Whistler

[Hazel]

WHISTLER ____________________________________

AGE
4 Years

GENDER
Female

PERSONALITY
Whistler can only be described as a rebel. Rules? Who needs them? Whistler is known to think of herself as more of a stallion, or rather, she acts like one in the way she can be dominant and hates to be controlled. This makes her stubborn and argumentative, often sticking to her guns and never admitting she was in the wrong. Sick of being treated like property that can be stolen or used at the whim of a stallion, Whistler prefers to think for herself and therefore travels alone. Its not that she liked being alone, or that she is anti-social, she just greatly dislikes the idea of being in a herd controlled by a male. Instead, she has lived her live amongst other stray mares, drifting from place to place. She is carefree when not being argumentative or stubborn and greatly enjoys simply running with no aim. She longs for a real home and friends, but can never settle down enough. She is flighty and slightly nervous of any real commitment or closeness, always believing that anyone she befriends, she might lose or betray and abandon.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Whistler stands at 15 hands high and has a lean, thin figure. She has always had a slightly unusual slender figure. Her pelt is dark brown, nearing on black in some regions, yet in the sun it shines slightly copper. Her mane and tail are black, making her a simple, dull bay colouring. She has a thick white blaze down the center of her face, and two socks on her left side. Her legs are black up until the shoulders. She has no unusual markings and no scars.

HISTORY
Whistler was born to Flamed Storm and a light bay dam. Her original name was Shore and she was raised only by her mother. She never found out what happened to her father, but she heard rumors that he simply vanished into the waves after her grandfather, whom Storm mourned every day until he disappeared. Her mother was part of a small herd, ruled by a great brute of a stallion simply named Black. Whistlers mother was always fearful of the stag, since she had her child with another stallion before he had taken over. Black didn't seem to pay any heed, though. Instead, he seemed to have taken an interest in the filly and watched her mature with a keen gaze.

As she grew, Whistler watched Black beat his mares, and her mother, for little faults. They could never leave the herd, never try and flee. The only mare she ever witnessed attempt this was beaten so badly so lost vision in both eyes. Still, if the mares acted accordingly, it was a peaceful herd. Yet Whistler could not understand it - why did they take his abuse?

When she came to her third year, Whistler finally came to the conclusion that she could not live in a herd full of pushover mares and a ba--ard of a ruler. This was triggered suddenly one day - Black had approached her in not an abusive way, but with a much different type of cruelty. He had tried to mate her. Under aged and so much smaller than him, it was a stupid thing for him to do. Luckily her speed and stature meant it was easy to slip away, but not after giving him a sharp kick in the legs. She fled, her legs carrying her much easier and faster over the rough terrain than his shire bodice could. She had no choice, then. There was no turning back, yet she loved it. Loved how she could hear the wind whistle as her heart pumped blood faster around her body and adrenaline rushed through her veins. She was free.

She dismissed the name Shore, yet her mother had once told her that was where she belonged - the shores. As a foal, she was told that was where her father was, and her true family. So maybe one day she would find those elusive shores, but until then, she only wanted to hear the wind whistle about her body and the gulls caw about the cliff side.

Since then, the last year of her life was spent simply roaming, meeting stray mares and living briefly with them before moving on. And now, she has neared her destination, though unknown to her, her home land is flooded with water.