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.
* Your story doesn't have to be super long, a few paragraphs is fine if this is an area you struggle with!

*** NOTE: *** Your backstory must be original to you, ie not something copied from a book/wiki/or other media source. Something created of your own making!
***OTHER NOTE*** Do Not use an AI program or an AI assisted program to help you write your story!
Taking someone else's writing and claiming it as your own is heavily frowned upon and not ok!
If caught plagiarising, an immediate disqualification will occur!

* Include your mascot's Name & ID# in your post!
* A separate thread post is required per mascot entry!

Backstories are due on Sunday April 12th!
- No later than 11:59pm HP Time!
 - Failure to post in here by the due date will result in an immediate disqualification!


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Please wait to post any backstories until sign-ups have closed and the training portion of the contest begins!

Lotus #465430

Long before her first hoof touched earth, before the first hint of cold air filled her lungs, there was a long forgotten valley where the old bloodlines still whispered to the wind—ghost herds of spotted coats and iron-hardend hearts, a breed long forgotten. In that valley, a muddy puddle was all that remained of a thriving pond that once nurtured the great herd. 

Years passed. The valley fell into destitution. Then one day out of nowhere grew a single night-blooming flower, pale as moonlight and stubborn enough to root itself in the murk. 

When the breed’s future was already long lost and forgotten, the flower opened.

From its center rose mist instead of pollen, and within that mist lived a dream, of hooves that would never forget the land, of spots that carried the stories of distant ancestors. The dream took shape slowly, petal by petal, breath by breath, until the mist thickened into muscle and bone, mane and tail, heart and fire.

At dawn, where the flower had been, there stood a foal.

Her coat bore the marks of the old ones: constellations etched in white scattered across da darkened sky, as if the night sky had chosen her for its star studded canvas. Her eyes were deep and steady, holding the quiet knowing of something born with purpose. The flower had vanished, sinking in dust back into the water, but its name remained—Lotus.

The valley did not celebrate her arrival.

It had forgotten how.

Wind moved through the skeletal reeds silently. The pond that once held reflections now mud swallowed them. There were no mares to nicker at her unsteady steps, no elder stallion to arch his neck in warning or welcome. Only the long hush of a place that had outlived its own story.

Lotus stood alone where the flower had surrendered itself.

The first days were a lesson in silence. She learned the shape of the hills by shadow, the taste of thin water by patience. When she called, her voice echoed back into her, unanswered. So she stopped calling. Instead, she listened.

She didn’t realize it but, the land was starting to remember.

Beneath the brittle grass, there were faint impressions of hooves layered upon hooves, generations pressed into the soil like scripture. When Lotus moved, she placed her feet carefully, as if stepping into those old tracks might summon warmth and comfort from them. Sometimes the wind would stir and for a moment she could almost feel bodies moving beside her—phantoms of spotted flanks and fairy knotted manes, hearts beating in rhythm.

She did not chase the feeling. She did not run with the ghostly herd. She had learned long ago it was just another glimpse of false hope.

She did however let it walk with her.

Seasons tested her without mercy. Spring brought little more than stubborn shoots and biting rain. Summer baked the valley until the mud cracked into maps of what had been. Autumn stripped the hills bare. And winter returned with its silver knife, cutting breath short and turning the world into a white, cold and desolate silence.

More than once, she stood at the edge of the ravine where the old pond had once swelled wide and generous. The drop was steep. The stones below waited without judgment. The wind leaned against her, steady and persuasive.

But Lotus did not step forward. She didnt jump.

She lowered his head instead, pressing her muzzle into the frozen earth, breathing against it until warmth formed in a small cloud. The land had given her a name. She would not give it back in surrender.

In her second year, something changed.

Not in her—she had always carried the ember—but in the valley.

Where her hooves passed again and again along the same narrow path, grass began to hold. Where she pawed through frost for roots, the soil loosened. Where she stood back against the wind, seeds gathered, blown in from what seemed like nowhere. The muddy remnant of the pond deepened by inches, then by more, as runoff found channels her restless pacing had carved.

She did not know she was restoring her land. 

She only knew to keep moving.

Lotus grew tall and broad-chested, her spotted coat bright against the still muted land like a memory refusing to dull. Travelers began to notice from distant ridgelines: the quick flash of patterned hide where none had been for decades. The shadowed form at the top looking down blending in with the constellations of the sky. Some spoke of a wild mare born from the fog. Others called her omen or miracle. None understood that she was neither.

She was persistence given muscle and flesh.

One late spring evening, as the light thinned to gold, a distant shape appeared at the valley’s edge. Small. Hesitant. A stallion with a coat marked faintly in the old pattern, diluted but unmistakable. He stepped forward, drawn not by myth but by the scent of now plentiful water and growing grass.

Lotus did not run to him.

She simply stood.

The wind moved between them. The valley, once hollow, held its breath.

Behind them, the pond reflected sky for the first time in years.

The old bloodlines had whispered long enough.

Now Lotus answered.

G9 🥀 Alleluia (#465913)

On the salt-bright edge of Assateague Island, where the wind never learned to whisper, a filly named Alleluia ran with the tide.

A palomino filly was born beneath a sky the color of pearl during a summer squall, all legs and lightning. The herd knew her as the one who chased seabirds for sport and splashed too far into the surf. The humans—watching from the dunes with binoculars and sunburned noses—would later call her “the golden comet.”

Alleluia belonged to the wild band that roamed between marsh and sea, the famed Chincoteague pony whose ancestors were said to have swum ashore from a shipwreck long ago. Whether that story was true or not, Alleluia carried herself like a survivor of storms. She trusted the taste of salt in the air more than any fence line.

Each July, the quiet rhythm of the island changed. Boats gathered. Crowds lined the shore near Chincoteague. Voices carried over water like gull cries. It was time for the Pony Swim and Auction, when the Saltwater Cowboys would guide part of the herd across the channel. Some ponies would find homes beyond the marsh; others would return to the wild.

This year, a new event had been added: a photography and conformation showcase to celebrate the island’s most remarkable young pony. The prize was simple but powerful—guaranteed protection within the herd and a sponsorship that would fund conservation of the wild bands for another year. The humans called it a contest. The ponies simply felt the shift in the wind.

Alleluia had no interest in contests. She was interested in racing her shadow across tidal flats and in learning which patches of cordgrass tasted sweetest at dawn. But when the roundup came, she did not panic. She moved with her band, hooves drumming a steady rhythm through shallow water, foam flecking her knees as they swam.

On the far shore, under a sky the color of polished tin, the judges waited. Cameras flashed. Children pointed. Other yearlings stood groomed and gleaming, manes combed by careful hands.

Alleluia looked smaller than most of them. Salt had tangled her forelock. A faint scar traced her shoulder from a winter scrape against driftwood. She smelled of marsh and freedom.

When it was her turn in the ring, a hush spread through the crowd.

She did not prance. She did not toss her head in showy arcs. Instead, a sudden gust barreled in from the Atlantic, snapping the flags and sending sand skittering across the ground. Several ponies shied, eyes rolling.
Alleluia lifted her head into the wind.

For a heartbeat, she seemed to listen—to the rush of surf beyond the dunes, to the distant cry of terns wheeling overhead. Then she moved.

She broke into a canter that was neither trained nor wild but something in between—a memory of open shoreline carried into a circle of white rails. Her hooves struck the earth with clean, balanced beats. She curved around the ring as if tracing the outline of the island itself. When the wind shoved at her flank, she leaned into it, steady as a lighthouse.

A scrap of paper blew across her path. Without breaking stride, she gathered herself and lifted—just enough to clear it—landing light as seafoam.

In that instant, the judges stopped scribbling. The cameras forgot to click.

They were not looking at perfection polished by human hands. They were looking at resilience shaped by tide and storm. At a pony who could swim a channel at dawn and graze under moonlight without losing her way.

When Alleluia halted, breath misting in the salt air, she did not bow her head. She gazed beyond the ring toward the thin blue line of water separating shore from wild.

The announcement came a few minutes later, carried through loudspeakers that crackled in the heat: the year’s champion, the spirit of the island, was the golden filly from the northern marsh.

Applause rolled like distant thunder.

A ribbon was tied to the fence, its blue bright against the weathered wood. Alleluia sniffed it once, unimpressed.

That evening, after the crowds thinned and the sun melted into the sea, she was guided back across the channel with the band chosen to remain wild. The sponsorship money would help protect her grazing grounds, the marsh creeks, the fragile dunes.

But Alleluia did not know about money or titles.

She knew only the cool suck of mud between her hooves and the joy of breaking into a gallop along the shoreline as the stars came out. She ran until the island blurred into silver and shadow, until the world was nothing but wind and tide and the steady drum of her heart.

The contest had given her a ribbon.

The island had already given her everything else.

G9 ✝️ Asa (#202848)

Asa was born on a night when the snow swallowed the world.

The old farmhouse sat at the edge of a pine forest in the Swiss Alps, not far from the historic hospice founded by the monks of the Great St. Bernard Pass. His breed—descended from the legendary rescue dogs of the Great St. Bernard Hospice—had long been associated with strength, patience, and an almost mystical sense of direction in storms. From the moment he opened his heavy-lidded eyes, Asa seemed to carry that legacy like a birthright.

He was the largest pup in the litter, all oversized paws and solemn brown eyes. A dark mask framed his face like a knight’s visor. While his siblings tumbled and yipped, Asa preferred to sit beside the farmhouse door, watching the snowfall as if memorizing it.

When he was eight months old, the winter came early and hard. A sudden storm rolled over the mountains, swallowing trails and turning familiar slopes into blank, white labyrinths. That afternoon, a young hiker named Elise failed to return from a ridge walk. The villagers searched until nightfall, but the wind drove them back.

Asa paced relentlessly by the door, whining low in his throat. At last, his owner fastened a lantern to his coat and opened the gate.

“Go on, then,” he whispered.

Asa plunged into the blizzard.

Snow clung to his fur and crusted on his whiskers. The wind howled so loudly it seemed alive. But beneath the roar, Asa found something else—a faint, irregular rhythm. Not a sound exactly, but a pattern: the way snow sagged in one place, the faint scent of wool and fear buried under ice.

He dug.

Minutes felt like hours. His paws burned, but he kept going, carving a hollow into the drift. Finally, he uncovered a gloved hand. Elise was half-conscious, her face pale as the storm around her.

Asa lay beside her, pressing his massive body against hers, sharing what warmth he could. He barked once—deep and thunderous—then again. The sound carried farther than it should have in that wind. Villagers later swore it echoed like a bell across the valley.

Asa's owner followed the sound.

When they found Asa, he refused to move until Elise was lifted safely onto the sled. Only then did he rise, snow cascading from his back like shaken flour, and trot beside them as though he’d merely fetched a stick.

Word spread quickly through the valley. Children left ribbons by the farmhouse gate. The local baker named a loaf after him—dense, warm, and comforting. Travelers stopped to stroke his broad head for luck before crossing the higher passes.

But Asa never seemed to notice the attention. Each morning, he returned to his quiet vigil by the door, watching the mountains as if waiting for the next whisper beneath the wind.

Years later, when his muzzle had gone silver and his steps had slowed, another storm came. This time it was a pair of skiers who vanished beyond the ridge. Asa was old, arthritic, and half-deaf. His owner tried to hold him back.

Asa slipped the leash.

He didn’t run like he used to. He moved steadily, deliberately, following memory more than scent. It took longer, but he found them—huddled in a shallow dip, disoriented and frostbitten.

When the rescue party arrived, they found Asa lying between the two skiers, snow piled along his sides. He lifted his head once, thumped his tail weakly against the drift, and closed his eyes—not in defeat, but in contentment.

Asa survived that night, though he never chased another storm again. He spent his remaining days by the hearth, children leaning against him like a living pillow, travelers tracing the scar along his paw from that first rescue.

When he finally passed, the villagers buried him facing the mountains.

Even now, when the wind cuts sharp across the pass and the snow falls thick as silence, some swear they hear a single, steady bark rolling through the valley—guiding the lost home.

Aloka #465634

I grew up as you would expect any young colt to; running and playing in the fields, playing hide and seek in the trees, eating lush green grass (so much eating!), chasing the birds and sunsets. 

The change didn’t happen overnight, but it was more like a slow burn. Something that got too hot and was simmering just under the surface, slowly breaking through and spreading like a wildfire.

Little by little, I watched those all around me stop playing, stop standing in sun beams together, becoming more solemn and solitary in their demeanor. Friends started fighting with one another over a patch of grass, when the same exact grass was all around. They started fighting over the same grain bin, even though there were plenty to go around. Friends started turning their backs on one another, and always seemed angry.

As the time went on, and I watched those all around me turn bitter and hateful, I knew that I had to try to do something. This isn’t the way that things are supposed to be. Sure, everyone has their differences, beliefs, and pasts, but at the end of the day, we are all the same.

I began to try and reconnect with those that had been pushing everyone away. Trying to open their eyes to what life is supposed to be about. Show them how much good there truly is in the world, and that life is better if we can work together and build each other up, instead of always trying to tear everyone and everything around us down.

Over time, as I looked around me, I started seeing friends once again grazing together and enjoying each other's company.  The small shifts in the body language where they would shift over to let another enjoy the same sunbeam as it came through the trees, and finding the simple peace in just being next to one another. 

The love and happiness that I remember as a colt, once again started to appear. The playfulness had returned to the valley and it was like a weight had lifted off of my shoulders, I felt like I could finally breathe again. 

No matter how hard life gets, I remind myself that as long as I stay true to myself, and show kindness to others, there will always be light in this world. You never know what someone else is going through, so if we can find it within ourselves to show grace and patience, we may just be the one thing that can help bring someone else back from the darkness.

~Aloka

Celsius | (ID #202854)

Celsius was born a tiny thing. Smaller than the rest of her litter, she had to learn ways to catch her mother, and the humans attention but found she was often overlooked. One day when her whole litter had been let outside on a seemingly nice sunny afternoon Celsius spotted a small ‘something’ in the bushes. Ever curious, she wandered away from the rest of her siblings.

Her spirits were high as she went on her adventure, chasing down what turned out to be a newspaper that had blown into the foliage. Her spirits, however, were dampened as she returned to the spot where her siblings and mother were or rather had been.
With her tail low she returned to her now, what seemed not so much of a prize newspaper. In the fading light she spotted an ad for superwoman. Celsius closed her eyes as the weather began to turn from what had been a nice sunny day to near freezing.
As she began to fall into dreamland the image on the newspaper of superwoman infiltrated her consciousness.

She became superwoman in her dreams.  Her paws became the wielders of wonder, her left paw glowing with fire, and her right brilliant with ice crystals. She went on many adventures fighting all sorts of villainous foes.  Her dreams got her through the night, and it was hard for her to wake up the next morning, when her humans came a calling. She eventually did manage to wake up and rejoin the world of reality and her family, a little bolder, a little more ‘powerful’ she would never be forgotten again. She would however,  always remember that night filled with adventures and whimsy.

Captain Jack Sparrow #202669

The wind howled through the rigging of the Black Pearl as it slipped through the midnight shoals of the Lesser Antilles. Moonlight fractured on the sapphire sea, turning every wave into a silver blade. In the quiet cabin, Jack Sparrow—rum in one hand, a crumpled map in the other studied the tiny, charcoal drawn island that clutched the horizon like a thief’s secret.

“And that’s where they’ve taken my dear Elizabeth,” a voice whispered from the darkness. It was Gibbs, eyes narrowed, a thin line of worry cutting across his weathered face.

The map was a half hearted scrap from a drunken informant: a crescent of white sand, a cliff side cave, and the guttural symbol of the Red Serpent. A pirate gang that had vanished from the charts after the Battle of Isla de la Muerte. They’d resurfaced, and with Elizabeth in their clutches, the word “hostage” felt like a blade set against Jack’s spine.

Jack tucked the map into his coat, tipped his hat, and slipped onto the deck. The Pearl slipped into the shallows, scraping over coral like a cat’s claws. The island rose ahead—a volcanic monolith veiled in jungle, the air thick with the scent of mangrove and sea salted decay.

He stepped onto the beach, sand cold under his boots, and the silence was broken only by the distant hoot of a night bird and the muffled chant of men in the darkness. He could feel eyes on him, the island itself watching, waiting.

The Red Serpent’s encampment lay in a hollow beneath the cliff, a ring of torches casting long, jittery shadows on the walls. Men in tattered coats moved like ghosts, their faces hidden behind bandanas stained with the sea’s red tide. Jack crept along a narrow ledge, his boots silent over the damp stone, his mind replaying every story of Elizabeth’s stubborn bravery. He had to find her before the tide rose and washed away any chance of escape.

A sudden clatter—an overturned crate, a splintered branch stilled his heart. A guard turned, eyes narrowing. Jack’s hand slipped to his cutlass, but he raised a palm instead.

“Gentlemen,” he crooned, his voice smooth as dark rum, “I’m a humble traveller seeking shelter from the storm. Might you spare a weary soul a night’s rest?”

The guard snorted, but before he could answer, a second voice rose—sharp, familiar, edged with fury.

“Jack!” yelled Elizabeth

It was Elizabeth, the sound carrying across the clearing like a lighthouse. She stood on a stone slab, bound but defiant, a thin scar of blood staining her cheek. Her eyes, bright as the Caribbean sun, locked onto his.

The guard’s hand tightened on his sword, but the moment stretched a heartbeat, a breath before another figure lunged. Gibbs, hidden in the foliage, sprang forward, club in hand, smashing the guard’s weapon against the stone. In the chaos, the Red Serpent’s leader, a scarred man named Calico Reyes, emerged, his saber flashing.

Jack slipped the cutlass from its sheath, the metal singing in the night. “You’ve got the wrong captain,” he whispered, stepping into the circle of firelight. Their blades met in a spray of sparks, each strike echoing like the crash of distant surf. Jack’s dance was reckless, his footwork a drunken waltz that left the enemy disoriented.

He ducked under a thrust, drove his blade into Calico’s thigh, and kicked the man back onto the sand. The other guards fell one by one. Gibbs’s club, Elizabeth’s quick jab with a hidden dagger, and Jack’s ruthless precision. When the last torch guttered, the clearing fell into a breathless quiet.

Jack rushed to Elizabeth, cutting the rope that bound her wrists. She stumbled, caught herself, and smirked, “You always take the longest route to the rescue, Jack.”

He brushed a stray lock from her forehead. “And you always make it worth the trouble,” he replied, his grin as crooked as the horizon.

They headed back to the Black Pearl as dawn painted the sky in purples and gold. The sea, now calm, reflected their silhouettes and two conspirators against the world’s endless tide.

As the Pearl slipped away, the island receded, its secrets once more swallowed by the mist. Jack tipped his hat to the rising sun, a faint chuckle slipping from his lips.

“Another day, another debt paid,” he murmured, the promise of rum and adventure already humming in his veins. The Caribbean whispered behind them, its waves a reminder that danger never truly sleeps, but neither does the heart of a pirate who loves the chase.