horses of your world

[Caged Maiden]

Okay, after having fun in the "ask me about horses" thread, I wanted to put a shout out to all you writers who like horses. I want to see what you all came up with. I guess after posting in the other thread that my horses aren't a huge part of my world, I had to eat those words because looking back, I write them in small ways into many scenes.

Show me your horses! Post snippets below of the scenes where you show off your use of horses. Thank the posts to vote for the ones you like best. If we get ten people to participate, I'll furnish a prize.

If you want to share, post a small section of your work (a line to a paragraph or two) mentioning horses in your world. You can post more than one example but keep each post to a single example. Like I said, multiple posts acceptable for each player, but if we can get ten people to play, I'll put up a prize. Maybe something horse-related or whatever.

Each thanked post counts as a vote. Voters can vote for as many posts as they want. No rules really, just some fun and a little showing off. I mean, horses are pretty great for showing off, aren't they?

 

[Jabrosky]

In one project from last year that never went anyway, I had pseudo-Egyptians riding zebra chariots. I still think it's an awesome idea. Of course the Egyptians in real history had acquired horses from the invading Hyksos after the Middle Kingdom, but I think zebras fit into a pseudo-Egyptian setting even better than run-of-the-mill horses.

 

[Svrtnsse]

I'll lower the tone here right away then:

“Don't worry about it. You clearly didn't mean any harm – I just let it get to me.”

“Yes, but I should have known better.” He stared up at her. “Okay?”

“As should I.” Her smile disappeared. “Okay?”

Their eyes locked. The wind died down and the birds stopped singing. The silence was absolute. Enar refused to move. His throat itched, but he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't cough, or sigh, or clear his throat. He would not give in.

The horse lifted its tail and pooped.

Enar's mouth twitched. Amandas mouth twitched. They both looked at the horse, who just stood there as if nothing had happened. The giggles threatened to kill him. Poop.

Enar lost. “We're both being idiots aren't we?”

 

[Caged Maiden]

Here's one of mine:

He stopped and stared at a bloody handprint showing stark against the white wall of the stable in the moonlight. Rafe edged back toward the house and grabbed a lamp off a hook near the door. Shining it toward the stable, he crept across the drive again.

Judging by the silence, Rafe guessed his horses were dead. The stale, metallic scent certainly hinted as much. He opened the latch and pulled his arm back to let the door swing open.

The lamp revealed his two chestnut mares, lying with their slit necks one atop the other. Blood-soaked hay reeked, the air so thick, Rafe had to step back before his stomach rebelled.

Sleeve pinned against his nose to keep from gagging, Rafe stumbled backward, catching his weight against the side of the house. Pity for his slain steeds melded with anger at the blatant threat. Rafe reconsidered his plans to forgo the morning’s church service and simply pay the fine for his absence. The last thing he needed was to anger Marcello further or give the impression he was running.

 

[Caged Maiden]

Sorry, this one is kinda long but it's all horse-relevant:

The wells outside the church’s walls were teeming with gossiping washerwomen and a group of hunters watering their horses and dogs. Cedrick stopped for Maurice to have a drink from a wooden trough.

“Move your pony out of the way, boy,” said one of the dark-clad hunters.

Cedrick hadn’t realized the hunter was addressing him until the stranger grabbed the shoulder of Cedrick’s shirt and said again, “I told you to move your pony out of the way and let Lord Harrington’s horses drink first.”

Startled by the bold stranger’s rudeness, Cedrick grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled his shirt free. “I’ll only warn you once to take your hands off me. I might be young, but I’m no boy. I’m a trained soldier and don’t tolerate any man’s hands on me.”

The hunter scowled but stepped back. Through clenched teeth he growled, “Lord Harrington’s horses drink first.”

Cedrick whistled, two quick even notes and Maurice’s head snapped up. “Come on, boy,” he said, eyes still on the hunter. “Seems we must wait our turn.”

As Cedrick walked, Maurice followed, stopping when Cedrick took a seat on a stone wall outside the churchyard.

The dozen hunters talked low while their horses and dogs drank. One feisty mare almost caught a hound with a well-timed kick, and after, even the dogs kept their distance.

“They’re always like that,” a girl said, setting her wash basket on the ground next to Cedrick.

“Excuse me?”

“Edward and his crew,” she said, nodding to the hunters. “They’re always rude, thinking themselves terribly important men, when all they are is a pack of mangy dogs.”

Cedrick didn’t know what to say. He didn’t particularly care for the hunter’s manners, but as an outsider, was happy enough to follow local etiquette, so long as he wasn’t accosted in the process. “It’s alright, Maurice can wait, can’t you, boy?”

Maurice nodded his head in a greatly exaggerated way, tossing his white mane.

The girl giggled and clasped her hands together. “How can he understand?” Her blue eyes studied Maurice.

Cedrick stroked the velvety, gray muzzle. “This town’s pretty, do you think it’s nicer than Rheinguard, boy?”

Maurice didn’t move.

“Well, maybe not,” Cedrick said. “But the girls are prettier, aren’t they?” His white head tossed and nodded.

The girl squealed in delight and clapped her hands. “How did you make him do that?”

Cedrick winked. “My secret.”

 

[Tom]

Cool! Horses are extremely important in my storyworld. One of my cultures basically revolves around the horses they breed and ride. I even came up with at least 10 different breeds, traditions and superstitions associated with horses, horse-related mythology...So, um, I have a lot of stuff relating to horses in my WIP.

Here's the first of the snippets:

I vaulted up onto Heshaani’s back, and pressed my heels into her sides. She started walking, then broke into a trot as I touched her with my heels again. I nudged her with my right heel, guiding her in a circle, and increased her gait to a slow lope. My hips ached from hours in the saddle, but the gentle rhythm of the lope was easy to ride to, and I found I was enjoying myself. I guided Heshaani into an infinity loop, changing her lead as we came off each smooth, effortless curve.

After a few minutes, I brought her to a halt and slid off. “That’s it for tonight. She’s tired, and I don’t want to push her beyond her limits.”

“Bareback and bridleless,” Miekkhal said in a flat, incredulous tone. “Really?”

I folded my arms. “Yes, really. All Yianlai children are taught to ride bareback first, and only after they master that are they allowed to ride in the saddle. Our horses start without tack before being trained to saddle and bridle. According to tradition, it’s so we can ride even if our saddles are stolen or our bridles broken.”

 

[Tom]

Here's another!

The black gelding was taller than Heshaani, heavy-boned but not stocky, with an impressively muscled neck, powerful chest and hindquarters, and large hooves nearly hidden beneath the luxuriant feathering on his lower legs. He had a regal head, with strong bone structure and bright, intelligent eyes, and both his wavy mane and tail were long and flowing. A Kirithian-bred warhorse, he would have plenty of endurance, but wouldn’t be capable of the all-day lope or brilliant flashes of speed that Heshaani and the rest of her kind were bred for.

“He’s not pure warhorse,” I noted absently. “He’s not nearly big enough.”

“Right you are,” Solaris said. “Raven’s only half-warhorse. Those massive creatures need too much food, and their size isn’t suited for trekking in the wild country. So we cross them with wild horses, the kind that live on the moors, to make them smaller and hardier, and able to survive on leaner pickings.”

I nodded. “That’s how my own horse’s breed, the Yaena, was made tougher as well. But still,” I added, turning to Miekkhal, “maybe you should look for a faster horse. I don’t want him to slow us down.”

If Raven was offended by my judgment, he didn’t show it; he lowered his head and began nibbling at wisps of grass.

“I did look,” Miekkhal said. “You Southerners have the best horses, which I suppose is why we called you the Riders before the war.”

“Now you call us ‘barbarian scum’,” I retorted.

 

[skip.knox]

OK, here's from the prologue of my WIP. Some of you may have seen these words OUAT, over in Showcase.


It was so unjust, he thought angrily. His brown mare could outrun them, she had proved that. But not at such close quarters. Not taken unaware. He leaned down, close to her neck, almost weeping for what was about to happen. “Run, great heart,” he whispered softly, knowing she needed no encouragement, knowing it would do no good. He said the words as a kind of apology. A farewell.

The monsters were already on both sides, but Serapion looked only ahead. The horse ran and the ground flew below, and the only sound he could hear was a great thundering of hooves and breath. Her body strained, tearing at the hard earth. He leaned far forward, wanting to feel her run, to feel heart and flank, for that to be the last thing he felt.

 

[Tom]

I have yet another. There's a lot of horse material in my WIP.

Out on the rolling moorland, Heshaani and Raven had wandered a ways from where we had stopped, and now stood in a pocket where the ground dipped shallowly, nose to tail, cropping grass and placidly flicking their tails at flies.

I gave a shrill whistle and Heshaani’s head shot up, ears pricked. She answered with a whinny and broke into an easy gallop, her strides long and fluid, low to the ground, tail streaming out behind her. Raven followed, and they wheeled, coming up the slope of the low hill we stood on. Heshaani slowed as she drew nearer, settling into a jaunty trot.

She halted in front of me and butted me in the chest with her long nose in greeting, whuffling gently and leaning into my hand as I scratched the bases of her ears. I worked my fingers through her thick black forelock and frowned in annoyance when I felt tangles. Fay-knots they were called, in the belief that they revealed that Faeries had been riding or playing with a horse. I just called them the result of not grooming said horse for several days.

 

[Caged Maiden]

I do love horses. Especially war horses:

“Have you heard of the White Knights, Iminrick?” Jarren asked.

“I have,” Iminrick said, trying to hide a smile.

“And you find them amusing?” Jarren asked.

“No,” Iminrick said, his smile gone. “I assure you, I hold the White Knights in the highest regard. My people have raised their fine mounts for a hundred years or more.”

Jarren’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the mercenary.

“Those white horses?” Ren asked.

“Aye,” Iminrick said, sipping his brandy. “They’re called Mortigans, the finest steeds available on the plains. Sleek bodies, long legs, and the stamina to cover great distances with an armored rider.”

“Are they all white?” Ren asked.

“They’re all grays,” Iminrick corrected, “and therefore, all shades of gray. I had a mare named Wraith as a young man. She almost changed colors depending on how the sun hit her. She was fast as the wind, and fierce as a lion.” He finished his glass. “We saved the lightest for the White Knights. Every animal bound for the paladins was given special attention and training. I’m well acquainted with the White Knighs, Jarren. I meant no dsrespect. They were often guests in our home.”

 

[Svrtnsse]

I too have one more. I don't know anything about horses, so neither does my MC. I did a little bit of research, but not enough to want to try and pose as someone who actually have a clue on the topic.

He rubbed the rag against the leather, decided it was clean enough and looked for the next bit. Only one piece remained in the pile of uncleaned things – some kind of bundle of leather bands he didn't quite know what it was. He picked it up, rubbed it clean and put it in the pile of cleaned things. The rag went back in its box. Done.

One day he'd know what all these things were called and what to do with them, but right now he didn't care. Right now they were just mysterious pieces of leather and brass that somehow attached to a horse.

He wanted his bed.

 

[Tom]

Last one. I am having far too much fun with this. Horses!

As Miekkhal started filling the waterskins from the well in the tower’s floor and Aeyu found wood and lit a fire, I tended to the horses, removing their saddles and bridles and feeding and watering them. I groomed them while they ate—brushing their coats, combing their manes and tails, and scraping dirt and debris out of their hooves.

As I worked, I felt my unease lessen and disappear. Caring for horses always soothed me. After arguments with my father, I usually went to the stables and spent a long time grooming Heshaani and the other horses, allowing my anger to fade as I braided manes and polished coats to gleaming. The quiet, companionable sounds of the horses and the sweet, musty scent of hay always instilled a kind of calm in my heart. Though my peace never lasted long, at least the horses looked for a day or so as if they were ready for a chieftain’s wedding procession.

I was putting on Heshaani’s halter when I heard quiet, hesitant footsteps behind me.

“Ready for your first horse-lesson?” I asked, without turning around.

Aeyu made a small noise of surprise. “How’d you know it was me?”

I smiled at her over my shoulder as I buckled the halter. “Miekkhal’s the only other person here, and he doesn’t walk so…”

“Timidly?” she suggested.

“You said it, not me.” I shrugged. “You want to brush Heshaani?”

“Um.” Aeyu came up beside me, her eyes darting from me to my horse. “Sure?”

“Here,” I said, handing her the brush. “Settle it in your palm—yes, like that—and brush down the side of her barrel in long strokes. Lift at the end of every stroke, and don’t brush up. It goes against the lay of her coat. ”

She did what I said, sweeping her arm along Heshaani’s side, tentatively at first, but then stronger and smoother as she gained confidence. Heshaani swung her head so she could look back at Aeyu with one large liquid eye, her ears relaxed.

“She likes it.” Aeyu sounded surprised. She laughed, watching Heshaani’s eyelids and lower lip droop and her head start to nod. “It looks like it’s putting her to sleep.”

“Good.” I stroked Heshaani’s shoulder. “She needs to rest.”

 

[FarmerBrown]

One of my protagonists in The Feast spends the majority of book one AS a horse after a sorcerer curses her (she's the sole survivor after he burns down her home). A kind ex-knight finds her and names her after a legendary horse, Lady Ashara, though he calls her Ash. To help calm her down, he sings her part of a ballad featuring Lady Ashara....

“Lady Ashara the beautiful mare,
Silkiest soft is her moonlit hair,
Taking her knight almost everywhere,
Riding as fast as a reckless dare.

Lady Ashara the beautiful mare,
Pearly white is her coat most fair,
Dodging dragons without a care,
Galloping through the midnight air.”

There are also desert horses, Sandstallions, who have trained to go longer distances without water and can drink from a waterskin.

 

[Ireth]

In my novels that involve the Fae, I have ordinary horses as well as certain types of Fae who can assume equine shape: Kelpies and Pooka. In general folklore, Kelpies are water-dwelling Fae who take the forms of horses to lure unwary mortals into trying to ride them, then dragging the mortals to the bottom of the river or lake they live in. They are easily recognized by their eternally-dripping manes. In my stories specifically, many Kelpies are members of the royal guard of both the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, and they act as mounts for the Sidhe and Fomorii. Pooka are shapeshifters who can take on virtually any animal form, though mammals and birds are most common.

EDIT: Unicorns also get a mention in the aforesaid Fae-centered novels, though none have yet appeared on the pages. They are non-sapient beings living in the wilds of Faerie. Since their mane and tail hair is remarkably tough as well as beautiful, the Fae use it for fancy embroidery as well as reinforcing ropes and such.

 

[Caged Maiden]

okay I'm having a hard time keeping track of participants. I said if we get ten, I'll cough up a prize that's horse-related. If you want to participate, thank the original post so I can get a head count. Voting stops Saturday.

 

[Russ]

Don't know much about horses but I think half the fun is naming them. There is a lot of combat in my work and the idea of several hundred pounds of horseflesh bearing down on you with a mounted rider on top is pretty crazy.

Alita’s massive black stallion pounded through the gates of Harhus just after the sun had reached its apogee. She barely slowed the horse as it entered the narrow streets clogged with carts full of various foodstuffs and goods bound for market. The twelve Jaeger Sisters of her Searchtruppe rode behind her, urging their tired mounts onwards for fear of losing sight of their leader in the maze of streets and alleys. Alita’s black cloaked figure sat upright in the saddle her ochre hair streaming out behind her. Her right arm was in constant motion using a long willow switch to savage any of the locals who did not heed her shouts and clear her path quickly enough. The sound of one of her riders colliding with an overfilled cart reached her ears as both the horse and rider cried out in pain over the sound of snapping bones. She dug her spurs into Moonless Midnight’s flanks even harder. Being late was simply not acceptable.

 

[Russ]

And in combat sometimes the horse gets the worst of it:

Lothar had almost reached the men protecting the banner when there was a shout and the sound of a horse in pain behind him. Instantly, he was lying face down on a dead Roman with a giant hand pushing him down into the earth. He could not move either of his legs and his left arm was pinned under something. A dying Roman calvaryman was lying on his right arm screaming the last breaths out of his lungs as he succumbed to a gaping stomach wound. A massive weight squeezed the air out of Lothar. He gasped desperately to quench the burning in his chest, but the pain only grew worse. The horse lying on Lothar convulsed one final time as it died, causing fresh pain to shoot through him, his ribs cracking under the assault.

 

[Ayaka Di'rutia]

I love horses, but oddly enough do not write a lot of lengthy scenes involving them as "characters." Here's one from a manuscript I wrote:

They returned to their apartment after another day. Sabra decided to check on her horse, which she was boarding in the stable. Othorro followed her silently as Deborah flew off to find Tarcua, whom she had taken a great liking to. That at least Sabra was glad for; now if only her familiar would do the same to Othorro...but all in time. Even Deborah had a hard time forgiving Othorro for his heinous acts.

Her steed was a broad-bodied, thin-legged steed that was colored bay, with a splattering of white on his head. He tossed his head in joy when he saw her and pressed himself against the stable door for attention. Sabra rubbed around his ear before entering the stall, pulling her brush from his bag on the shelf, and checking his fur for rough spots.

“Sta, gembedel Adego, sta,” she whispered, telling the horse to be restful when he stomped his hoof for immediate brushing. Othorro leaned casually on the closed door, ignoring the horse when it laid its ears back and nipped the air in his general direction. Sabra glanced sideways at the Molouk when she found his eyes following her movements before she looked at a spot on Adego's shoulder. After another minute of this, Sabra spoke again:

“If you have something to say, Othorro, tell me,” she said, not unkindly. He cocked his head away from her to look at the apartment building.

“I don't understand,” he said lowly. “I have tried to kill you, but yet you do this for me. This parole, I mean. I don't know whether to call it a mercy, or if you're using me to learn about World's End.”

Sabra ended her brushing, sneaked a carrot from her satchel and into Adego's mouth, and exited the stall. Othorro backed away a few steps.

 

[Caged Maiden]

Okay, competition ends tomorrow...we have six participants and need ten. Last call for your horse quotes...A prize is on the line! I make some pretty cool things...tooled and dyed leather, probably. I have a cool zebra print cowhide...that would make an awesome belt pouch. I'm ready to sew if we can get a winner...keep the quotes coming and don't forget to vote!

 

[FarmerBrown]

Here is another excerpt, which takes place shortly after Lady Flora wakes in the body of a horse:

Grass. It smells…sweet. I never noticed before. It smells…good, like cakes and sweets to eat on a summer day. I stretch down to take a bite, my white hair blowing out in front of my face. The motion catches my eye and I am startled–before I can think about reacting, I have already done so, shying away to the side. My heart races. I try to calm down, my mind fighting the instinct to run because I know, I know it is just my hair. But the panic is slow to subside. My heart still pounds as I try again to take a bite of grass.

I nip at a few blades before my nostrils inhale a slight whiff of smoke and before I know it I am running down the hill, away from the keep that is still smoldering. In a tiny corner of my mind I know it is silly, because the fire died out long ago. The sorcerer was gone when I awoke. But it is only a small voice and it is easy to ignore. It is much easier to be moved by the instinct that screams, “Run…run!” So I run. It is difficult at first because I am trying to think about how my legs should move, are moving…I stumble and whinny as my foreleg catches a hind leg. I run again, this time not thinking and instead let the instinct, let the horse take over and I run as I never have before!

For a small moment I can forget my grief. I forget that everyone I know is dead and that I have met the sorrowful fate of being transformed into a horse. The sheer joy of the run takes over and I feel an exhilaration I have never known as a woman: the pure joy of being at the peak of exhaustion and riding it to the end. My lungs fill in–pound! pound!–my feet strike the earth with a satisfying weight as dirt flies behind me. My lungs empty–pound! pound!–again! I toss my head high and feel the sweat break out all over. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters.