[hiraeth + hound]

Username: jensen ackles
Name: imad || عماد || aye-med || pillar
Gender: stallion
Personality: stubborn || dedicated || oblivious || pessimistic || quiet
Eye Color: Sapphire
Coat Color: Seal Brown Leopard Appaloosa

[Jitterbug.]

Best of luck!

[guilttripping]

Username: OvercastKid
Name: Pi
Gender: Stallion
Halter and Beads Color: Red with white beads
Personality: wipple
1 Extra:

[vincent,]

Username: blazen,
Name:
Gender: mare
Halter and Beads Color: white with cobalt blue beads
Personality:
1 Extra: art

[Thelastsilhouette]

Username: thelastsilhouette
Name: A diamond hidden among the Stars / Oasis
Gender: Mare
Halter and Beads Color: Tan for the halter and light purple beads
Personality:
1 Extra:

[DeadlyArcana]

Username: PVRIS
Name: Wreckless and the Brave // barn name WIP
Gender: stallion
Halter and Beads Color: halter: silver chrome beads: pale blue
Personality: WIP
1 Extra: Poem

[canis,]

Username: canis,
Name: Amara
Gender: Mare
Halter and Beads Color: Dark Red Halter with Gold Beads
Personality: wip
1 Extra: wip

[SilverBell90]

Username: SilverBell90
Name: Kvothe
Gender: Stallion
Halter and Beads Color: Ebony brown and lava red beads with a burnt looking mahogany red halter.
Personality: Kvothe personality is a bit hard to describe. Many who have owned him believe he had a curtain type of wisdom stirring in his eyes. His understanding of the masters feeling and commands further proves this idea. Others see only a horses eyes and reactions. But even with this argument, all believe he is the finest horse to own and the purest of his breed.
1 Extra: Wip art

[paradise,]

Username:
Name:
Gender:
Halter and Beads Color:
Personality:
1 Extra:

res.

[Pandle]

Username: pan.

Name: Tareq

Gender: Stallion

Halter and Beads Colour: It had been purple once. Probably. Maybe. He'd forgotten. Time, like the dirt, had a habit of staining things. Including the halter. Where once its colours had preened brightly beneath the sun, it was faded now; the colour of rust. Of sweat. Of long days and hard nights, of impossible challenges and defiance. It was, ultimately, he thought, the colour of progress. Only the beads had kept their colour, their soft russet hues untouched by the orange plumes of sand, his diligence ensuring their continued gloss.

Personality: In their guilt, in their defiance against oppression, they'd become proud. Whether it was Ishmael's emboldened youth hopelessly entangled in a riotous, Westernised ideology and teenage hormones, or whether it was Tareq's certainty, his presence vehicle enough to ignite their rebellion, neither man nor creature knew.
Against a culture of suppression and strict, conservative traditions, Tareq's curiosity and Ishmael's lack of riding experience had led to a nomadic agreement: Tareq would wonder, and in return, Ishmael could sit and venture out wherever they ended. The duo came to adopt a patch-work quilt of traits sewn together by a life of not-belonging. For Tareq, his greatest feature was loyalty. Owed, in no uncertain terms, to the sugar cubes Ishmael kept hidden in his pockets. Obliged by curiosity, neither noise nor calamity could prevent Tareq from scouting amongst the cities. Only the hands of its filthy citizens, shuffling and hungry to appease themselves on his rich gown of leopard appaloosa, can make him prance with a deploring, panicked stride. Too proud to shy from Ishmael's quests into the populace, and too vain a character not to enjoy, at least partially, the affectionate attentions of the crowds, Tareq's brazen confidence is easily mistaken for arrogance. And perhaps it is. He has no boundaries, morally or otherwise, which he is unprepared to bridge; wayward, impish, rude perhaps, with his judgemental gaze and thieving lips, he is utterly loyal to Ishmael's whims.

Tareq's promise, Ishmael's goodbye: Jawna didn't know if it was Ishmael who had influenced Tareq, or if were the other way around. All she knew was that where one found Tareq, one found Ishmael. The Malik was loyal to a fault. Or was it Ishmael who was at fault? She didn't know. It didn't matter. She would see neither of them again. Somehow the shadows pooled with memories, slinking, half-concealed thoughts shuddering beneath the fig tree. She wished they would leave her alone. But as her hands, hard and calloused, sought the rope from the stones, she could feel their serpentine intrusion slithering un-welcomed into her thoughts.

"Don't do it like that," his hands pushed roughly at the girl as his snatched for the old water-butt, desperate to rescue it as it clunked and clattered back into the earth. "Ishmael! I'm telling Ma!" In the dirt, Jawna fought back tears. She would not cry. Not in front of Ishmael. But she would threaten him. Threaten him with Ma's displeasure. Perhaps she would even tell Pa. Her eyes grew wet as she lay there, her gaggle of limbs folded uncomfortably beneath her, stuck where she had landed. Her knees stung, small droplets of bright scarlet blinking through the graze. Ishmael was looking at her now and she could see the regret plastered across his face. His mouth, small and firm beneath his gentle sloping nose, was softening with an apology. He let the rope slip from his hands, the crash muffled by distance as their bucket careened into the well walls.
"Let's not trouble Ma today, Jawna," he reproached his sister, pulling her back to her unsteady feet. "Look see, you can do it, I'll just be here if you need me is all," and he stepped back, his toes scrunching in the sand as if to root himself beneath the fig tree. She took the rope up again, twisting it around her wrist as Ishmael had shown her. It was heavy and scratchy against her soft, unblemished flesh, and as she wriggled and wormed, wrestling with its weighty load, she could feel herself boring of the task. She didn't want the water really, she didn't want to haul it out at least. But she didn't want Ishmael to push her aside and think her too little.

Because she was little. Too little, said Ishmael. Said Ma. Said Pa. Said everyone. But where Ma and Pa reassured her that one day she would grow, Ishmael would always be taller. Only Tareq said nothing. He watched her, his eyes softly glinting as he regarded the scene. When it came to Jawna, Tareq would seemingly side with neither Ishmael nor the girl. He would be indifferent, if only for a while. Beneath his keffiyeh, Ishmael felt a guilty, sticky droplet of sweat as it hung from his brow. It must be ever so big, he thought. The world. He couldn't even see the next village through the serpentine coils of the sand dunes, like the buried humps of mammoth camels, folding upon themselves in an unending promise of discomfort. So very big, he concluded. Impossibly large and impossibly hot.
"Hurry up Jawna," he had padded closer, impatience scrawled across his youthful face as he took the rope up behind her. They pulled together. Not in silence, they had fought. Jawna could remember that, but she could not remember over what.

She pulled the old container up alone now, wishing Ishmael was there, even if only to spar with him. The world seemed so much smaller, so much duller, without him. And without Tareq it would be a long, lonely walk. At first Tareq had come back. Skulking by the well. She'd wondered how long he waited there, for her. She'd wondered if Ishmael was nearby. But if he was, he didn't show himself. Not once. Not in seven years. At first she'd thought he blamed her; if she hadn't cried, if she hadn't made a fuss... he had always been adamant that it wasn't her fault; that it was bigger than just her. In her childish naivety she hadn't understood. What could he have meant, what was bigger than her? But with time, with Tareq's occasional reappearances, she had learnt. Tareq came because Ishmael couldn't. He came for her birthday, prompted, she was sure, by Ishmael. He came too at times she didn't understand, times Ishmael must have missed her most. Hot days. Cold days. There was no pattern. She would wake each morning with a hope that Tareq would be there, waiting by the well. The last promise of her brother's survival, of his well-being.