Gandalf horse
White horse
Run Fast, around wizard for some time it learned some wisdom... RUN
Wizards caused Ptsd
You know that stress and frear can turn hair white
Pale horse
“Shadow of a Horse”
He was born jet black — lean, fast, untouchable. The kind of horse that didn't wait to be tamed. He ran. That’s what he did. Ran like the earth was chasing him. They named him Shadow, because that’s all anyone ever saw.
Then the wizard came.
Not with kindness. With pressure. With noise. With light. Hooded robes, shouting into the sky, always expecting obedience — not from people, from him.
He tried to run. But they always found him. Called him “chosen,” like he had a say in it. They pushed him to run faster, through storms, through fire, through fear.
He learned to listen to the strange voice. To wait. To obey. To perform.
The black faded to brown. Just a coat, they said. Just sunlight. But he knew better.
Stress changes things.
One day he bolted. No spells, no shouting — just the sound of hooves on cracked dirt. Far from the towers and the robes and the unnatural calm of wizards.
He ran until his brown turned pale. A ghost of the horse he used to be.
Now he wanders — fast, still — but for no one. Doesn’t trust hands. Doesn’t stay. Sometimes people see him near the edge of a storm, or in the corner of their headlights at night.
A pale horse. Alone. Not mythical. Just tired.
He’s not evil. Not cursed. Just… seen too much.
A shadow of what he was.
---
“Shadowfax Wasn’t Always White”
He used to be black. Sleek. Untouchable. Alpha energy. Galloped like a stolen car. No reins, no rider — just freedom and bad attitude.
Then he showed up.
A wizard. Bearded, cryptic, smelled like mushrooms and old smoke. “You are destined,” he said. “You are chosen.”
Horse: “I am going to shit myself.”
Which he did. Brown coat came later. Not a color change. Just... life under wizards.
They dragged him into some wizard war nobody explained. Just endless running — toward towers on fire, away from dragons, through forests that screamed at night. There were ghosts. There were orcs. There was that one time the wizard yelled something in Elvish and exploded a mountain.
Every time he tried to lie down and rest, another wizard came along needing to be somewhere urgently with no regard for the horse’s circadian rhythm or gastrointestinal health.
He started flinching at cloaks. Developed trust issues with staffs.
Eventually his black turned brown. Then light brown. Then this pale, haunted beige that screamed “I’ve seen things.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
His eyes? Empty. His gait? Still fast, but more “fleeing trauma” than “heroic charge.” People called him majestic. He just wanted therapy and a salt lick.
Now? Now he’s just out there. Wandering. Still fast, but not for you. Not for anyone.
Just running from the echo of wizard voices yelling “fly, you fool.”
He’s not white. He’s bleached.
---
Next thing he knows, he’s “the fastest steed in the realm” — code for emotional support vehicle for emotionally unstable spellcasters.
First week: black coat. Third week: stress. Fifth week: stress diarrhea. Coat goes brown. Two months in: full-blown equine PTSD. Flinches at lightning. Hates Latin. Trust issues with men in robes.
He started running without knowing why. Just pure instinct. Every time a wizard raised their hands, he braced for either a spell or a hug — both were bad.
And then the war happened.
Flaming swords. Exploding towers. Ghosts screaming in slow motion. He saw a man get turned into a tree. Twice. Something snapped. He just kept running.
When it was over — if it ever really ended — he was no longer brown.
He was pale. White, not by breed, but from the sheer pressure of surviving ten wizard campaigns, a necromancer’s tantrum, and watching a dragon eat its own tail in a time loop.
People call him a legend now.
They whisper: “The Pale Horse…”
They say: “Death rides him.”
No. He rides away from Death. Fast.
He’s not noble. He’s not mythic.
He’s just… seen some shit. And decided to nope out, permanently.
You ever seen a horse with 100-yard stare?
You have now.
The wisdom come to late when you see a wizard Run, RUN as fast as you can.
---
Do you thing that was bad
Well heard about nazguls
He can go bald too. And loose some weight. Skin and bones
--
He doesn’t talk to anyone anymore. Not that anyone notices. They call him the Pale Horse, the bringer of doom, but they’re wrong. He’s not bringing it. He’s running from it.
Every night, he dreams — or, rather, he re-lives the nightmare. The explosions. The endless running. The wizards’ shouting. The sound of hooves on burning ground, chasing something he can’t even remember. He wakes up with his heart pounding, the taste of ashes in his mouth.
And when people see him, they think they’re witnessing something epic. They don’t realize the truth: the horse they see is just a nightmare, wearing the skin of what was once a beast of legend. He's not running from fate. He’s running from everything.
And, honestly, he's tired.
But he still runs. Because it's all he knows. And if he ever stops, the nightmare might finally catch up.
--
See, the word “nightmare” comes from an old word, night + mare. A mare, once, didn’t mean what you think. It didn’t just mean a female horse. No, in ancient times, a mare was a demon, a creature that sat on your chest in the night and smothered your breath. A nightmare was a horse that haunted you, the very embodiment of terror that suffocated your sleep.
--
Old gag syndrom - pale skiny female horse sitting on you chest starting a? you with hollow eyes. May it try to warn you.. To run
--
“The Pale Mare’s Warning”
It starts slow. You feel something heavy pressing against your chest. Not quite weight, but presence. A sensation that leaves your breath shallow. The room feels... colder. Darker. You try to move, but you can’t. Your body is frozen, like it's made of stone.
And then, you see her.
A pale, emaciated horse. Her skin stretched tight, bones poking through, as if the very essence of life had drained from her. Her eyes? Hollow. Empty. Like they've seen too much and don’t care anymore. But there’s something else, too — something in the way she looks at you. It’s not just emptiness. It’s... warning.
She sits there, right on your chest. Not like a heavy burden, but as though she's part of you, pressing into your ribs with the weight of a thousand regrets.
And she stares. Just stares, with those hollow eyes.
You want to scream. You want to run. But you can’t. The fear paralyzes you. You can feel your pulse quicken. Your heart pounds in your chest, but it’s like you’re both aware of the clock ticking down — something is coming.
Her gaze never leaves you. She’s trying to tell you something, trying to get it through that paralyzed brain of yours. Her lips twitch. Not a smile, but something far worse — a warning.
Suddenly, the room seems to change. You’re no longer in your bed. You’re back there, on the battlefield, surrounded by chaos. The wizards. The fire. The screams.
The mare’s hollow eyes narrow. You feel her weight on your chest grow heavier. Not from her body, but from the memory of what’s coming. What has come.
And then, as if she knows it’s the only thing you need to hear, she finally whispers:
Run.
But when you try to move — when you try to shake free from her grip — she only gets heavier. And you realize: you’re still trapped in that nightmare.
The Pale Mare isn’t here to comfort you. She’s here because she knows. She’s been there. Seen the end of it all.
And now, she’s just waiting for you to catch up.
The Last Unicorn
Did you think that star under the horn was some magical blessing? Nah, that’s actually a scar from narwhal horn grafting. You see, a wizard had the bright idea to add piercing damage to a horse. But there’s a reason antlers are on the side of the head, and narwhals use their horns for sensing, not stabbing.
What do you think is stronger the orc armor or a horse's skull?
After the lobotomized horse incident of ? AD, unicorns were discontinued.
