[waverly,]

want to adopt out all tolters of mine who haven't been given a home yet so i can bring out a bunch more without worrying about these ^-^ so, hmm, this will end in a few hours maybe?

[SpartanAmethyst]

About how long roughly?
EDIT: Nevermind, I finished too c: Good luck all!~

[nimrod.]

I finished my form <3

[SpartanAmethyst]

Good luck all <3

[BluebonnetBree]

Bump ^^

[waverly,]

Username:
SpartanAmethyst

Name:
SATO Plágan Drakkar.
Translated: Plague Dragon. (Icelandic/Nordic)
He's often called Plague, or "Nag" by his previous owners.
Chosen as "Plágan" fits nicely, and his facial marking
actually resembles a dragon ouo

Gender:
Stallion; intact.

Halter color:
#B32E31 with a white radioactive symbol on the noseband.
White/very light silver metal clasps c:
White dragons adorning the cheek pieces, possibly? <3

History:
Many years ago there was a breeding farm for Tolters; they had been known for their magnificent bloodlines and strong competitors, but with time and a lack of new blood, the farm declined rapidly. The family was forced to sell each horse, one by one, until all they had left was a single pregnant mare and the family's personal mounts. After a pregnancy check-up for the old mare, though, a ray of hope shone on the horizon: it was to be a colt. When this stallion was first born, just a frail, white form, it was said that he would save the farm. He'd bring the family out of bankruptcy and put them back on easy street.

But that's where they were wrong.

As the foal began to grow older, patches of red and black began to appear, spreading across his coat like a horrific disease. But the vet could find no explanation for it; the little colt was in perfect health, and his mother seemed not to notice it either. The father, being very superstitious and even scared of what he perceived to be a "sign" of sorts, dubbed this foal "Plágan" and tried to keep as much distance as possible.

As days turned into weeks, and weeks to months, Plágan grew strong and rambunctious, typical of a colt his age. Mischief quite literally became his middle name, trying to seek attention from the humans that tried so very hard to avoid him as much as possible. He would watch as they separated him from his mother, then would tend so carefully and lovingly to her, and he found it hurt. Why didn't the children ever brush him, or come to hand him a carrot instead of just throwing it to the ground in front of him? His small red ears tilting back, that's when Plágan began to take on the personality we see today.

As he continued to grow into a yearling, the Tolter began to pull farther and farther away from human contact. He remained close to his mother, constantly going to her for comfort or companionship, but he began to shy away from the family. They'd rarely brushed him and just barely trained him to the halter, so it was only to be expected that he'd misbehave terribly when being handled, rearing and throwing his head as he fought the lead; and with each passing day, it only grew worse.

About the time Plágan turned two years old, the farm had fallen so far into bankruptcy that every remaining horse had to be sold as soon as possible. The actual day of his second birthday, the family received the long-dreaded eviction notice; by then, every other horse besides the yearling and his mother had been sold. The mare was in her waning years, too old for competing nor bearing more foals, yet a young family with a toddler came to see and eventually buy her. The father, distraught that Plágan had not yet sold, tried to convince the family to take him as well, but the father refused. He "didn't like the look in the young stallion's eyes", he'd said, and left with only Plágan's mother. The plague-marked colt raced up and down the fence as they pulled away, whinnying and calling for his mother; he continued this for nearly three full days, ignoring his so-called "masters" as they slowly packed their belongings and began their massive move to the city. When moving day came, Plágan was still unclaimed and unwanted.

Forced to do the unthinkable, the father took the colt to a working farm, where the horses were destined to do little more than pull carts around the city as rides for tourists, day in and day out. The owner of the farm gave the father very little money in turn for the colt, but nonetheless he was sold; the father was just happy to have the unlucky beast off his hands. Over a period of two weeks, the stablehands tried time after time to handle him and train him, but it seemed nearly impossible; he spent most of his days in a stall, unable to run in the pastures or socialize with the other horses. When he was handled, the stablehand that was in charge of him always used a whip to try and keep him in line (leaving permanent scars in the process), but it only worked for so long; thankfully for them, though, it worked for just long enough. As soon as the stallion turned three (or somewhat close to his birthday) he was thrust into training. All too suddenly Plágan found strange straps buckled across his mottled form, rubbing and pulling in places that had rarely been touched and never been saddled; it was only to be expected that he'd throw a fit. And throw one he did.

Plágan fought against the harness and bit, rearing and throwing his head, lashing out at any stablehand unfortunate enough to be nearby. Whipping his hips around and kicking out, the young stallion felt his hooves connect with flesh, and the sickening sound of bones breaking filled the mid-afternoon air. The stablehand that had been holding his reins- coincidentally, the same one that had been repeatedly whipping him unnecessarily for the past year- screamed out in pain as part of his ribcage shattered. In the ensuing chaos, Plágan took his chance and bolted. Long leather straps slapping painfully against his body, spurring him faster, Plágan stormed through an open gate and out onto the roadway. Thankfully the working farm was a few miles away from the city, just within reach of the open fields and forests. One quick leap over an open ditch, and he was free, tearing into the ground with the pent up energy of the miserable year spent at the farm. The long grasses whipping at his lower legs, Plágan hit the forest strong; though to his dismay, the forest didn't want him going very far. One of the straps caught on the thick foliage, pulling him to a quick and painful halt.

Giving an aggravated snort, Plágan turned and began to bite and chew at the parts of the harness he could reach, tearing at the leather and rubbing against the trees for hours on end as the harness began to fall away piece by piece. When the last leather strap fell off his mottled body, he went to work on the halter he still wore. Thankfully the stablehands hadn't been able to get the bridle on him; the thick material slid easily off his refined head, and Plágan took off into the night, no more than a ghost in the forest.

Being highly intelligent and very cunning, Plágan was able to survive in the wild pretty easily throughout the spring and summer, wandering the land in no particular direction. Here, he had no humans to whip him or abuse him, no stalls to keep him confined, no halters or tack to control him. He was free. But as summer faded to fall, the cold hit fast, and Plágan, unused to the sudden change in temperature with no shelter, found it difficult to sleep at night, even when he curled up out of the wind. All too quickly the snow came, and even with his winter coat coming in, Plágan was nearly freezing to death; but stubborn and independent as he was, he pressed on. One night about mid-November the wind was particularly bad, chilling Plágan to the bone as soon as the sun set; it was the kind of night that freezing to death was very easily achieved. But even as his breathing slowed to a crawl, death didn't seem quite ready to take the stallion.

With the soft sound of crunching snow, Plágan's groggy mind was awakened from its shallow slumber. Raising his head weakly, he could see an approaching horse, the thick-coated shire carrying a rider on his back. When the massive black gelding snorted, a thick fog erupted from his nostrils. The two seemed completely unfazed by the snow. Watching cautiously as the rider dismounted and slowly approached him, Plágan pinned his ears in warning, but he was shivering too violently to protect himself; it was so bad, he wasn't sure he'd be able to walk.

"Dirfska, koma lá. hjálpa mér að halda honum hita." ("Dirfska (Bravery; Shire's name), come lay. Help me keep him warm.")

Minding her command, the massive shire came closer and the human pulled off his tack before removing the blankets from her pack. As the shire laid down close to the stallion, whom was still trying to show aggression though was far too weak to do much of anything, one of the massive furs was laid over Plágan and another over the shire named Dirfska. After the two horses were settled, the human began to make a bonfire, close enough that it would begin to warm her and the horses.

Eventually she came to sit beside Plágan, ignoring his ears that were once again pinned in warning. All too suddenly her voice switched to to english, the young tone carrying a heavy Icelandic accent. "You're a Tolter, aren't you? What are you doing out here in the wild?" She asked. Looking over at her with mistrusting brown eyes, he could see that she was very young; much too young to be out here alone with just her horse. Had he been able to speak, he would've asked her the same question. They sat through the night in the warmth of the fire, Plágan's shivering slowly coming to a standstill. The young girl- who Plágan learned was named Elia- never slept, though the Shire was quick to find rest despite the cold snow.

Suddenly he felt her hand on his face, and Plágan gave an angry snort. But the child was unfazed; she simply smiled as her small fingers traced the white on his face. "Looks like you're part dreki (dragon)," she giggled, and Plágan only glanced at her strangely; he hated to admit that he actually quite enjoyed her touch. When the sun rose in the next morn, Elia once again tacked up her Dirfska before turning to look at where Plágan had finally stood up. The child smiled at him, before climbing up into the saddle with a little nudge from the Shire, and the two began to move off, Elia only smiling softly at the lone horse. Plágan, intrigued by the duo, slowly and cautiously began to follow them at a safe distance. They travelled for days, repeating this same routine as the girl slowly began to gain more and more of his trust. But all too suddenly, it was gone.

One night they had been sleeping peacefully nearby to a town when they were found; officers took Elia into custody, as she was underage and far from home, and placed the horses in temporary care at the nearby livery; once again, Plágan fought the human contact, but with multiple stablehands they managed to finally secured him in one of the pastures, where other horses were out i the winter sun. When Elia's parents came to retrieve her, the family also came for Dirfska. She begged her parents to also take Plágan, the girl having become very attached to the stallion, but they simply couldn't transport both of them and her parent''s refused to make a second trip to get him. Out in the pasture, Plágan watched them leave with a heavy heart. He'd trusted a human. Pinning his ears, he was reminded on why he hated them so; but he found it strange: he didn't want to hate her. Plágan wanted her back.

As the weeks passed, Plágan became the loner of the pasture. He stood off to the side, grazing and sleeping most of his days away. Horses came and went, just a blur of coats and scents that meant nothing to him. But one early spring day, there came a newcomer to the livery. A fine-looking warmblood came in, young and obnoxious and looking to take over the pasture. Plágan, easily irritable and still just as aggressive as he had been, wasn't going to bow down easily to this new stallion. In the beginning it was simply evil stares and pinned ears, but as the mares came into spring heat, the warmblood turned to aggression. One afternoon he attacked Plágan, and the Tolter responded in full. It was a terrible battle, and though Plágan was the underdog in regards to size, he made up for the height difference with his strength. When the two finally separated, both were bleeding badly. The warmblood had only cuts and gashes, but in the frenzy, one of his hooves managed to strike Plágan's right eye, damaging it beyond repair. Furious and thinking he'd been the one to start the fight, the livery owner put him out in the back pasture, and was planning to put Plágan down. But when two weeks later the warmblood attacked a gelding in the same pasture, Plágan was taken off death's row, but was still kept in the back pasture, away from the other horses. Sad and alone, now blinded in his right eye, Plágan could feel all of his aggression and hate dwindle away with each passing sunset. And all it left him with was fear and sadness.

The years passed, and Plágan began to grow older. Far past his prime now, the stallion kept reminding himself that he'd done nothing his entire life. He'd never jumped a fence, nor won a ribbon; hell, he'd never known what it felt like to have someone sit on his back. But not just anyone- her. Elia. After all the years, he'd still remembered her name. And he sighed, the memory of her ad Dirfska a bittersweet one.

It was on the day of his 18th birthday that someone approached him. He could hear their footsteps come towards the pasture and enter it; only when the gate shut again did he turn to look. It was one of the stablehands that worked at the livery; a young boy, who'd always stuck up for him when he'd needed it. He watched the boy approach disinterestedly, and allowed him to slip a halter on his tired head. "You're all out of fight, aren't you, boy?" The stablehand asked sadly, gently rubbing Plágan's forehead. For a brief moment the plague-marked stallion was grateful for the contact, but once again he had to remind himself: it wasn't Elia.

He was loaded gently into a trailer with other horses, in which they traveled far out to the west coast and were then loaded on a massive cargo ship destined for America. Plágan was calm as he was loaded; once again, no use fighting what you couldn't change, and he was too old now to try running off to live in the wild. He'd surely die now if he tried.

Through the entire voyage, Plágan seemed at peace, for the most part, while the other younger horses whinnied and shuffled anxiously in their makeshift stalls. Then once they reached land, docking in a port in Canada, the horses still had a long road ahead of them. Loaded again on trailers, the horses were delivered one by one to their buyers. It had been a long road, but all of them made it. The trailer drove through Canada, stopping constantly to feed, water, and walk the horses, as well as to go through customs and have papers checked. All total, it was almost two and a half years before Plágan, the last horse to find home, was delivered.

Upon arrival, Plágan looked at the massive ranch with vague interest. It was a bustling hub, full of many different breeds and species that one couldn't even begin to count them all. In the arena, an eventer practiced on the show jumping course. Horses grazed in pastures from the house all the way out to the forest, where trails meandered and disappeared into the trees. It was beautiful here, but to Plágan, it was still all.... grey.

A woman, who had been waiting in the driveway for the trailer, quickly signed the necessary papers and took Plágan's lead, petting his head softly. "Hey there bud," she crooned softly, slowly reaching up to slip the halter off of his head. "Looks like you're a bit worse for wear, huh? I can imagine, with that long trip behind you," she murmured, replacing the dull, itchy halter with a brand new one, colored red and adorned with decorations. She smiled then. "I'm Amethyst. I know horses like to know their partners' friends too." Partner's friends? What did that mean? "Come on, I have a nice box stall ready for you. And once the surprise is over, I'll turn you out with my other Tolters; I'm sure you'll make good friends with them."

It only took a few moments for Amethyst to have Plágan settled into his stall, and in even less time she'd managed to gently tie a big red bow around Plágan's neck. "You know, I've heard a lot about you; the Dragon of Iceland," she teased, patting his neck. "Now I'll be right back, just need to go get someone," she told Plágan, then letf his stall and secured it shut again.

"Oh Elia~! Would you come here for a moment please?"

Epic reserve for this magnificent stud.
Why couldn't it have been an "Impress Me" contest? XD
Done quq

the story was amazing ohmygoodness man ouo
congrats!!

[SpartanAmethyst]

Foal drop!:



&
[Twins]