Official Mascot Backstories Thread!

Please post below your Mascot's Backstory!
Share with the rest of HP how your Mascot came to be/who they are/what's been going on with their lives/fictional/non-fictional, etc.
Include their Name & ID# in your post!

A separate thread post is required per mascot entry!

Backstories are due on Sunday April 24th!
Failure to post in here by the due date will equal in an immediate disqualification!

Edited to update new extension date!

Lagertha,
https://horsephenomena.com/horses.php?id=365661

When the tales of history are passed from generation to generation, there are stories that stand out amongst the tales.

Warriors, who risked life and limb for their peoples.  Soldiers, who turned the tide of war.  Knights of honour, building a country of strength.  Heroes, who stood up for those who needed protection.

There are so many names and tales in the history of this world that sometimes, it is easy to forget that man was never alone on the battlefield.   Warriors may be strong, but their steeds were far stronger.  And a great warrior King?  Well, he needs a great steed.

And the funny thing about history is how very wrong it is.  Ragnar Lothbrok may have been a warrior King, but Lagertha?  She was not his wife.  She was his partner – his best friend – and the one to carry him into victory.

And this is her tale.

--- YOU COULDN’T KILL ME IF YOU TRIED FOR A HUNDRED YEARS ---

When one is born in a country ablaze with war, one learns to run very quickly.
The little blonde filly was no exception.

First, as a wee milk babe, she ran at her mother’s side.  Through the grasses around her mother’s master’s home, she ran.  Her squeals of joy were loud, but their master’s daughter laughed louder still, giggling at the horse with the golden coat running after birds.  She ran as she grew, larger and stronger as winters passed one after the other.  When she was strong enough, she ran with the girl astride her.  The laughter was even louder then, as her rider’s long blonde hair blew in time with her own blonde tail. 

Unfortunately, when one is born in a country ablaze with war, laughter does not last.

Like so many before them, the fires of war came for their village.

It started with a few men, begging for supplies.  She did not understand their words, but she saw the men walk from the village, some with provisions packed on her herd mates.  One by one, it seemed, her herd mates went down the road, never to return.  This had happened before, of course, herd mates going with new humans down the road – but never so many, and never so often.  And so many strange humans!  The wind often smelled strange to her – like burning, and metal, and humans she did not know.

Her humans began to smell strange, too.  The girl who snuck her delicious foods had begun to smell of fear; a stink so hot it hurt the mares nose.  The master smelled of anger, and fear, and worry.  Worst of all, the running through the fields had ended – her and some of her herd mates were kept in small pens near the master’s home.  The stench of metal was hot in her nose, and so many other smells from the wind.  It made her very soul restless!

One of her new herd mates tried to explain it to the blonde mare, but it made no sense to her.  Waiting, he had called it, for the fight to come.  She knew little of fighting at the time, and he was strange, a scarred up old horse a stranger had brought home after being away for a long time.  She didn’t listen to him much – waiting for fighting made little sense.  If another horse annoyed you, you kicked them. Why would you wait? She put it from her mind. 

It was a smell that woke her – burning-fire-smoke!
Metal and men!
Horses she did not know!

The fire lit up their small village, the smoke billowing high into the night sky.   The sounds around her went from the quiet peace of night, to the deafening sounds of shouting and fear.  Metal hitting metal rang out, and the fires spread as the shouting did.  Terror filled her as she stamped about her small pen, eyes wide and scared.  There was only the gate to get out, but she had never jumped so high before.  Maybe she should try?  She stamped around again, trembling and snorting.

The smell of smoke was overpowering for her, and she did not notice a man enter her pen at first, until he spoke, “Easy there Girlie, it’s just me.”  Her master!  She wanted to nicker, but the smoke hurt her nose, and she was scared. 

But master had always helped her – even when she was a milk baby, and had gotten all caught up in a fence, he has always helped her.  So she tried to stand still, as he taught her, but she trembled.  He was not bridling her or saddling her – a rope was put about her face and a blanket on her back insted – but so quickly she had but a moment to noticed in the dark.  An instant later, her girl arrived, blonde hair braided tight, and tears on her face.  Even through the smoke, the mare could smell those tears.

“You must run-“
“But papa!”
“No.  Listen.  You must run for your ma’s village.  You know the way.  You must.  Girlie is fast and young – she will take you.”

The mare did not understand many of the words, but she did understand one.  Run.  Her feet stamped and her legs quivered.  She could run – run far from the smoke and the smell of metal and fear.  Here eyes rolled to look at the girl – small and crying.

The familiar weight settled on her back and the master opened the gate.

And she ran.

The sound of metal hitting flesh was behind her, and the coppery smell of blood.  But she was running, and her girl was astride, and they would soon be free –

The sound of something unfamiliar met the blonde mare’s ear, a twanging sound, and in a moment there was a wet sound, like metal hitting flesh. A cry, and blood – her girls blood!  She slowed for a moment, uncertain, but her girl kicked hard and she ran faster, even as the sound –TWANG– came again, and again, and another wet thump, and another.

“Girlie run!  Faster, faster!”

The village faded behind them, and she ran hard.    Her legs burned and her lungs burned, and her heart beat hard in her chest.  Her girl stopped kicking, but she ran still, lather on her chest and fear hot in her mind.  The woods were quiet but she did not notice, her feet pounding the path she had tread few times before.  Her girl was quiet, save for loud, wet breathing.

As night turned to dawn, and dawn to day, the mare’s hooves began to ache with each step, and her legs began to shake.   She had slowed as she tired, but every sound startled her back into a run once more. The girl atop her was slumped, and breathing in a strange way, and the kicking had long since stopped.  The salty smell of tears had mixed with the coppery smell of blood, and the mares own sweat.

As the dawn crept upon them, the path lightened and the trees fells behind.  Roots grew few and far between on the path, which was lucky, as the mare had begun to stumble in her exhaustion.  She tried to be careful for the girl astride her, she really did, but her legs felt numb and clumsy, and she was cold and hot at the same time.  Head down, she continued to limp, her own breathing loud in her ears as her hooves dragged the dirt.

As the sun rose higher in the sky she hit her knees, tripping over some stone or root.
There was no sound from the girl that had been astride her as the both hit the ground, and she lay there, exhausted, until darkness overcame her.  The girl would wake her in a moment, and they could continue, she thought, but she was so tired now.

When she woke, it was growing dark once again, and the sweat had dried, matted, to her skin.  She stood on sore legs, and shook, her muscles twitching in anger as her exertion.  Her mouth was dry and she panted, thirsty.  She looked for the girl and spotted her in an instant, lying at a strange angle. 

Limping over, she nickered an apology.  She had never fallen with a rider before, and it had been hours – the girl should have woken her by now!  Unless the girl had been badly hurt?  There had been a smell of blood, she thought, and that weird twang…

When the girl did not move, she nudged her, concerned.  The girl did not move again, so she nudged her harder.  The girl flopped and she startled backwards – there was a lot of blood, and – oh no.

She had only seen one dead human before, and that was the older woman who fed her master.  She had been the same – eyes unseeing, and skin a strange cold colour.   Her master’s girl was dead.  She had not run fast enough.  She felt shame, and then fear.  The forest was nearby, and the girl smelled of blood.  Letting out a final nicker, she touched her nose to the girls forehead, inhaling the scent of her kindness one last time.

Then, legs shaking, she ran once more.

--- YOU COULDN’T KILL ME IF YOU TRIED FOR A HUNDRED YEARS ---

Time passes strangely, when you are on your own.  She began to forget.

As hunger gnawed her belly, she forgot the sweet smell of feed.
As animals screamed and chased in the night, she forgot the safety of a pen.
As teeth snapped at her kicking hooves, she forgot the friendliness of a drooling dog.
As she grew cold at night, she forgot the warmth of a rug on her back.

As strange men saw her and shouted, she forgot the gentle voice of her master.
As they threw stones to drive her from their feed, she forgot the treat fed from a palm.
As she grew older, and warier, she forgot her own name.

--- YOU COULDN’T KILL ME IF YOU TRIED FOR A HUNDRED YEARS ---

Winter was hard. She was hungry all the time, and food was scarce.  So when she stumbled across a home of menfolk, she paused.  If food was somewhere easy to sneak a mouthful, a shout or a rock thrown might be worth it for a full belly.  She looked about, considering.  It was only a few homes, and there were few other horses about to make noise and alert the humans.

She looked from a distance, yearning for something she could smell, but not identify.  But as she drew closer, a set of eyes looked back at her in the sunset, and voice of a man.  She spooked, and ran away, wary.

The next evening came, and she returned, this time when it was darker and far quieter.  She was careful, taking a step and pausing, nostrils flared wide on her broad face, eyes darting to shadows to dare a human to look back at her.  The other horses were dozing, unconcerned with the stranger bypassing their pen.  She could smell their feed, and her stomach was growing in response.  She swished her blonde tail, worried.

As she rounded the corner, the man she had seen before was sitting there, looking at her.  She did not pause, but ran once more, fear spurring her on.  Her ears twitched, as the sound of laughter reached her.  A memory surfaced, a girl laughing as she ran.  This laugh was deeper, and she knew not to trust men now.

She wandered for the night, and the day, but the sweet smell had drawn her back before the sun had fallen from the sky.  She stood on the edge of the wild, and watched in the afternoon as the man fed his own horses.  He looked at her several times.  She looked back.  She did not go to his home that night.  She wander into the wild, pawing and hoping for something green.

The next night, while skirting the mans house, she stumbled onto a pile of feed on the ground.  For a moment, she stood still, glancing around everywhere in confusion, and fear.  After a long moment she took a bite, head jerking up as she chewed.  She was wary, but hungry, and her stomach burned as she ate.

She returned the next night.  And the next.  And the next.
Days flew by, and the feed was always there.

Until one day, it wasn’t – it was closer to the man’s house.
She ate it anyhow, ears twitching as she watched for movement.

The feed kept moving closer to the home, the pens, the buildings, but still she ate it.
Until one day, the feed was just inside the entry to one of the pens.

She sniffed from a distance, wary.
But she knew she could run, and how fast she was.
Determined, she stepped forward to eat, careful.

In a moment and a flurry of noise the man came from behind on one of the horses.  She startled, and ran – but to the left another man on a horse!  Furious she whirled, but a girl on a horse shook a stick at her from the right, and her man with the flashing eyes was behind her.  She was trapped-trapped-trapped!  She ran forward, into the pen.  At a run, she could jump the fence.  She was sure of it.  Until she drew closer, and saw that it was a taller fence than she had thought.  Enraged, she turned to rush past the other horses, out the gate and away from the slapping hands of men.  But the gate was closed.  Angry, she ran, around and around, screaming her anger to the world.

“Have you ever seen a horse so meant for battle?”

“Ragnar, you are crazy to tame her.”
“Why would I tame such a wild one? I will call her Lagertha, my playful one.”

--- YOU COULDN’T KILL ME IF YOU TRIED FOR A HUNDRED YEARS ---

As winter turned to spring, and spring to summer, the man, Ragnar, reminded her of a long forgotten time.  He came out to ride her new herd mates, the ones who had trapped her, with sweet smelling things in his hands.  When she sniffed at him, he would laugh and call her new name, Lagertha, and wiggle his fingers. He never yelled at her, or threw rocks.  He tempted her, but never chased.  She started to run to see if he would.  Sometimes she ran at him.  He never ran away, he just laughed.

By fall, she would eat from his hand. 
By winter, she would let him stroke her face. 
By spring, she would bear him into battle, legs striking fast and determined as he bore down his enemies. 
But those battles are Ragnar’s story to tell yet, my friends. 

Because one time, Lagertha had ran with a girl on her back, not fast enough to save her.  Her story is one of a mare, who tried so hard to save one life, and failed.  She ran from everything - men, the cold, predators.

 Now she dances in the steel and fire, blonde mane whirling behind her, determined to do anything to make sure that this rider never falls from her back.  For he is Ragnar, a warrior King, and she is Lagertha, his strong companion.

AN EEYORE KIND OF DAY

For Eeyore, #365440

Once upon a time, in a place called the Hundred Acre Wood, there lived a donkey named Eeyore.

Every morning, Eeyore would wake up in the humble home he’d made for himself, and take a look at the sky.

“Only one little cloud today,” he observed with a thoughtful frown. “Looks like rain.”

Plodding down the hill atop which he’d settled, Eeyore would grumble about his plans for the day.

“I wonder if there’s any grass left to eat,” he huffed, tossing a skeptical glance over his shoulder towards the field. “Most likely not, but I’ve been wrong before.”

When he reached the wide little stream that ran through the Wood, Eeyore would carefully pick his way to the very edge of the clear cool water to get a drink. But no matter how cautiously he stepped, there was always a new pebble he hadn’t noticed, and it always sent him tumbling right in.

“Hee-HAW!”

Landing in the middle of the brook with a great splash, Eeyore slowly rolled himself upright and sat in the water. His messy mane dripped down his neck and covered his doleful eyes.

“S’pose it was time for a bath anyways,” he said.

Pulling himself out of the stream, Eeyore would begin the long stroll towards the little meadow nestled in the Wood where the sweetest grasses grew. Every day, he expected the grass to be gone, eaten by the squirrels or blown away overnight. Every day, he was pleasantly surprised to see it still growing and ready to eat.

After a long hearty meal in the field beneath the warm sun, Eeyore would begin to feel drowsy. As everyone knows, there’s nothing like an afternoon nap with a full belly. Picking a nice looking tree, one that wasn’t liable to fall over while he slept or drop a branch on his head, Eeyore would lie down and close his eyes, hoping for an uninterrupted sleep.

“Why, hullo there Eeyore,” a cheerful voice called.

With a sigh, Eeyore opened his eyes and looked over at Winnie the Pooh. The friendly little bear was toddling through the meadow, rubbing his tummy and smacking his lips.

“Would you happen to have seen any… bees?”

And Eeyore did happen to have seen some bees. They’d stung his nose earlier when he was rooting through a flower patch in the meadow. Pooh Bear brightened up and began wandering over to follow the bees back to their honey.

Glancing up at the sky, Eeyore would notice the sun getting low and the clouds rolling in.

Time to get back home.

As he began to walk back to his humble little house, the clouds broke and the rain began to fall. 

“Hee-haw…”

Dragging his tail, ears hanging low, Eeyore continued on his way. Finally, he reached his house of sticks and crawled inside. Safe and sound, he watched the rain pour, running in little rivers down the hill towards the stream, dripping like little waterfalls off the leaves of the bushes and trees.

“Looks like good weather for another nap,” he would muse and close his eyes.

Eeyore would drift off to sleep with the sound of the rain on the sticks above him.

—-

With a soft crash, the sticks fell atop his head.

“HEE-haaaaw….”