Vangfeti Herd: Those who journey home

Herd Level: 6

Occupancy: 10/15

Biome: Tundra

Event Challenge Level: Novice Total Herd EXP: 187097.36 Herd Customs: Herd-building and customs - About the herd Herd Members: Herd leader:

Desdemona

Name: Desdemona

Sex: Mare

Type: Nomad

Height: 17’1 hands

Build: Solid, like a tree trunk, or something built from stone.

Colour: Mushroom with birdcatcher spots Age: Unknown; not young

Lineage: Foundation

Magic

Element: Ice (UC)

Specialty: Weather: Snowstorm

~ Causes snow, sleet, or hail to fall in a 20m radius around them

Hexes: N/A

Mutations: Spore (R )

Potions: Bioluminescence (T3)

MAL: Savant

EXP: 350.18

Breedings

Slots: 23/25

Foals:

1 slot to Melsy to use as she pleases 1 slot to Asbjorn to use as she pleases History: Desdemona was born in a small herd in a cold, barren region near one of the poles. She had a straightforward enough foalhood, though she had few friends her age and spent much of her time hanging out with adult herd members, which gave her an air of age beyond her years. She was an odd duck, and puberty made her stranger: along with the expected growth of hair, solidification of horn shape and other physical alterations, she got an especial surprise: she sprouted mushrooms. After that, even the adults chose to distance themselves from her, politely but firmly pushing her aside. Her sire and dam stayed faithfully by her side, and to comfort her, told her stories of the herd from which they had come, and taught her the language of their distant ancestors. This was a surprise to Desdemona, who had never considered being from anywhere else than where she was. It lit up her curiosity, and her desire to fit in and make sense of her differences drove her to leave her birth herd young, and go in search of her place of origin. She travelled across many lands and met many herds, who sent her from tundra to mountains to plains, through forests and rivers and valleys. She learnt much, she caught snippets of possibility, but information about her home herd remained fragmentary and elusive. She delved deeper, searched further, and her sources became older and more eccentric, until one day she found her way to the Library. What business did a Nomad mare have in the middle of the desert, surrounded by bald Missionaries and ancient things? Not much, she thought at first: she had heard much about the famed Library, and was disappointed to find it all but abandoned, its staff members deeply distracted in figuring out why. Her favors changed when she met Maggie, the only remaining member of the Ice faculty. They became friends, and worked together in the deep, cold domain of the Ice knowledge. Quite by chance, Desdemona came across the skull of one of her ancestors during this time. When their horns touched, Desdemona was flooded with information - about the herd, about its catastrophic fate, about how to get back and reawaken old knowledge, all stored in place, waiting for the right vessel to take the knowledge onward and home. She was the right vessel, and when the Librarians left for the gathering of the Sacred Grove, she went with them with the notion of gathering a herd and finding her way - finally - home.

Words: 428

EXP: 21.4

Writing Research in the Ice Department - 65.58 EXP

New Herd Order - 160 EXP

Herd deputy:

Clarabelle

Name: Clarabelle

Sex: Mare

Type: Cleric

Height: 17 hands

Build: Tall but fine-boned, with a full, lush coat and a head trending more towards her shaman lineage

Color: Black Tobiano Overo

Mutation(s): Cattle Overo (UC) Age: Young adult

Lineage: Ferdinand x Unknown

Magic

Element: Air (UC)

Specialty: Sweet Gales

- enchants the air around them to imbue surrounding zeracorns with a specific mood - doesn’t work well on those already aware of what’s happening to them. Note - the air smells slightly different depending on the mood they're going for

Mutations: Cattle Overo (UC)

MAL: Transcendent

EXP: 185766.12

Breedings

Slots: 99/100

Foals:

1 slot to Asbjorn to use as she pleases History: Clarabelle (Clara to friends, never Belle) journeyed with her father, Ferdinand, from their home to the Sacred Grove, and was with him when they got lost within. Time is funny in the Grove, and at some point they became separated. Clarabelle tried to find her father (or the way out, whichever came first) but got thoroughly disoriented and turned around, and was in the Grove far longer than she knew. She forgot many things during her time there, but managed to hold onto her name, and the idea that she had come in with somebody she had to find. A young Librarian by the name of Aither found her on his first journey into the Grove as an adult zeracorn. She begged him to help her escape, and he gallantly obliged, thrilled to have done a service. His herd was less thrilled to see her, having recently picked up an unwanted outsider and not desirous of another. She had no Messenger within her, so she was not wanted, and as their herd leader Epoch was explaining this none too gently, she was approached by a strange nomad mare with glowing white fungus adorning her like a crown. She asked if Clarabelle had anywhere to go, and when Clara said no, she began to explain her own story, and her quest to find home. This appealed to Clara, having been lost so long herself, and so she agreed to accompany the mare on her journey once the winter gathering ended. Words: 249

Exp: 12.45

Name: Sunshine, more often goes by Sunny or Honey. This is known to be a nickname

Sex: Stallion

Type: Scout

Height: 16'1 hands

Build: Sunshine is just slightly lower than average in height, but he is petite, and from a distance could easily be mistaken for a mare. He favours the messenger in his lineage in shape and build with slender limbs, small feet and a narrow chest, though he has inherited a nomad's thick, long coat, with added messenger gloss. He has big, liquid blue eyes and a kind, innocent expression. He always looks very slightly confused, concerned or startled, irrespective of what he actually feels.

Color: Perlino

Mutation(s): N/A Age: Young adult

Lineage: Foundation

Magic

Element: Flora (UC)

Specialty: Growth Enhancement

- can increase the growth and healing rate of living things

MAL: Beginner

EXP: 0

Breedings

Slots: 5/5

Foals:

History:

Sunny has been turning up to the Winter gathering at the Grove for as long as anybody can remember. He has always come alone, and he has always left alone. Nobody really knows where he spends the remainder of his year, and he is not forthcoming in that regard. Nonetheless, Sunny is well-liked by those who meet him, with a pleasant manner and a desire to help and do good. He is not a big talker, but is a fantastic and sympathetic listener. When Desdemona appeared, Sunny immediately noticed another lone Zeracorn and took interest. He introduced himself late into the gathering (as it took him some time to build up the courage to do so) and quite quickly decided to join her intrepid little band, few questions asked.

Communications

Name: Violet

Sex: Mare

Height: 16’1 hh

Build: Violet is of fairly average height for her subtype, but her build leans towards her nomad heritage. She has large hooves, thick legs, and an overall strong build. Her coat is particularly dense and thick, though very soft.

Color: Dappled silver grey (black) overo

Age: 20s

Rank: Communications

Type: Missionary

Element: Water (R)

Specialty: Reflection

• An enchanted body of water can be used to send or receive messages from the caster - the recipient of the message must be near a body of water to receive it

MAL: Beginner

EXP: 29.1

Breedings: 5/5

Personality

Violet is one of those fillies who has dreamed about love since she was old enough to conceive of it. She is an extroverted, lively, chatty mare who craves connection with other living things, with a marked preference for other zeracorns. Sometimes, she comes across as a bit too much, and can be overwhelming to the point of annoying. This is not intentional, though. She is a well-meaning mare with a kind soul, and while she tries to be helpful, she can sometimes be overenthusiastic in her efforts with a tendency to jump in without thinking or assessing, and getting herself (and those around her) into a pinch. She is rarely unhappy, and when she is it's short lived. Her cheerful disposition can lighten a mood as much as it can frustrate, and her optimism and hopefulness can be contagious. Sometimes, Violet tends to think a little too much of herself and forgets to consider things from the perspective of others.

History

When it became apparent that there was nobody in Violet's small herd for her to have a whirlwind romance with, she decided to venture out into the world to find it. She travelled from herd to herd, making friends but never quite finding what she was looking for, but always leaving a bit of still water to check back in from time to time.

As she was journeying, Arabuko was growing in numbers and strength. Word was spreading about the shaman herd. Violet, who had grown up closer to her nomad kin, was curious about this side of her heritage, and thought that the forest shamans sounded very romantic indeed. However, her time in Arabuko did not quite live up to her expectations. The structure of the place was very different to anything she had known, she mostly spent time with the other Communicators, and none of these spirits felt like The One. The herd was full of Big personalities, odd personalities, eccentricities, and Violet did not quite fit, despite trying her very hardest. Melora found her too much from the very start, and didn't like her specialty being encroached upon. So when Violet opted to go to the Grove with the herd, Lora was all for it, and asked her to look around for interesting herds to keep track of, to take reconnaissance for Arabuko and for Radio Lora's networks.

Meanwhile, Desdemona was building her herd up, and Violet observed the eclectic collection of zeracorns with interest. Her reports, while initially spread over several herds, became more and more focused on the growing Vangfeti, not least because of the interest that Olorin, one of Sweet Hearth's older Guardian foals, was taking in it. He and his twin sister were separating, and he was loathe to be away from her. Violet, whose eavesdropping skills had undergone some refinement in the Communications team at Arabuko, burst in and offered her services when she heard that the other twin, Yavanna, was going back with the Arabuko delegation to the Forest. She would relay messages and connect Olorin and Yavanna, through Melora and the pools in the Forest which all ran enchanted. They approached Desdemona who, with her wise and insightful eye, could see that Violet had growing up to do and a lot to give, if directed carefully. Plus, her previous time with nomads had left her with some understanding of snow and ice. So she agreed to take her on the enthusiastic mare, and Violet left the gathering with Vangfeti.

Words: 582

Exp: 29.1

Name: Ivar

Sex: Stallion

Height: 18 hh

Build: Ivar is built from generations of warriors. He is of average height, but muscular, broad chested and broad shouldered, with a cresty stallion neck. His legs are sturdy but not thick, refined, for a surefooted but long stride.

Color: Silver bay pangare near-leopard appaloosa

Age: Closer to 40 than 30

Rank: Protection

Type: Warrior

Element: Fire (C )

Specialty: Flame clones

• Can create fire clones of themselves to fight for them, up to 2 at a time. Steam in the rain and do not to well in wet environments

MAL: Prodigy

EXP: 179.16

Breedings: 10/10

Biography

Warriors.

It's all in the name, isn't it? Those who make war. And in Ivar's herd, war was the basis on which every value was founded, and every act, every activity, traced back to combat. If the small but vicious herd was not actively making war on its neighbours, it was holed up in its cold mountain territory with its sheer geometric cliffs, plotting its next attack. Foals were raised to be fighters, ruthlessly culled, exiled or abandoned if they did not meet expectations. Only the strongest remained as adult warriors in the legions of the combative herd, and generation by generation, they became larger, meaner, more hardened in body and in soul.

Ivar was born of average size and height, and named for the yew tree, for its versatility and the unnamed, nebulous quality of being greater than the sum of its parts. That was his parents' hope for him - that he would grow to be more than he seemed. And, for a time, it seemed that he would be. What the ambitious, clever colt lacked in physical mass and strength, he made up for in speed, quick wit, and an affinity for spellwork. He caught the attention of his elders when his specialty manifested, and he was able to duplicate himself - making two extra fighters bathed in flame, tripling his presence in a fight.

His progress did not net him many friends in the competitive herd. Sabotage and in-fighting was an expected rite of passage, and before his skeleton had quite finished maturing, Ivar was the recipient of a hex. Two of his peers - one of whom he had considered a friend - sought the assistance of the sneering old potion-mistress, queen on a throne of hexes and blights, maladies and misshapes, and obtained a hex. They did not care what it was, just that it hindered Ivar's progress. They left the hex hidden where only Ivar would find it. It did not act immediately, but it was a good hex, just clever.

And one day Ivar woke up, and his eyes did not. He was blind, and would never see again.

He did not tie it to any actions of his peers. Why would he? He was confused, dismayed, but not dissuaded. Ivar chose to continue on his path to soldierdom, and sought out more unusual avenues of training. He learnt to fight by feeling the tremors and changes of the ground through his hooves, which he spelled and tended to become sensitive to both movement and magic. He grew his mane long - as was the custom of those who had never slain a foe, but he used it to protect his neck, and he learnt to feel by its movement where the wind blew. He tuned his sense of smell to precision by practicing identifying different scents on the wind, and different items placed before him.

And then, of course, there was his hearing.

Ivar's ears were his crowning glory, his triumph, his redemption. It was said that he could count crickets by their song, or even hear his opponents' heartbeats as they moved about him. Perhaps there was truth in that. Perhaps not. Nonetheless, it was true that nary a whisper or a crunch of hoof on dirt escaped his keen attention, and it was not long before he was even more adept a fighter than when he had been sighted.

This lost him whichever friends he had remained, but if he was lonely, he did not show it. In fact, Ivar's busy mind was consumed with many larger and more complex thoughts in the lead-up to his Initiation Brawl.

Despite its name, the Brawl was an organised affair. Initiates were pitched against each other, initially matched on age, size and skill. The winner would move onto the next fight, and the losers would fight against each other, and in that manner, a ranking would be determined. The five best fighters would be made permanent soldiers of the legion. The marginal losers would be sent back into training to try again the following Brawl. Those who failed to perform...

They weren't so lucky.

Of middling height and weight, and unconventional talent, Ivar won his first few fights with ease. But not long into the proceedings, he was paired against Valkyrie, the mare he had once considered a dear friend and ally, and the mare who had unknowingly conspired against him to blind him. She knew him well, and he hated to defeat her, and so their fight was initially evenly matched. Quickly, though, Ivar learnt her patterns and her bad habits, and dealt two stinging slashes to her sides with his horn. But he didn't finish the fight, as he couldn't quite bear to. Humiliated and furious, she shouted out,

"Do it! Do it, you coward. You should never have gotten this far. But go ahead, take my victory, just like I took your eyes."

That was a heavy insult, and a shocking reveal. Ivar's expression hardened, and he moved in towards -

where she had been seconds before.

But Valkyrie, a teleporting type, had slipped away, motionless and soundless, and in the seconds Ivar took to locate her again, she had materialised right beside him, and bit half his right ear clean off.

The change was immediate. Ivar's soundscape became a confusion of scribbles and directionless noise. He was disoriented, dislocated, and only vaguely heard Valkyrie announced as winner, and the loser of the previous fight called to fight against him. He knew he could not fight, though. Blood poured, blocking his ear, and if he were to try to fight, with no time to adjust to his new limitations, he would be slaughtered. So he lowered his head, and resigned from the Brawl.

Resigning was worse than losing, worse even than dying in a fight. At least the dead had died trying. The herd jeered and snorted and shrieked their disdain. Halvar, Brawl-Host and Deputy Leader, descended, and Ivar felt his gaze.

The herd were silenced.

"If you step down now," Halvar pronounced slowly,

"It will be taken as treachery, and you will be exiled immediately, banished, never to return to our ranks."

Murmurs started up, and were quickly silenced. This was an extreme penalty. Some even felt it vindictive. But it was not their call.

Ivar looked up, and his sightless, endless blue eyes locked onto Halvar's.

"I will leave. I will take my exile with grace. I will not stay where my efforts go unappreciated, where my friends would seek to do me harm, and where I am given the choice of being wounded and alone, or killed in combat. I will continue to wear my mane long, for I never made your ranks, and I will wear it with pride, until we next meet again. I will feel it on my neck and I will remember how I was treated today, and I will act accordingly. Good day."

And so Ivar, head tilted and feet unsteady, left, as he had always half-known he would, to live up to his name, and become greater than the sum of his parts.

Name: Nirminoti

Use name: Nim

Sex: Mare/non-binary

Height: 18 hh

Build: Nim's tall stature, broad build, glorious antlers, and resting mean face give her an imposing presence in any space. She is built to stay warm in winter, and built for resilience. She knows how she looks and how she comes across to others, and is willing to use that to intimidate or intervene as she sees necessary, playing the muscle to achieve an end.

Color: Palomino varnish roan

Age: Not yet 50

Rank: The Muscle, Icework and Artistry

Type: Nomad

Element: Ice (UC )

Mutations: Dusky(C), Whitetail(UC)

Potions applied: Kirin(T1), Hairloss(T3)

Specialty: Frost clones

• can create frosty clones of themselves to stand guard for the herd, up to 3 at a time (the clones look like snow or ice sculptures). Frost Clones release steam in the sun and do not last as long in hot weather

MAL: Prodigy

EXP: 140

Lineage: Breeding Sire: A-608 Himesh

Dam: Unknown

Breedings: 25/25

Biography

Name meaning: Nirminoti, like Himesh, is a Sanskrit name, and it means 'to make by magic' in loose translation, but also infers some sort of exchange or barter. It is a name well-given, both in the conception of Nim and in the life that she goes on to create for herself.

Creation

Nim is the nomad daughter of a warrior. If you're doing the math and it doesn't add up, you're right. More than serendipity and good intentions brought her into the world; a fair dose of magic must have helped along the way. Nonetheless, Himesh was always quick to assure Nim that he was her flesh and blood father, a relative in every way that mattered.

Her other parent, however, was a different story entirely, and one that Himesh showed extreme reluctance to discuss. He circled the question, dodged it, promising Nim that he would tell her the story when she was old enough. However, it seems as if, no matter when she asks, it is never quite the right time, and this vexes her deeply.

As she grows and matures, Nim commits to living up to her name, to become a maker and an artist, just like her father is. She enacts this through the production of her frost clones. She considers them to be moving, temporary sculptures, and every time she makes one she experiments with shape, form, texture, resilience, expression and technique, pushing herself beyond her limits to create a thing truly unique in some way.

And when they have fulfilled their purpose, she abandons them. The life that moves them drains away, and they become decaying statues which slowly crumble, melt, and degrade away to nothing. Personality:

Nim is a zeracorn of few words. She is a shower, rather than a teller, in how she expresses herself. She is all about efficiency, and hates waste in resources, time, or futile action - she will never use two words when one will do. She has been described as 'curt', 'aloof', 'haughty' by those who have encountered her, but it is not her intention to be rude and dismissive. In fact, when a subject is pertinent to her, or she feels it valid, she will stand and listen raptly (though her demeanour may be misleading and indicate disinterest or disapproval unjustly).

What she does not reveal in word or gesture, she pours into her art, her sculptures. Nim's primary focus is in the equine and zeracorn shape, through her ambulatory 'Snow Clones' or their immobile and unenchanted iterations. She plays with the limitations of these shapes, altering proportions, simplifying or exaggerating, improving shapes for use - be it speed, range of motion, carrying capacity, or whatever else she is curious about at the time. Her eye for aesthetic is unmatched, and her decorative choices for her clones are limitless. Some could almost be alive, they are so realistic. Some burst with frost flowers or jagged icicles, while some are the barest suggestion of a creature - legs, barrel, neck and head, tail.

She experiments with other shapes as well, sometimes drawing inspiration from other animals (she enjoys sculpting tiny, delicate rodents, insects and birds as quick projects or 'doodles') or features of the natural world. Some of the things she makes come directly from her own head, and some are entirely abstract, to be left up to the viewer to interpret.

The key to understanding Nim is in the details. To best understand her mood and thoughts, look simply to the last thing she made.

EXP:30

Name: Snowshoe, after the rabbit

Use name: Snow, sometimes Sue

Sex: Mare

Height: 18 hh

Build: Behemoth-shaped. Big and rounded and hairy.

Color: Palomino roan

Age: Undetermined

Rank: Undetermined

Type: Behemoth

Element: Ice (UC )

Potions applied: Bioluminescence (T3)

Specialty: Frost walker

• chills the air and environment around them, especially prominent around the hooves

MAL: Beginner

EXP: 30

Lineage: Foundation

Breedings: 5/5

Biography:

When she was a foal, they called her 'Snowshoe', for her small stature, varying coat (darker in the summertime, lightest in the coldest months) and the cold rime left around her hoofprints. As she grew older, and larger by the day, the name wavered, but remained true: She was Snowshoe for her piercing gaze, her fleet and silent gait, and her long ears, from the position of which her every thought might be read. She was Snowshoe because she was cautious, and she was Snowshoe because she was hardy and brave.

And, always, she was Snowshoe because of the cold path left by her large, cloven hooves year-round.

What is a herd, but a group in flux? Growing and shrinking, new lives added and old paths diverging. Snowshoe was a wanderer, an explorer, never satisfied staying still too long in one place, and as such, she rarely remained with one herd for very long. What she always did, without fail, was attend the Sacred Grove. She was an avid and intrepid Grove-hound, and had been lost in it more times than she cared to count, sometimes for a matter of days, sometimes for far longer. She grew... strange and ephemeral from it, and she was an odd sort of mare to start.

Her glowing eyes did not diminish this impression.

This year, she caught a glimpse in the crowd, of a mare who looked very much like herself. She felt an inexplicable kinship with the mushroom-brown mare with the glowing mushrooms on her head. Fascinated, but reserved, Snowshoe dogged the steps of the busy nomad, and watched with interest as she spoke with other odd, lone, dissatisfied zeracorns at the gathering. One wore bells on her piebald coat, and another was a stallion that Snowshoe had crossed paths with before during her exploits at the Winter Festival. She wondered, as she watched, what the mushroom mare saw in them all, and what she sought.

And as she watched, little did she realise that she was being watched in return.

"Can I help you?"

Snowshoe started, dragon-snorting deep in her belly in surprise. Glowing blue eyes met glowing white ones, and the two odd mares regarded one another. The silence deepened, until eventually it was Desdemona who rephrased her question:

"Are you lost?"

Snowshoe had no answer to that. She knew where she was, geographically speaking, but she also knew that this was not the heart of the nomad's question. So she thought deeper.

What direction was she going in?

What was her greater purpose?

Slowly, in a surprisingly soft, light, breezy voice, she answered with another question:

"What if I were?"

Desdemona could have been indignant at the impertinence, if impertinence she read into the response. But she didn't, and she wasn't. Instead, she smiled warmly and reached out her muzzle to the pale behemoth.

"You see, I am lost, and trying to find my way. I wonder if you would like to join me? Perhaps we could look together awhile."

And that, to Snowshoe, seemed a welcome idea indeed.

Name: Tiffany

Use name: Tiff

Sex: Filly

Height: 15'2 hh

Build: Little and fuzzy and Scooty

Color: Pangare sandy chestnut

Age: Babie

Rank: Babie

Type: Scoot

Element: Flora (VR )

Mutations: Rosy (C), Fiery (C)

Specialty: Petal Storm

• Enchants pollen and seeds in the air to grow extremely rapidly, blossoming while still in the air and raining petals around them in up to a 15 meter radius. The type of flowers depends on the local flora and what pollen/seeds are available on the wind

MAL: Master

EXP: 619

Lineage: Foundation

Breedings: 50/50

Biography:

The Vangfeti herd brought springtime with them as they journeyed from the Sacred Grove in search of a new home. The herd of six - a good, strong number - was led by the mysterious Desdemona and her newly-appointed deputy Clarabelle, and the four other herd members followed their instructions with a mixture of trust and resignation. They walked in a line: Violet trotted ahead confidently, calling out frequently to the others. Clara and Ivar followed more cautiously, scenting the air and alert for danger. Desdemona and Nim took a more sedate pace, the two ice nomads planting their heavy feathered feet with thought-out precision. And always Sunny ambled behind, stopping to peer at any living thing he encountered, and leaving it healthier and more vibrant than when he left. Sometimes the line was a close-packed formation, and sometimes it stretched so far that it barely resembled a herd at all.

Violet, at the head of the line, was the first to come across the ice poking from a drift. She stopped, sniffed it, and called out to the rest:

"Nim! Hey, Nim! This looks like one of yours!"

Nim, who had decided quite quickly that Violet was her Least Favourite herd member (closely followed by the war-battered Ivar) rolled her eyes.

"Haven't been this way. Sure it's not just snow?"

"Does snow usually have ears? And a horn?"

This piqued the interest of both ice mares, and they hastened their pace to see what the young Violet had found.

She was right: it was ice, and it was ice shaped like a zeracorn. With a breath of wind, Clara swept the loose snow away to reveal the delicate lines and contours of a young foal, most likely not yet a yearling. Nim immediately began to investigate.

"No, not mine," she clarified, even as Violet was opening her mouth to ask.

"Now hush. This is odd. Des? Come look?"

So herd-mother Desdemona did, and as they looked, their consternation grew.

"It's so precise, so anatomically-correct..." Nim mused.

"Oh, my! Oh look, its poor little tail!" Desdemona tutted as she kicked something hard, and found a severed tail icicle lying in the snow."

"You don't think it could be..."

"No, surely not..."

"What?" Ivar asked impatiently. He was not often inconvenienced by his blindness, but in the cold, all snow and ice was the same to him, and he found himself feeling left out. Violet went to reassure him, and he brushed her away.

"It's not a clone," Nim confirmed for the group at large.

"And it's not an ice soldier, though this is certainly an enchantment," Desdemona mused.

Violet shivered.

"Do you think it was... Alive?"

This was a sobering thought, and the herd stepped back to mull it over, jaws moving, tails flicking.

Then Sunshine, who had said not a word, stepped forward, and touched his muzzle to the snow. His thick scout horn glowed for an instant.

"Alive," he grunted, to everyone's surprise.

"Alive but frozen. Ice hex."

Desdemona looked closer.

"He's right!" she murmured, "It's a real foal! I wonder... Nim, do you think, together, we could break the hex?"

Nim shrugged, but was never one to step down from a challenge, so after a brief conference, the two big mares stood on either side of the ice statue (their bulk making it look even more fragile) and blew soft air into its muzzle.

Nothing happened.

"Perhaps ice magic should be mended with fire magic. There is a poetry to it," Ivar spoke up, and the two mares stepped aside to let him try. He summoned a fire clone - with no small effort - and sent it towards the statue, which began to bead with moisture. The two ice mares felt a shiver of alarm.

"No!" Nim snapped, and pushed him aside. Ivar, no small zeracorn himself, was nonetheless caught off-balance, and stumbled in the deeper snow. He scowled at Nim.

"You're hurting it," Desdemona clarified.

"We should regroup, and consider our..."

Completely ignoring the rest of the herd, Sunny had been scratching around in the snow and thinking deep sunshiney thoughts. Now he raised his head and stepped back up to the statue. He took a deep breath, and his blue eyes lightened and shone with a bright, warm light. His horn agreed, and fully charged, he reached his muzzle out to that of the sculpted ice foal.

"Breathe again, little one, and be healed," he crooned.

The ice began to crack, and the herd shouted for him to stop. He ignored them. Pieces fell, but like a shell and not like a broken vessel. Soft pastel fur began to emerge, starting at the muzzle - nostrils twitched and then snorted, breathed - and working down the head, neck, face, chest. Slowly but speeding up, the foal began to emerge.

As soon as it could, its little lungs filled up with air, and it shouted out -

"- Gon! Ice dragon! That's a dragon, look out!" and then stopped, breathing heavily, as it seemed to come too. It shook the last of the ice off of itself, but continued to tremble in fear as it looked around. Its little face was perplexed and dismayed as it saw that it was in the middle of a herd of strangers.

"... Momma?" it called out plaintively.

Desdemona's heart melted.

"No, my love. But it is alright; we are friends. You were frozen."

The foal nodded thoughtfully.

"Yeah, there was a dragon," she repeated in a high-pitched and confidently strident tone. With the imminent threat passed, she began to calm down, but fear quickly shaped itself into confusion.

"Who are you? Where's my mom?"

The herd had no answers for her. They barely knew who they were, and they had seen no other herds for days. The foal's lips started to tremble.

"I want my mom," she whimpered. Desdemona stepped forward, and when the baby did not shy away, she began to groom her shoulders.

"I don't know, love. But if you'd like, we can try to help you find them? Do you know how long you have been frozen?"

The foal did not, and if anything this seemed to distress her more than being alone. Big tears rolled down her cheeks and muzzle as she looked at her little hooves.

"Well," Desdemona said, always the one to take charge,

"You cannot wait here. Will you come with us dear, in the meantime? I am Desdemona. This is my herd. What is your name?"

"Tiffany," the filly sniffed.

"Momma calls me Tiff because I'm always fighting with the big boys."

She stepped out of the snow bank, testing her wobbly legs, and made her introductions to the rest of the herd. She trusted Desdemona immediately. Ivar and Nim both frightened her for opposite reasons. Violet seemed nice enough but had way too much energy for a first meeting. She felt that Clara would be sister-shaped, or friend-shaped.

But her favourite and best friend was Sunny, and would remain such for a very long time. So it was he who she walked beside, and he who would teach and guide her. She had to take two steps for every one of his, but was perking up quickly, and soon the herd was inundated with an endless stream of questions from their newest recruit:

"Who are you all? Where d'you come from?"

"Where are you going?"

"How come you don't know?"

"Are we gonna stop for dinner soon?"

And, the one question that nobody had any good answer for, and which would bug Tiffany for many years to come:

"What happened to my tail?"

Name: Plato

Use name: Plato

Sex: Stallion

Height: 16'3 hh

Build: Plato is a 'subtypey' behemoth - by which people usually mean 'small/slight'. And it's true; at 16'3 he is below average in height, and he is noticeably less massive than his twin brother Astro. But it's more than that: His sire, Archimedes, is a Missionary living in a desert den of Messengers, and there are whispers of these different influences in the glint of his eye, the curl of his forelock, the attentive line of his ear to his shoulder to his chest. He is a mutt, in the way that can be either inspired or dismissive. He wears it proudly.

Color: Bay sabino splash

Age: Young Adult

Rank: Apprentice/Tag-along

Type: Behemoth

Element: Shadow (U )

Mutations: Mossy (C), Starry Dapple (C)

Specialty: Spectral Distortion

• Warps and distorts light and shadow, causing zeracorns around them to see strange hallucinations and twisted versions of their surroundings

MAL: Beginner

EXP: 0

Lineage: Breeding

Sire: Archimedes

Dam: Leila

Breedings: 5/5

Biography:

Name: Moraine

Sex: Mare

Height: 15'3 hh

Build: Lithe and lean; she looks too fragile for her environment while blending into it seamlessly.

Color: Grullo fewspot appaloosa

Age: Unclear

Rank: Needed A Place To Go

Type: Scout

Element: Ice (R )

Mutations: None

Potions: Blindness

Specialty: Flash Freeze

• Can cool their surrounding environment, dropping temperatures below freezing. Causes any condensation or water around them to freeze

MAL: Beginner

EXP: 15

Lineage: Foundation

Breedings: 5/5

Biography:

To understand how she sees herself, one first has to understand how she sees.

And that is... Complicated.

She doesn't 'see' unless she has to. Hearing, smelling and feeling serve her just fine in the everyday. But, when it does become necessary, and so long as conditions are right, she has found a way to reconstruct her immediate surroundings - just a little. She is bashful about it; she's not very good yet. But here is what she does:

It's not so much 'seeing' as a form of frost-based echolocation. She exhales, sending moisture billowing out of her nostrils in clouds, and then uses her specialty to freeze it. Solidifying as anything from flakes to feathers to little shards of ice, gravity (and a dash of magic) sends them into contact with their immediate space, catching on plants and obstacles and zeracorns, or drifting unimpeded to the ground. She uses the sound of the falling ice, the tactile feedback of vibration and little flecks of cold shrapnel, to piece together a crude map of her world.

Having never seen, this is how she imagines her friends, her enemies, dangers and delights - as blank spaces of approximate height and width, spotted by diamonds of ice and thin nets of melting snow. And in these spaces are all of the things that make those things important - the danger they imply, the potential for good, the existing relationship and the one still to come. Prediction and description, curious uncertainty, and only when the wind is still and just the right kind of damp.

So what does she look like? To Moraine, she is a dome of glitter on rump, shoulder, back and neck. She is blurring movement in ears and mane and tail, outlines of limbs in the clouds they lift from the ground. She is sharp, seeking nostrils and twitching muscles.

And, most importantly, she thinks that she is very beautiful in every way that matters.

Herd Writing and Lore

WRITING

Roleplays: Reunion: Clarabelle, Ferdinand and Twila

3262 words divided between funnyfarm and I. EXP tbc

Short stories

Clarabelle finds her way Total EXP: 106.2 Clarabelle: 53.1 Desdemona: 53.1

Magic as Art

Total EXP: 110 to Nim

New Herd Order

Total EXP: 160 to Desdemona

ART

Snowball Fight by Asbjorn - 185700.47 EXP to Clarabelle

97.66 EXP to Ivar

Inventory

EXP

Desdemona:

25 25

Potions

Hexes

Infertility

Hair loss

Blindness

General T3

Hair Growth

Base coat