Cotton Firecracker

[Deleted]

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N A M E;; cotton firecracker [cotton, firecracker]
G E N D E R;; mare
B R E E D;; chubby little thing quarter pony x paint x qh
A G E;; 7
A R R I V E D I N M U S T A N G;; spring, year seven
C O A T C O L O R;; dark bay
H E I G H T;; 13.3 hh
E Y E C O L O R;; bright emerald gren

P E R S O N A L I T Y;; When you were young you were rather full of life, bucking around and giggling with the other foals. Nothing seemed to hinder your personality until a stallion began to toy around with you. He invaded your personal space in such a way that now, throughout your life, you cannot stand to be in physical contact with any other equine. The sensation of a stranger’s fur against yours is enough to send you spiraling into either a mad fit or a panicked heap, but more so the former. While you may not consciously be aware of it, your history of encounters with stallions has led you to hold a grudge against them, finding them very untrustworthy and nothing better than the mud that gets caught in your hooves.

You much prefer to live on the move, fearful of what settling into a herd might do to you. It terrifies you that you could end up in the same scenario that you grew up in and it’s your greatest with to not be subject to any kind of authority ever again. You don’t know what would make any stallion want you in their herd anyway: you’re an oddity, a White Tail, and you’re just a few hoof beats away from being deemed crazy with the auditory hallucinations.

There are only two voices you hear inside your head: your colt and the tyrant stallion of your old herd. Your son merely calls your name in a frantic and pleading manner, constantly setting you into a state of panic. The voice of the stallion only makes you angry and you yell in response to his taunts, often running away whenever that one happens.

Aside from your mental instability you are, in general, cold and unwilling to accept any other horses. You glare at anyone that passes you by and you’re quick to retort at any warm welcoming. Unfortunately you’re quick to jump to conclusions and you don’t give anyone the chance to justify themselves no matter the situation. Once you’ve formed your (often wrong) opinion of someone then you refuse to let it be changed.

You do, however, have a soft spot for foals. Ever since you lost your own you’ve been awfully protective of them even if they’re not yours. If anything, foals are the only equines you’re comfortable around. So young, so innocent – they remind you of your little colt, and as soon as you remember your poor little foal you tend to move on, leaving and trotting away.

H I S T O R Y;; It wasn’t your fault you were born under the circumstances that were there at the time of your birth. No sooner had you learned to stand did your tyrant of a father label you as some oddity – he called you White Tail and harshly shoved you away from your mother, a sadistic grin gracing his muzzle as he watched you trip over your own legs and cry out for the mare, and whenever you hobbled back to her he would only throw you back again. Your mother watched with a teary gaze, lowering her head away from the stallion’s taunts about her odd filly. He quickly grew bored of his new toy, however, and eventually decided to leave, leaving you alone to return to your mother.

The herd certainly wasn’t big and for a good reason. A few of the mares were able to escape the cruelty of the lead stallion, and because of that he kept a very close eye on the ones that remained, one of them being your mother. She was very weak-willed and from a very early start you were proving to be the polar opposite of her by opposing the stallion whenever he made grotesque advances on you or your mother. It didn’t matter what age you were – all he wanted was sensual pleasure, and even if you protested he would overpower you easily. You were so small, too, much smaller than the other foals. You didn’t grow very tall either and that left you a vulnerable target.

You stood by your mother for years even as she continued to have more foals, and you kept watch over them, too, challenging the stallion whenever he would try to try anything with your siblings. One time you lunged at him in an attempt to bite his neck, managing to take a chunk out of him. He obviously was not pleased with your behavior – he retaliated by biting off part of your ear and using his weight to force you to the ground, growling dark threats into your bleeding ear. You struggled hard to free yourself, you really did, but he was much bigger and stronger. Your mother pleaded in the background for him to assault her instead of you but he was determined to not let you go unpunished. You knew he would follow through with all of his threats so you reluctantly stayed down as he toyed with your body, ears pinned back and nostrils flaring.

Seasons later you gave birth to a healthy colt. For the first time in years you smiled, cherishing him. Your mother, old and weary, also smiled as you both watched the little colt open his eyes and his lips curl into a goofy grin. Your siblings, too, (some of them with their own foals) watched on as he took his first few steps.

The stallion left you and your son alone for a few days before he approached, eyes glowering darkly. No sooner did you nudge your colt behind you before the stallion attacked, beating you down with his hooves and biting wherever he could reach. You fought back as valiantly as you could before he stepped right over you and took your colt by his throat, shaking his back and forth until his neck snapped.

That was it for you. You stared in bewilderment at the corpse of your colt and the sadness overwhelmed you. You hadn’t even noticed that your mother had started attacking the stallion – all that you saw was the crumpled body of your only son, and it wasn’t until one of your siblings started screaming your name that you came back to reality.

They had somehow managed to knock down the tyrant and were yelling at you to run so you did. You scrambled to your hooves, bit onto your colt’s neck and picked him up, holding your head high and galloping as fast as you could with the extra weight.

You didn’t know where you ended up but you collapsed onto the ground, tired and weary, sobbing and nuzzling the cooling little body. You wept the entire night and your heart ached terribly but you knew you had to move on; you nuzzled him gently one last time before carrying on, keeping your head low and ears back. You wandered far longer than you could remember, succumbing to wretched auditory hallucinations of your son’s voice calling for you. The first few times you heard his calls made your heart leap and you stopped dead in your tracks, looking around frantically for his dark little body but not finding him. It only added to your grievances and you reluctantly went on your way, pinning your ears back and doing whatever you could to not hear his cries.

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From a rating of one to ten [ten being the best], what would you rate MUSTANG?: so far 10 :3
What do you suggest we do next/improve?: you can’t improve perfection
Where did you find us?: google search
What would you like to be called?: bear works dandy
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[Whipster]

Accepted! [ on my phone ]

i am a little weary on heights? she wouldn't be tall but i'm not 100 she would be less than 14.1 you know? Bandit yay or nay?

[Deleted]

QHs and Paints averages are as small as 14hh and add in the QP and I think it's plausable. BUT there is no such thing as #.4hh. One hand is 4 inches so each .# is an inch so a 13.4 would actually be a 14.00 hands high.

Whip just remember to keep an eye on that too with apps. As well its easy if you can just do a quick breed search for average hieghts on the breeds add them up and divide by the total numbers of breeds listed for a clost average of what the horse could be. A little shorter is more acceptable than overly tall.

So yes please edit the height a little bit.

[Deleted]

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