Welcome to Eisenhof - Garbrant van Nereus

Eisenhof is a sim-game stable. The horses, riders, facilities and show awards mentioned here are not real. Pictures of real-life horses are only for illustration purposes. Any given information does not apply to the pictured horses. Texts are written with the help of A.I.

0 points (Vesland)
0 points (Sweden)

Garbrant van Nereus

2018 Black Friesian stallion

V-LN: 7858659

Barn Name: Geir

Genotype: EE aa

Breeder: Nereus Riding Center

Rider: Shariif Faandhe

Discipline: Dressage

Current Level: Kl. E

Potential: Kl. S

The treaty between Northmere and Calvorin, two long-feuding provinces of Vesland, was as delicate as silk in a storm. After generations of territorial disputes, trade embargoes, and the occasional border skirmish disguised as "accidental patrol crossings," the High Council finally forced both sides to the table.

Symbolism mattered. Every gift, every gesture, had to communicate cooperation, power, and trust.

To prove their goodwill—and reassert cultural dominance—NRC (Nerus Riding Center) offered an emblem of their equestrian supremacy: a rare, untested black Friesian colt from their elite bloodline. His name was Garbrant van Nereus, bred for the royal dressage circuit and descended from six generations of champions.

To House Nereus, the gift was strategic. Outwardly generous. Quietly insulting.

They were gifting a beast no one could control.

But Garbrant was not a gift—he was a problem dressed in glory. Barely four years old, impossible to train, and dangerous to mount, he had already injured three handlers. His sale was an elegant disposal, hidden in ceremony.

Within two weeks of arrival at the Qalhar embassy stables, Garbrant had thrown his groom through a gate, bitten a junior envoy, and torn his halter in half. Panic simmered behind diplomatic smiles. The embassy considered returning him, but doing so would be a direct insult—a threat to the already fragile truce.

Then, in the shadows of the embassy stables, an old stable hand—Veraen, formerly of the Brask markets—whispered a name:

“Get the southern horse whisperer. Faandhe.”

Shariif was brought in quietly, with no ceremony. He wore no uniform, no crest. Just a worn coat and the scent of sun-dried grass. He asked no questions when shown to the paddock where Garbrant paced like a shadow made flesh—muscles taut, eyes white with rage.

Diplomats and dignitaries watched from behind reinforced bars. A Nereus envoy scoffed at the idea: “The beast needs a whip, not a whisper.”

Shariif said nothing.

He stepped into the ring.

For minutes, he did not approach. He simply stood—still as a stone beneath a storm. Garbrant flared his nostrils, stamped, circled. Then slowed. Then stopped. It was not obedience. It was recognition.

Then Shariif moved—slowly, in rhythm with the wind.

Garbrant let him come close. Let him touch the velvet of his jaw. Let him breathe with him. Then, without a word, Shariif rested his forehead against the stallion’s, and Garbrant closed his eyes.

Silence settled across the watching crowd.

In that moment, a diplomat whispered, “The treaty just became real.”

For Shariif, Garbrant was more than a horse. He was a mirror. In Vesland, Shariif had been viewed as feral. Untrained. Dangerous. Just like Garbrant. But now, before the eyes of nobles, envoys, and generals, he stood not just as a handler—but as a bridge.

Whispers turned into invitations. He began appearing in courtly stables. Then royal functions. Then private councils. He spoke little—but was always heard. He was no longer merely the man who tamed Garbrant.

He had become a symbol of balance—between bloodline and merit, instinct and form.