Post by stormbringer on Oct 13, 2008 18:39:43 GMT -5
Full Name: Morphine
Nickname: Phine (FEEN)
Breed: Arabian
Height: 14.3 hands
Gender: Female
Appearance: This horse is… Beautiful. Morphine is a fine boned girl. Her head is slim, smooth, and well formed, her eyes are a deep, dark shade of mocha brown, pushing black. In the right light (high noon, usually) they are flecked, ever so slightly with a rich, warm chocolate color. Her coat is smooth and short, and is reddish, like the bricks of the old city after rain, with the run shining on them. Her mane is a smoky black sort of color, and falls longer than most horses’. It is smooth, and soft, and is rarely tangled. Her tail mimics it – longer than most tails, silky, a smooth cascade of hair. She has long, slim legs with well defined, strong joints. Her beauty is evident in every graceful move she makes, but she tries no to show it. The way she moves is kind of a quiet one, barely picking her feet up and keeping her head down. She doesn’t flaunt the fact that she looks good – she likes to keep herself well groomed, but showing off isn’t something big for her.
Her usual manner is this : ears laying slightly down, head carried low, skimming her coal-black hooves above the ground. Trying to be invisible, which she is actually pretty good at doing. She fades into the background and lets the showy patterned horses take the spotlight.
Age:Four Years
Personality: With effortless grace and perfected social skills, it’s quite a waste that Morphine’s so quiet. She’s compassionate, and willing to chat with someone so long as she feels that she’s somewhere near equal with them, and she’s busy doing something else. But idly chatting with a master? Never. To her, Masters are Gods. And if they want her to do something, she should be doing it, not just standing by and talking.
While she may be timid, Morphine is always willing to work and obey. However corny it sounds, she’s been taught to live to serve. The only problem is catching her – she’s flighty. She often runs from others, simply to avoid the whole conversation. She doesn’t mind working, but… She doesn’t want to be caught. It’s the thought of not being able to bolt that keeps her constantly moving, and it could drive a horse crazy. She utterly worships Masters, it’s in her upbringing, but her past also causes her to hate enclosed spaces.
History: Morphine was born right in the heartlands, and called what had been the Midwest home for a long time. The herd’s home was encompassed on three sides by cliffs, and on the fourth side was a wide, rushing river. She was born there to the Lead Mare and the Leader, both Masters. They had many children, so she was given to another mare to raise, and because a slave. The old mare trained her to always obey Masters, to respect them, to remain beautiful, and above all, to keep quiet. She understood that she was of lesser rank, and saw her parents as deities, for their power over the herd. Morphine worshipped her parents to a point where it was unhealthy. Seeing them made her heart race, and she developed a nasty habit of falling to her knees for them. She was never told they were her parents, she was told she was given to the old horse by her parents, and she accepted it without question. But eventually, the herd didn’t need more slaves - it needed less. So her nurse, the old mare, took her to the river, and showed her a ford that she hadn’t known about. As they crossed, the old mare told Morphine a bit about her history – and let slip that she knew a little bit about healing. Morphine stopped and turned to look at her, but stopping was a bad idea. The old horse was swept away, and Morphine plunged in after her, dragging her to shore by her mane. Through the next week, Morphine helped the old mare regain her strength, and learned what she could about healing. She was still naïve, knew very little, but it sounded so beautiful… To be able to undo the harm that had been done seemed like a miracle.
It was on their travels that Morphine knew something new – freedom. For so long she had been boxed into the territory, now the thought of being caught made her want to bolt. She adopted a high-stepping gait and tossed her head and looked to the horizon, but the old mare – who she had come to think of as a mother – told her not to. She explained that the behavior made her look like she was trying to be a Master. Terrified, Morphine’s movements became what they are now – careful, graceful, and low, trying her hardest not to be noticed lest someone should find out that she had tried to impersonate the gods of her world.
Right before she left her adopted daughter at the Auction Rock, she whispered into her ear, and told her the truth – who her parents were. Then she was gone.
Picture:
Master, Slave, or Free-Roaming? Slave
