The TwiceBorn

Sod's Law

       "Never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity."   

                       Alora reached the treeline and let the reins lay slack against Loki’s neck as he dropped his head to pick his way through the underbrush.  The heavy scent of the quallo pines was all around her now and she picked up the peppery odor of blooming woodruff, sweet and darkly wild.  Fairydance mushrooms began to glow as night came on.

She smiled wistfully.  Her mother would send her out to pick woodruff for her tea. And she would, unless she got distracted and headed off on her own after something she thought was more important and infinitely more interesting than woodruff-picking.  A few times, Sylvan would come looking for her, and her dark eyes would glow with impatience but she rarely scolded. It simply wasn’t her way.

And maybe things would be different if she had scolded more.  Back when Alora was nothing but wild hair, scraped up knees, and the uncontrollable urge to go and see and do.  Sneaking off to visit the night hags had been her favorite thing to do.

It had mostly been because her mother had sat her down so many times and explained to her the difference between the Tribe of the Dark Moon and the Night Hags.  They were servants of the UnderRealms.  The Tribe was not. 

But the Hags were more fun.  She’d loved the faire like atmosphere, and the constant sense of catastrophe that always seemed to hang over the Hag camp. But the main reason she loved sneaking off to see the Night Hags was because they treated her differently.  Reverently.  Through them, she’d caught a glimpse of what she was destined for.  Pretty heady stuff at the time.

“Glorybound, Alora?”

The gravelly squeak jolted her back to her surroundings.  She leaned forward in her saddle to peer at Blixen as he stepped out of the underbrush. There was just enough muted light from the fairydance mushrooms for Alora to see that he was adorned in black silk with a rakish sash tied jauntily about his middle.

 With amusement, she noticed a large ragged hole  had been cut in the delicate material so that what he was most proud of could hang free.  A silk cap rested at a cocky angle on his head and his tiny ram horns protruded through openings that were stitched with an intricate design. 

“Look at this,” He crowed as he balanced himself on one hoof and stuck out the other.  “Black polish!  Yzebel did my hooves and nails!”

‘Yes, I see she prettied you up a bit,” Alora remarked drolly.  Loki dropped his head and snorted with disdain at the tiny goblin.  Alora checked him just in case he decided to try and take a nip.

 “You all gussied up for the Sabbat or is she trying to turn you into one of the more gently born?”

“Bah!  I’m bedecked like a court fool!”  He spat, and then closed one eye in a lecherous wink.  “Though this costume has drawn a fair amount of admiring ladies.”

Alora gave him a half-smile.  Whether she liked it or not, she had to reluctantly admit she was glad to see Blixen.  He was a familiar face, and there was a certain comfort in that.  Even though that familiar face was presently scrunched up with a painted talon digging ambitiously in its nose.

“Stop doing that!”  She snapped.  He gazed up at her with open surprise.

“Doing what?”

“Forget it, “Alora sighed and shook her head.  Sometimes she didn’t even know why she bothered. 

“I see Yzebel finally cut off that rat’s nest you call a tail.” She remarked, changing the subject.  “The shorter look suits you.”

Blixen let out a piercing screech of rage and started to jump up and down, his little hooves digging angry furrows in the undergrowth.