Recently, we hosted a Story Competition. In this event, players had the opportunity to complete the story of Celeritas’ History. In total, we received 20 wonderful entries, each of which we read with great care and attention. The 3 stories that won, you can read here!

1st place: user Yatsuka

”Wind Beneath the Hills”
It was summer when the herd of shetland ponies was grazing in the rolling hills of Equada. The sun was slowly making its descent into the waves of the Equadian sea and everything was as it was supposed to be. Celeritas, only a few summers young, was happily frolicking among the other ponies. He was beloved by the herd for his playful personality. A weird scraping sound in the distance broke the serenity of the evening. Amantis, Celeritas’ mother, called out to her son. As fast as he could he raced back to her side. His heartbeat drummed in his ears and his eyes were wide as he looked up to his mom. He had never seen her panic before. His mother was tensely surveying the hills for the origin of the sound. It seemed to be getting closer…

It wasn't thunder. Thunder rolled like drums. This was a metal noise, dragging across stone and soil. Then came the shouting—voices not from any herd.
The ponies began to scatter. Celeritas stuck close to Amantis, but in the chaos, heavy ropes were thrown. He kicked, bit, ran—but he was small, too small. The last thing he saw was his mother’s hooves rearing in defiance. Then blackness, and the scent of rust.

They called him “Runner” in the mines. He didn’t remember his real name.
At first, he tried to fight. That earned him a scar and a lesson: swift hooves meant faster labor. The tunnels became his world. Dim lights, iron carts, shouts from the overseers. He pulled loads too large for his size, always because he was “the fast one.”
Still, he cracked a few jokes. He imitated the voices of the guards, played pranks when no one was looking. Once, he loosened a cart just enough to send ore rattling across the tunnel. The overseers slipped and skidded, shouting. It was risky—but for a moment, his fellow ponies smiled.
He lived for moments like that.
Time blurred. His body grew strong, but lean. His flaxen mane dulled with dust. Only in dreams did he remember green hills and the sea.
Was that place real?

It happened when he was twenty.
The lower shaft collapsed during a storm. Stone roared above them. Dust choked the air. Several ponies were trapped. Without thinking, he bolted into the dust cloud. He could still fit where others couldn’t.
“Don’t move!” he shouted to the frightened foals.
Carts had spilled. Beams had fallen. But he knew the tunnels like his own heartbeat. He squeezed past a split wall, leading the youngest back. Then he went again.
And again.
When the villagers came, drawn by the noise and strange smoke, they found a pony half-covered in soot, his legs trembling, his breath strong. He was guiding a limping mare out with his shoulder under hers.
They didn’t know his name. But someone whispered, “Did you see how fast he moved?”
Another murmured, “Celeritas.”

It took months to heal.
Celeritas was quiet at first. The sun hurt his eyes. Open space made him anxious. He kept checking for cave walls, corners, shadows. But the villagers were patient.
They gave him clean water, time, and something unexpected—laughter.
When he finally joined the My Horsez herd, the other ponies gave him space. But soon they noticed: he was funny. Sharp, fast-talking. He raced the wind. He tripped his friends playfully, then darted away before they could blink.
He liked to hide behind rocks and make noise at just the right moment to startle someone. He’d pretend to be serious, only to burst out laughing the moment he was spotted. But he never mocked the weak. Never bullied. Never crossed the line.
He had learned in the dark what cruelty felt like. He wanted no part of it.

Sometimes, in the late hours, he stood on the tallest hill and stared west.
One evening, the sky burned orange, and the sea took a gold color.
And just for a second, he heard a voice.
“Speed is a gift…”
His ears twitched. The wind touched his mane like a mother’s breath.
“…use it well, my son.”
Celeritas blinked hard. Then he smiled.
He galloped down the hill so fast his shadow couldn’t catch him.
He wasn’t just fast.
He was free.

2nd place: user Pauly07

"It was summer when the herd of shetland ponies was grazing in the rolling hills of Equada. The sun was slowly making its decent into the waves of the Equadian sea and everything was as it was supposed to be. Celeritas, only a few summers young, was happily frolicking among the other ponies. He was beloved by the herd for his playful personality. A weird scraping sound in the distance broke the serenity of the evening. Amantis, Celeritas’ mother, called out to her son. As fast as he could he raced back to her side. His heartbeat drummed in his ears and his eyes were wide as he looked up to his mom. He had never seen her panic before. His mother was tensely surveying the hills for the origin of the sound. It seemed to be getting closer…”

 A metallic clang rang out in the air, followed by harsh barking. The dogs burst forth first: tense shapes, ears pricked, teeth gleaming. Then the captors appeared, their faces hardened with resolve. They carried sticks, whips, and braided nets. In an instant, without warning, the traps fell upon the ponies. 
Amantis let out a piercing whinny: - Run, Celeritas! 
But Celeritas was only a foal. Panic-stricken, he bolted, his hooves slipping on the stones. He tried to scramble onto a rock, but a net dropped over him, tightening sharply around his flanks. He thrashed, whinnied. In vain. A rough hand slipped a rope around his neck and yanked. He fell. The ground spun, then darkness. 
He no longer knew how long he had been there. Days and nights blended into the darkness of the tunnels. The mines were no place for ponies, let alone foals. The air was damp, thick with soot, sweat, and black dust that clung to the throat and burned the eyes. With each breath, he swallowed ash. 
Celeritas grew up underground, far from Equada’s golden hills, in a world of stone and chains. He learned to haul carts that were far too heavy, harnessed to rusted rails, driven by sharp cries and blows from a stick. The guards’ boots clapped against the ground, punctuating barked orders. The slightest slowdown, the smallest mistake, was costly. 
His name, he nearly forgot it. To them, he was only a tool, a number. That was all he had become. 
Around him, the other ponies stared with empty eyes. Some collapsed and never rose again. Others were injured on the rails and then vanished. None returned. Celeritas learned to keep silent, to move forward, to survive. 
Yet, despite the chains and the darkness, a fragile flame still burned within him. Sometimes a memory would return: the golden hills, the salty wind, the clear brook, and Amantis’ gaze, his mother warm and full of love. 

One evening, everything changed. A rumor swept through the galleries like a spark. Villagers had rebelled. They had discovered the animals’ living conditions, and it had outraged them. There was talk of an uprising, of a group armed with torches and ropes to break open the cages. 
Celeritas wanted to believe it, but he was wary. He had seen failed escapes, cruel punishments. Freedom too often looked like a mirage. But this time, something was different. A tension rippled through the tunnels. Hooves scraped against stone. Silent glances were exchanged. Even the elders raised their heads. 
Then it happened: a deep rumble shook the walls, lanterns trembled. It was not a rockfall, but the established order crumbling. Human cries rang out, followed by a flood of light torches, racing shadows, doors torn from their hinges. 
- This way! There are more over here! shouted a voice. 
The guards, caught off guard, were overwhelmed. Some fled. Others fell, toppled by the villagers’ fury. 
Celeritas, blinded by the light he had not seen in years, squinted. A young boy approached, hand outstretched. 
He hesitated. Was it a trap? A dream? 
But in the child’s eyes shone something real, a promise without chains. 
Then, in a flash of trust, he laid his muzzle against that human palm. A simple gesture, yet immense. It was the beginning of a new life. 
Celeritas was twenty years old when he was saved. His body was no longer that of a foal: his flanks bore scars, his muscles were knotted, his eyes always watchful. 
But in the village fields, he slowly rediscovered peace. 
The children approached without fear. They brushed him, spoke to him, sang him lullabies. Sometimes, he would whinny in rhythm, as if recognizing the melodies of Equada. 
And that was how his name returned to him, Celeritas. It meant “speed” in Old Equadian. And once he had regained his strength, it was discovered that he could run like no other. Free, he almost flew over the grass. He became a legend, the pony who had escaped the mines, who galloped with the wind. 
But the strangest thing happened three years later. A passing merchant brought an old mare. Her coat was graying, her legs trembled. But her eyes… her eyes were a deep, familiar amber. 
When she saw Celeritas, she froze. So did he. 
They sniffed each other gently. Then the mare let out a rough whinny, a sound only a Shetland pony could understand: -My son. 
It was Amantis. 
She had survived. Captured, sold again and again, she too had waited. Hoped. 
The Equada herd no longer existed, scattered, broken. 
Each evening, together, they watched the sun set over the wheat fields, silent yet serene. 
They knew now that freedom, even when stolen, always finds its way back.

3rd place: user Mandiijay

"It was summer when the herd of shetland ponies was grazing in the rolling hills of Equada. The sun was slowly making it’s decent into the waves of the Equadian sea and everything was as it was supposed to be. Celeritas, only a few summers young, was happily frolicking among the other ponies. He was beloved by the herd for his playful personality. A weird scraping sound in the distance broke the serenity of the evening. Amantis, Celeritas’ mother, called out to her son. As fast as he could he raced back to her side. His heartbeat drummed in his ears and his eyes were wide as he looked up to his mom. He had never seen her panic before. His mother was tensely surveying the hills for the origin of the sound. It seemed to be getting closer…”

Celeritas’s eyes flung open, his heart pounding in his chest. It had all been a horrid dream…really a memory but still just a nightmare. Taking a deep breath he shook his mane in an attempt to shake off the lingering grasp that the nightmare had on him. It used to be worse, the reoccurring nightmare had started tormenting him shortly after he was saved, happening night after night as if the scrapping noise was coming back for him. 

Letting out a snort of frustration he turned his head to the star draped sky. Searching for comfort or a sign, maybe his mother was up there watching out for him, or at least that is what he would like to think. He never really knew what came to be of his mother, when the scrapping noise finally swallowed the herd whole, they were ripped apart. He could recall how his lungs burned due to the dust of the mines filled them with every scream, attempting to beacon his mother close. But she never came. The image of her face started to fade as the years passed. 

Though the mines were rough and had scared him both physically and emotionally Celeritas had to admit to himself it was not all bad. That not all people were bad. There was one that had comforted him in his younger years and tolerated him when the others would not. His hands were rough yet gentle, eyes tired but also sympathetic. It was as if he too understood his pain. 

Celeritas and “Big Jack” as he was called were as tight as anyone could be in the dark and cold mines. Big Jack was also the only one that could stand his mischief as well. Celeritas would often knock off his hard helmet or steal a candle and play keep away if it was carelessly placed in his pocket. Though Celeritas always questioned if Big Jack made it too easy to get on occasion to lighten the mood. Big Jack also would on occasion bring small treats in his lunch pale for him, a carrot here or sugar cube there. It was those little treats, his playful ways that kept the little spark of hope that someday it will be better, he would be free. 

Though he was still not a big fan of people, they were after all the ones that separated him from his mother. His eyes clouded as his mind wandered back to her. He was having issues calling now the little things, like the shade of her eyes, how her white markings splashed across her body. Though he could remember the playful way she nicked at his mane, the stern look she would give him if he roamed too far. He had known from a young age that his mischievous and playful ways were from her and his younger years before the mines were filled with the sounds of laughter. He had very much been his Mother’s son. 

He took in a deep breath filling his lungs with the cool night air as he had found himself walking along the edge of the meadow. The large meadow in the forest was always intimidating to him. Though he knew he had nothing to fear, the canopy of the forest trees provided a safety blanket that allowed him to be more at ease, and not have to worry so much about being taken by surprise. The forest was a safe place to hide and allowed for shelter on a hot summer day away from the heat. 

His new home had been everything he had dreamt it would be when he would often daydream about living outside the mines. The river that cut through the forest was by far his favorite place to be. It was teaming with life and he adored watching the fish as they swam by. The comforting babble it made almost mimicked his own mothers soft whispers, tugging at his heartstrings. The wild flowers that adorn its banks in the spring and to cool relief if offered in the summer. When he was not running with the herd he was often found there. Where he would also be greeted by new horses who carried people on their back, their “Big Jack” if you will. He knew those that rode horses could be trusted. 

He enjoyed helping those that needed away across the river and looking for Ridechaple. Though he never went to town himself, meeting the new horses always brought him joy. He had secretly hoped that one day he would come across an old herd member from before the scrapping swept them away. Just to know that one was safe. 

His new herd had welcomed him in with open hearts and Venilla was by far the most understanding and patient with him. She had taken the time to understand him and understand what was needed to adjust when he was saved from the mines. She was his guide and helped him learn what it had meant to be a horse again, to be out in the open and embrace the wind in your mane. Her soft spoken ways helped him adjust and understand he was going to be fine, and that he now had a friend and home. 

A splash made his eye grow wide and he rear just a little as he looked around. He had fallen into a daydream and sure enough found his way back to the river out of instinct. The cool water had lapped at his ankles, causing him to be fully awake now. It had appeared the night was getting away from him as he looked through the tree scape and at the distant horizon where the first peek of sunlight grasped at the fading night sky. He took a quick drink in the bustling river before walking off to a grassy area to tuck in for the morning. He closed his eyes, fell asleep to his mother’s whispers.


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We want to thank everyone for their beautiful stories!