horse design by River cat
Owner: Verdana
Name: Constantine
Gender: male
Gens: EE Aa Pnpn TOto ff
Coat color and type: blood bay pangare tobiano, classic type
Unusual parts: - blind, scars, slightly gray-haired
Background: Winter
Wooden Table: Yes
Dam: fonduation
Sire: fonduation
Breedings: Ask owner first / very few permitted
Backstory:
"Old Ugly". That's what they call him around the barn. He sticks to the back of the stall, this horse. He's not openly hostile. Not any more. And he rarely ever bites these days. But no matter how much you groom him or stroke him, no matter how many treats you offer him, the message in his indifferent look is clear: he doesn't want to be a friend. Not of yours. Not of any human's.
He wasn't always so angry, though, just as he wasn't always blind. In fact, once upon a time, Old Ugly was beautiful.
"My my," said the young vet, watching over the stall door as the wobbling colt stepped towards his mother. It was early morning, and soft Spring light filtered through the slats in the barn wall.
"Strapping boy. He's going to be a stunner."
And he was. The foal, named Constantine, grew fast, and he grew strong. He was a flashy mover, and stood out amongst the other colts his age. It was a glorious time for the Siberian Monks. They were popular, and the genetic pool was stronger than it was today. When he turned four years old, Constantine was backed, and then promptly sold to a woman and her son.
He was supposed to be the woman's horse; a steady and sedate creature for trail rides and pleasure hacks. It quickly became clear that this was an unrealistic expectation of him. Ungelded and young, Constantine was willing but fiery, energetic and proud. He was quickly bored and easily distracted. It was the son, then, who took over Constantine's bringing up. The boy had never shown much inclination for riding, but started entering his new horse in shows. They did well enough, and sometimes they even won. Constantine never minded whether or not they placed. He loved his boy. He memorised the sound of the lad's footfalls, and would start neighing before he was even in sight.
Oh, if only it had lasted. But five years later, the boy finished school, and went to study abroad. Their parting was emotional and painful, and their first reunion beautiful. In the boy's half-year break, the pair picked up as if things had never stopped. But there was no second reunion. The economy entered a dip. The family, never wealthy, fell on hard times, and the woman who had bought the horse for a hack, and who still could not manage him, sold him on.
As has happened with too many good horses, Constantine spent the next part of his life owner-surfing. He'd spend six months with this owner, a year with that. Each one found him 'not quite right'. One used him to breed Monk crossbreeds, and then sold him on when all of his mares were in foal. Another didn't like his hot head. The next found his conformation 'sorely lacking', though really it was her hard hands that made him hollow his back under saddle. Some owners were not so bad. A teenage girl bought Constantine as her first project, and he spent a blissful half-year fattening up and learning Liberty with her, before he was sold on to a riding school.
Then he was sold to Mister Lock.
Mister Lock had no first name and was a thoroughly shady character. He had a high horse turn-over. He had a bristling moustache. He was mean and conniving. Constantine did not like him, and Mister Lock did not like Constantine either. But that didn't matter to Mister Lock. He didn't need to like Constantine to find him useful. He used Constantine for all sorts of things - from cart pulling to children's pony rides. Anything to make money. He ran a riding school, and put the stallion in there as well. He blamed Constantine's unwillingness on 'too much oats, too much energy', and so cut the grain and increased the rides per day. Constantine grew more and more sour, and more and more thin. The biting began, and the unwillingness to load. On one fateful day, Mister Lock was loading Constantine up to go to a show. Constantine, tired and hungry and sore from a bad shoeing, did not want to go. He threw his head up, hitting his face against a loose beam in the box. The scratches were deep, and once they had healed, it was clear that Constantine was blind.
He was useless then, and at fifteen years old, was past his prime. Thin, shaggy and wounded, he was sent to a horse sale with the rest of Mister Lock's rejects.
He would have been sent for meat, had not one young woman in the crowd taken a closer look. She recognised his curly coat, and pulled over her friend, a skeptical middle-aged horse-owner, to confirm. Yes, Constantine was a pure-bred Siberian Monk, and a stallion to boot. With the breed declining and new blood increasingly rare, the horse was a find. His pedigree had been all but lost, but the women snapped him up for a steal.
It all seemed very glamorous at the time.
Constantine was anything but. He wouldn't load. He wouldn't stand to be groomed. Years of ill-use had wrinkled the skin around his muzzle and hardened his expression. He wanted nothing to do with people, either on his back or off of it. He bit and he kicked. If he was left in, he screamed and attacked his stall. If he was let out, he could not be caught. Nobody dared handle him alone, much less use him for breeding. He fattened up, and his physical scars healed. But those pesky mental scars would not be banished so fast.
Slowly, slowly, Old Ugly is mellowing out. He will never be beautiful, and he will never be anybody's best friend. But his sightless gaze has softened, and once in a while he will stand for a brushing.
Maybe, just maybe, there is hope for him yet.
