It's been a long, exhausting, vacation.
You had some hope for adventure when your uncle told you what was happening. What you ended up with was life on a dirt farm somewhere.
Once his shop faded away, you found yourself in a paddock with a mouthful of dandelions. You looked yourself over, discovering that you were some kind of large draft horse and still very much male.
The woman who was calling you, you've come to know her as the old battleaxe, is the owner of the farm. You're not sure where it is, though. As it turns out, you don't speak the language. You've sensed that you're somewhere in northern Europe based on the few people that you've seen and the sounds of the language that you pick up, but it's all a quess. That assumes you're even in a real place.
Not that you've seen much of it. From day one you've been hooked to a plow and made to plod along the fields, row after row. You're treated well, the old battleaxe is harsh but not cruel, but you are put into your stall every night tired. Any hope that you had to have any fun, like breeding, seems distantly unlikely. The woman has exactly one horse, you, and seems to be uninterested in extending your family line.
it's almost a treat when you're hooked up to the large wagon and made to tow it into town where the woman sells her produce. You spend hours, standing and staring straight ahead, dropping horse manure on the dirt street and waiting.
It almost comes as a shock when you see a bright doorway open up in front of you. It takes a good couple minutes for you to realize that a year must have passed and this is your ticket home!