians Brabant horses, especially people in Europe. This is, of course, because the Belgian originated in the Brabant region of Belgium. Careful and deliberate breeding of the Belgian did not begin until the 1600s, but the breed can be traced back to the Great Horse that knights rode into battle in the Middle Ages. Belgians and other draft horses are believed to be descendants of the now-extinct Great Horse breed.

The Belgian breed were not only used as war horses, but were also used for strenuous work like farm work, pulling wagons, and transporting people and goods. If the task required power, then there is a good chance the Belgian would be brought in to do the job!

However, the mechanization that came around the end of World War II changed the role of Belgians within the community. Some Belgians are still used for logging or farm work, while many others are now used for tourism, like pulling sleighs and carriages.

Belgian Horse Historic Development

The Belgian horse did not develop or change throughout much of its history. When the horse began to be transported throughout America and Europe, small changes likely occurred, but nothing large or noteworthy at this point.

After World War II was when we really saw the historic development of the Blegina breed change. European Belgians stayed the same, with heavy horses being the desired outcome. In the United States, on the other hand, the trend skewed towards a taller Belgian horse that was not as heavy as those in Europe. Due to this, there are now two distinct versions of the Belgian breed in existence!

A separate breed organization in the United States also strives to preserve the American Brabant, which have 25% to 99% of the European Belgian bloodline. They have the same type as their European cousins. 

Notable Belgian Horses

There are some famous Belgian horses out there, too. The breed itself is easily recognizable and has been around for hundreds of years, so there has been more than one notable Belgian horse throughout this large expanse of time. We will discuss some of these famous Belgians further on in the article. 

Big Jake

Big Jake was a Belgian horse and also a world record holder! He held the Guinness book world record for the tallest horse. He hailed from a farm in Wisconsin called Smokey Hollow Farm, where he was cared for by Jerry Gilbert and his family. They treated Big Jake as part of their family. People often came to see him and visit him on the farm until he died in 2021.

Big Jake a Belgian Horse

Rock

Rock was another Belgian draft horse. He was entered in competitions, which is where he earned his fame. Rock’s owner was a logger from West Forks, Maine, named Dick Wallingford. Rick was a staple in pulling competitions and was even featured in Sports Illustrated when he was 12, in one of the 1974 issues. He was paired with a new partner and then set a world record in 1981 where he pulled 22,000 pounds for 66 inches. 

Dick

Dick was the partner that Rock was paired with to set the world record that we mentioned above! He was another Belgian horse that Wallingford found in southern Indiana. Funnily enough, Rick and Dick had pastured together when they were colts. Wallingford hitched the two together and they pulled together for some incredible results. This is when the magic happened! 

Belgian Horse Myths and Legends

There are some interesting legends and stories surrounding the Belgian horse breed. Some even date back hundreds of years and to the Middle Ages! Even in modern day, the breed is a source of amazement for people who meet them, and they are able to be a part of many people’s special memories due to the breed’s role in tourism in certain areas. 

Coat of Many Colors

These days, the Belgian often has a reddish brown coat, but a blond mane and tail. This was not always the case! Brabants come in many different coat colors in Europe, and still do have other coat colors to this day— besides the reddish brown that we have come to associate with the breed. Chestnuts with a white blaze on the face and white socks or stockings on the legs and feet are the most popular, especially in the United States. 

The Team That Loved to Pull

Rock and Dick, who were mentioned above as notable Belgian bred horses, are a legendary team of Belgians. We know they set world records and were able to pull the heaviest loads, but they did not even need the director or encouragement of their owner, the logger Dick Wallingford! Rather, the reins were slack and there was no need to use a hitch. Many people who saw the team of horses in action said that it was like Wallingfrod was driving a Rolls Royce car.

Disney Attraction

The Disney park in California, which we know as Disneyland, has horse drawn trolleys that travel up and down Main St. Belgian draft horses are a crucial part of the equine staff here that contributes to the magical experience of each Disneyland visitor! One of the horses who served here the longest was a Belgian breed horse. Another fun fact is that, when the Disneyland horses retire, they are usually adopted by their park caretakers. 

Modern Belgian Horses

The Belgian is the most popular breed of draft horse in the United States. There are also two types of Belgian, the first being the modern Belgian and the other being the American Brabant. They can be used for work or for more recreational equestrian use. 

Belgian Horse Breeding

The Belgian horse today can be found all across the world, though sometimes under different names. The two most common are the Belgian in North America and then the Brabant in Europe. Breed enthusiasts continue to breed this horse, and the bloodlines are used to perpetuate these two most common Belgians, as well as to continue with the breed’s docile and calm temperament, which is important in draft horses or work horses. The Belgian government was actually involved in the breeding of the Belgian in the 1800s. This contributed to the strong bloodlines that were established across Europe and then in North America, too. These days, governments are no longer involved with breeding, but smaller breeders still work to selectively breed the Belgian breed. Belgians are said to be the Cadillac of draft horses. 

Belgian Horse Population

The Belgian is the most popular of all draft horses in the United States! There are about 80,000 of them, total, located in the states, with there being about 4,038 new Belgian horses being registered every year. When it comes to the Brabant version of the Belgian horse, though, there are only around a few hundred of them registered in the United States. Due to this, the Brabant is considered to be an endangered species of horse, while the Belgian is not. That being said, in Belgium, the total horse population numbers about 300,000.

They have about the same number of Belgians or Brabants as the United States does. The breed can also be found spread throughout other parts of Europe— some countries have lower populations of Belgians than others, but the breed is still not considered to be endangered. Canada has Belgians, too, but only registers about 300 of these horses every year. 

Related Articles

The American Quarter Horse Breed

The Friesian Sport Horse

Frequently Asked Questions

Are Belgian horses bigger than Clydesdales?

The Belgian horse is a breed of draft horse. The Clydesdale horse is also a breed of draft horse. However, Clydesdales are the larger of the two breeds of horse. They are about 18 hands tall, and are a bit longer and leaner than Belgian horses are. Belgian horses, on the other hand, average between 16.2 to 18 hands tall.

They are also shorter and stockier than Clydesdales, with broad backs and strong shoulders that are well suited to their purposes as draft horses.

What are Belgian horses known for?

Belgian horses are a type of draft horse. One of the things that this breed of horse is well known for is for being calm, gentle, and easy to handle. This is an important characteristic of a working horse like a draft horse! Belgian horses are still used for draft work to this day in many areas, even though draft horses have been replaced by machinery in many cases. Some of the jobs that you may see a Belgian horse doing are plowing, logging, pulling carriages, and more. They are also becoming popular for riding in many different disciplines. 

Why are Belgian horses so big?

The Clydesdale is known as being one of the largest breeds of horse, and the Belgian horse is a close second! However, when it comes to weight, they can often outweigh Clydesdales because they are shorter and stockier than the taller, leaner horse.

One of the reasons that Belgian horses are so large is because put simply, they were bred to be that way! Their size and weight gives them more strength for their jobs as draft horses. They were bred to do farm work and to haul heavy weights, so a large animal was necessary for this! 

Can Belgian horses be ridden?

It may be more common to see a Belgian horse pulling a sled or a carriage than to see it in the ring, but this is changing. You certainly can ride a Belgian horse, and doing so is becoming more popular than ever. In fact, they are considered to be great horses for trail riding!

However, this is not the only time you can ride a Belgian horse. They have a mild disposition and are easy to handle, so they are well suited for a number of disciplines, such as western, for example. 

[frodo-with-glasses]

Me: LOL Tolkien was such a horse girl

Also me: Okay so Hasufel is definitely an enormous feck-off feck-you dapple grey draft horse with a bushy little forelock and y’know what, we’re gonna give him feathering, because it makes me happy and I’ll bet it makes the horsemasters of Rohan happy too, and Arod looks like a white Arabian with a long neck and three black stockings and a blaze and—

[supercowgirl04]

The not-so-sidelined characters from Inside Job as horses!

~ Gigi is a bay blanket appaloosa with chin spots, a star, and two back stockings (though you can’t see that)

~ Andre is a non-fading black Jeju/thoroughbred with a blaze.

~ Myc is Myc.

~ Glenn is fading brown and was previously a Quarter horse.

~ Rand is a rose grey thoroughbred and mustang cross.

~ Finally, JR is a fjord pony.

[transsherlockpropaganda]

A Guide to the Sherlock Holmes Canon

Compiled for BBC Sherlock fans who wish to branch out into the original stories by ACD.

A Study in Scarlet - Holmes and Watson move in together. Shade is thrown at the Mormons.

The Sign of Four - Mary Morstan comes along. Racism.

The Hound of the Baskervilles - The most beloved of the canon. Demon hound stalks Devon aristocrats.

The Valley of Fear - Freemasons have man killed.

A Scandal in Bohemia - Holmes is beaten by the woman.

The Red Headed League - Red headed shop owner is tricked by bank robbers.

A Case of Identity - Step father poses as young man to keep young lady's money.

The Boscombe Valley Mystery - Dying Australian kills another Australian, is let off.

The Five Orange Pips - The one about the KKK.

The Man with the Twisted Lip - Gentleman becomes beggar, is accused of own murder.

The Blue Carbuncle - Precious gem found in crop of Christmas goose.

The Speckled Band - Deadly snake trained using milk and whistle.

The Engineer's Thumb - Criminals try to crush man in hydraulic press.

The Noble Bachelor - Rich man loses wife on wedding day.

The Beryl Coronet - Banker loses part of very expensive coronet.

The Copper Beeches - Governess made to cut hair and wear electric blue dress by creepy employers.

Silver Blaze - Horse commits murder.

The Cardboard Box - Woman receives ears in the post.

The Yellow Face - Man is surprisingly not racist.

The Stock-Broker's Clerk - Man replaced by criminal at job he hasn't started yet.

The 'Gloria Scott' - Holmes's first case. Man has been lying to son for whole life.

The Musgrave Ritual - Butler solves puzzle that has remained mystery to generations of aristocrats.

The Reigate Squires - Holmes pretends to faint, scares Watson half to death.

The Crooked Man - Crippled man returns from India to surprise of man who betrayed him. Also there's a mongoose.

The Resident Patient - Ex-criminal sets up doctor in practice.

The Greek Interpreter - Watson meets Mycroft. Two Greek men get beaten up.

The Naval Treaty - Important state document stolen.

The Final Problem - Persued by Moriarty, Holmes and Watson flee to Europe. Holmes disappears, assumed dead.

The Empty House - 3 years later, Holmes returns. Watson faints.

The Norwood Builder - Man fakes own death to get revenge on ex.

The Dancing Men - Woman is terrorised by coded messages.

The Solitary Cyclist - Woman is followed by strange man on bicycle.

The Priory School - Child kidnapped by his own family.

Black Peter - Drunk man killed by harpoon.

Charles Augustus Milverton - Blackmailer killed by victim.

The Six Napoleons - Scotland Yarders are really proud of Holmes.

The Three Students - Student cheats on exam.

The Golden Pince-Nez - Woman kills man by mistake.

The Missing Three Quarter - Rugby player goes missing.

The Abbey Grange - Holmes lets killer go because of love.

The Second Stain - Woman told she doesn't understand politics.

Wisteria Lodge - Man dies trying to kill Spanish tyrant.

The Red Circle - Italian couple flee from gangster.

The Bruce Partington Plans - Submarine plans stolen.

The Dying Detective - Holmes pretends to be dying of a tropical disease.

The Devil's Foot - Holmes and Watson poison themselves and hallucinate.

His Last Bow - Holmes's final case.

The Illustrious Client - Holmes beaten up on the orders of an Austrian. Watson gets very angry.

The Blanched Soldier - Man's boyfriend does not have leprosy.

The Mazarin Stone - Diamond stolen, disguises worn.

The Three Gables - Woman steals story written by man she had beaten nearly to death.

The Sussex Vampire - Man thinks wife is vampire.

The Three Garridebs - 'It was worth a wound'.

The Problem of Thor Bridge - Governess framed for murder.

The Creeping Man - Monkey serum as viagra.

The Lion's Mane - Jellyfish kills man.

The Vieled Lodger - Woman savaged by lion, hides face for rest of life.

Shoscombe Old Place - Dog provides the answer.

The Retired Colourman - Man is terrible husband.