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Description
Winter, Year 754 of the New Age
Windborne, The Northeast

A chilling winter gale howled over the yellowed meadowlands, pregnant with the salty scent of the distant ocean. It whipped the expanse of grass and twiggy weeds, and combed through it like waves on a frothy sea. The day promised to be cold and wet; the kind of dark and dull afternoon that made the day feel wasted.

But Fox was not going to waste this day.

The young roan stag pushed through the stiff grass, ignoring the burrs that clung to the long fur on his belly and the icy wind that cut through to his bones. He had more important things to accomplish, and couldn’t squander precious energy fretting about petty things like comfort or warmth. He was, he reminded himself firmly, a scout in the service of the king.

His chest warmed with white hot pride at the thought. Fox had finally won a spot within the guard’s ranks earlier in the autumn, after years of desperate aspiration and grueling training. Every young Windborne colt wanted to be where he stood now – clinging burrs and wintry winds and all – not for the experience in itself, but to prove himself strong and capable and valuable. It was the very first scouting mission he’d been trusted to complete alone, and Fox was keen on succeeding.

His lips twitched in a torment grin as he forced his way through some thorny bramble and into a thin, mossy swamp. The trees were stark and narrow, like the skeletal remains of a fatter, more fortunate forest. Moss hung in great, sticky webs from the bony fingers of the swamp trees, and threatened to tangle on Fox’s jagged horn. But at least the trees and moss and insects offered some protection from the biting wind. Yes, it was as cruel and tortuous as the bitter grass and sharp weeds of the meadowlands, but at least it was a different kind of cruel and tortuous. Variety was the spice of life.

Fox pushed the sucking mud and gnawing drone of insects away from his thoughts as he plodded forward, mindful of his footing lest he find himself suddenly chest deep in murky ice water. The pools of stagnant water had a talent for looking innocent and shallow, only to be deeper than the rack on the tallest stag on the island, easily gobbling up any unfortunate fawnling like some manic predator.

His mind wandered back to more pleasant times. In fact, just days ago. The aging captain of the guard walked stiffly through the ranks of the newly chosen colts, the cold weather clearly making his joints ache, but it did not detract from his noble, authoritative bearing. “I have a mission,” he began coolly, his enunciation precise and firm. The eager colts leaned forward in unison, dreams of glory dancing in their eyes. The captain continued, a pleased smirk playing on his cracked lips, “It will not be easy, and it will not be safe. This mission will take several days – possibly weeks to complete.”

He turned to eye the collection of youths, who still hung on his every word. They all wanted a chance to prove themselves; to be one step closer to being worthy of the guard. Any one of them would be suitable for the mission, and the captain knew that any one of them would do his best.

“Fox.” He chose, his eyes lingering on the young roan stag. Other faces fell in disappointment, but Fox recalled being delighted. Giddy, perhaps. This was his chance!

The captain had pulled Fox aside and dismissed the others. Some looked at the pair with envy as they passed, others with unfriendly glares. A few nodded and smiled with encouragement. The captain waited until the colts had all filtered back to the herd before turning towards his chosen subordinate. “I need you to infiltrate the Point,” he began in a low voice. “You need to make the crossing unseen – through the swamps, perhaps. You’ll need to bypass the Spit entirely to avoid detection. I’d suggest a swim in the Bay.” The captain gave one of his trademark smirks. Fox wasn’t sure if it was out of amusement or pity. Nevertheless, the captain cut to the chase: “I need you to find the splinter herd. Observe them, count their numbers, see if they are training and preparing for anything. Bring your findings back to me directly.”

Fox had waited to see if there was anything more. Any advice or warnings. When none were forthcoming, the stag nodded gravely. The captain nodded in return, “The eyes of the King are upon you.” he murmured relevantly in dismissal.

Fox lingered at the edge of the swamp, his eyes bright as the Spit sat before him. The small chokepoint was the only way into or off the Point, and one of the strategic advantages the does there possessed. The high tide hid the narrow spit beneath a wash of sea water, effectively cutting the peninsula off from the rest of the island until low tide crept in again.

Fox saw no guards – there was little need, with the high tide in place – and carefully crept further down the beach. The ocean was frothy and cold but, Fox reminded himself as he shivered, it was the only way he could reach the Point without being seen. An icy swim was far more palatable than potential capture and torture by the splinter herd. Thankfully, a friend had given him swimming lessons earlier in the year, and Fox found the ocean currents manageable. The only thing he was concerned about was the slow, creeping loss of feeling he felt in his legs and tail. Hypothermia was a real and dangerous possibility.

By the time the stag stood on the beach again, he was shivering violently, and his lips were blue. His limbs convulsed involuntarily, but he managed to creep up into a copse of dense, mossy swamp oaks before collapsing into a trembling mass. He curled up on himself, trying desperately to hang on to what little body heat he could. He gave a quiet, strangled sob and burrowed himself into the sandy earth. With an effort, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the breeze blowing passed him, raking at him with icy fingers. His uncontrollable shuddering made it difficult, but the stag finally managed to take hold of the slippery wind.

Most times, Fox tried to be gentle with the wind. He tried to be its partner, instead of its master. Desperation and fear of impeding death made him hasty, however. With an effort of will, Fox forced the chill air around him in a tightly coiled bubble. It whipped around him angrily, raising the hairs of his mane into a windblown curtain. Fox grunted, then, and the air slowly began to warm; it was taxing to bring the air around him from one temperature extreme to the other, but the result was worth it.

For twenty-two glorious minutes, Fox felt as though he were beneath the summer sun. It warmed him to the bone, and calmed his violent quaking. Feeling rushed back into his extremities and pulsed with pain. Exhausted, the stag released the wind, and cold winter air rushed in to meet him again. He curled into a tight ball, well concealed in his copse of foliage, and fell into a drained and turbulent sleep.

Fox awoke groggily in the night, his limbs still hurting angrily, and his stomach crying out for food. He must have expended all his energy swimming and using his magic. He raised himself stiffly to his feet and browsed on the sparse, salty sea grass and sweet, dewy moss that clung to the trees. He felt tremendously better with something in his belly, but still battled with fatigue and weakness from the arduous journey.

He plodded on wearily, stopping to nibble bark or moss off the trees as he went. The trees thinned and expanded into yellowed glades of swampy grass. Fox considered sticking to the treeline, but a soft purple color caught his eye. Flowers dotted the glade in small clumps. Foxglove was common enough, and young fawns were often warned against it by their mothers, as the sweet flower could upset even the most hardened of bellies in quantity.

It could, if eaten only sparingly, give a weary fawnling a bit of a boost. Fox figured he qualified as weary, and crept into the open glade. He gnawed on the nearest collection of bell-shaped flowers, and felt almost instantly energized. He resisted the temptation to eat more, and turned to disappear into the treeline again—

“HEY!”

Fox whipped around with a gasp, startled and tense. There, on the opposite side of the tiny glade stood a mousy little palomino doe with the largest ears he’d ever seen on a fawnling. Her carriage was aggressive, and her eyes – the same color as the foxglove he noted idly – burned with anger. He considered running, but he knew the small doe would be more agile in the dense tangle of the swampy forest. Instead, he turned and squared up, brandishing his horn with equal aggression.

“Turn around and march yourself on back to the mainland, and I won’t have to hurt you.” The doe cooed with confidence.

Fox’s answer came in the form of a wild charge; he didn’t have time to exchange commentary. He had to incapacitate this doe, for fear that his mission would be compromised otherwise. He splashed across the muddy expanse of grass and flowers and angled his horn at the doe’s shoulders. She jumped nimbly aside, but he caught her in the hindquarters in passing. She gave a howl of pain, and tumbled to the ground.

Fox whipped around to finish the job, turning deftly on one hind hoof, only to be blown back by a wall of frosty wind. He stumbled off-balance, and had to scramble to catch himself. The doe must have recovered as he flailed, as she suddenly appeared beside him, inside the range of his wicked horn, and sunk her teeth into his fleshy flank.

It was Fox’s turn to cry out, and he lifted his hind leg to deliver a limp kick that sent the doe darting out of range to avoid. She threw another surge of wind at him, but he was ready with his own magic and diverted it to one side before bearing down on her again. She danced aside and clipped at him with her sharp forehooves. Fox roared and swerved around for another pass. Again, the palomino doe bounded out of his path and bled him with another series of sharp kicks and bites.

This was no good; she’d wear him down if he continued charging around madly. The foxglove he’d eaten a few minutes before was already wearing off, and the familiar ache of exhaustion was creeping in on his muscles.

An idea sprang to mind, and Fox turned to charge again. The doe, bless her heart, was too concentrated on the fight to smirk confidently as the stag rushed to meet her again. She began to jump aside again, but Fox pivoted sharply on his hindquarters and caught her mid air. His horn did not find much purchase and scraped off some bone, but he still heard the rending of flesh and the weak cry of anguish as he sent the doe rolling in a spray of blood.
Fox stumbled forward to deliver the final blow, and found the doe in the mud, bleeding from a deep laceration on her shoulder. He raised a hoof in preparation to crush her skull, but paused when movement in the treeline caught his attention. He snorted angrily, and visions of outraged splinter does danced across his mind. If he disappeared now, he may still salvage his mission. He sneered down at the bleeding doe and bounded over top of her prone form, vanishing into the swamp.

With any luck, he’d reach the splinter herd before the doe and whoever was moving around in the trees would, and could make his headcount and observe their movement briefly before reporting back to the mainland, and collecting his victory.

2,036 words. Although she's never named in the story, the doe is young Ket .

Description
Winter, Year 754 of the New Age
Windborne, The Northeast

A chilling winter gale howled over the yellowed meadowlands, pregnant with the salty scent of the distant ocean. It whipped the expanse of grass and twiggy weeds, and combed through it like waves on a frothy sea. The day promised to be cold and wet; the kind of dark and dull afternoon that made the day feel wasted.

But Fox was not going to waste this day.

The young roan stag pushed through the stiff grass, ignoring the burrs that clung to the long fur on his belly and the icy wind that cut through to his bones. He had more important things to accomplish, and couldn’t squander precious energy fretting about petty things like comfort or warmth. He was, he reminded himself firmly, a scout in the service of the king.

His chest warmed with white hot pride at the thought. Fox had finally won a spot within the guard’s ranks earlier in the autumn, after years of desperate aspiration and grueling training. Every young Windborne colt wanted to be where he stood now – clinging burrs and wintry winds and all – not for the experience in itself, but to prove himself strong and capable and valuable. It was the very first scouting mission he’d been trusted to complete alone, and Fox was keen on succeeding.

His lips twitched in a torment grin as he forced his way through some thorny bramble and into a thin, mossy swamp. The trees were stark and narrow, like the skeletal remains of a fatter, more fortunate forest. Moss hung in great, sticky webs from the bony fingers of the swamp trees, and threatened to tangle on Fox’s jagged horn. But at least the trees and moss and insects offered some protection from the biting wind. Yes, it was as cruel and tortuous as the bitter grass and sharp weeds of the meadowlands, but at least it was a different kind of cruel and tortuous. Variety was the spice of life.

Fox pushed the sucking mud and gnawing drone of insects away from his thoughts as he plodded forward, mindful of his footing lest he find himself suddenly chest deep in murky ice water. The pools of stagnant water had a talent for looking innocent and shallow, only to be deeper than the rack on the tallest stag on the island, easily gobbling up any unfortunate fawnling like some manic predator.

His mind wandered back to more pleasant times. In fact, just days ago. The aging captain of the guard walked stiffly through the ranks of the newly chosen colts, the cold weather clearly making his joints ache, but it did not detract from his noble, authoritative bearing. “I have a mission,” he began coolly, his enunciation precise and firm. The eager colts leaned forward in unison, dreams of glory dancing in their eyes. The captain continued, a pleased smirk playing on his cracked lips, “It will not be easy, and it will not be safe. This mission will take several days – possibly weeks to complete.”

He turned to eye the collection of youths, who still hung on his every word. They all wanted a chance to prove themselves; to be one step closer to being worthy of the guard. Any one of them would be suitable for the mission, and the captain knew that any one of them would do his best.

“Fox.” He chose, his eyes lingering on the young roan stag. Other faces fell in disappointment, but Fox recalled being delighted. Giddy, perhaps. This was his chance!

The captain had pulled Fox aside and dismissed the others. Some looked at the pair with envy as they passed, others with unfriendly glares. A few nodded and smiled with encouragement. The captain waited until the colts had all filtered back to the herd before turning towards his chosen subordinate. “I need you to infiltrate the Point,” he began in a low voice. “You need to make the crossing unseen – through the swamps, perhaps. You’ll need to bypass the Spit entirely to avoid detection. I’d suggest a swim in the Bay.” The captain gave one of his trademark smirks. Fox wasn’t sure if it was out of amusement or pity. Nevertheless, the captain cut to the chase: “I need you to find the splinter herd. Observe them, count their numbers, see if they are training and preparing for anything. Bring your findings back to me directly.”

Fox had waited to see if there was anything more. Any advice or warnings. When none were forthcoming, the stag nodded gravely. The captain nodded in return, “The eyes of the King are upon you.” he murmured relevantly in dismissal.

Fox lingered at the edge of the swamp, his eyes bright as the Spit sat before him. The small chokepoint was the only way into or off the Point, and one of the strategic advantages the does there possessed. The high tide hid the narrow spit beneath a wash of sea water, effectively cutting the peninsula off from the rest of the island until low tide crept in again.

Fox saw no guards – there was little need, with the high tide in place – and carefully crept further down the beach. The ocean was frothy and cold but, Fox reminded himself as he shivered, it was the only way he could reach the Point without being seen. An icy swim was far more palatable than potential capture and torture by the splinter herd. Thankfully, a friend had given him swimming lessons earlier in the year, and Fox found the ocean currents manageable. The only thing he was concerned about was the slow, creeping loss of feeling he felt in his legs and tail. Hypothermia was a real and dangerous possibility.

By the time the stag stood on the beach again, he was shivering violently, and his lips were blue. His limbs convulsed involuntarily, but he managed to creep up into a copse of dense, mossy swamp oaks before collapsing into a trembling mass. He curled up on himself, trying desperately to hang on to what little body heat he could. He gave a quiet, strangled sob and burrowed himself into the sandy earth. With an effort, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the breeze blowing passed him, raking at him with icy fingers. His uncontrollable shuddering made it difficult, but the stag finally managed to take hold of the slippery wind.

Most times, Fox tried to be gentle with the wind. He tried to be its partner, instead of its master. Desperation and fear of impeding death made him hasty, however. With an effort of will, Fox forced the chill air around him in a tightly coiled bubble. It whipped around him angrily, raising the hairs of his mane into a windblown curtain. Fox grunted, then, and the air slowly began to warm; it was taxing to bring the air around him from one temperature extreme to the other, but the result was worth it.

For twenty-two glorious minutes, Fox felt as though he were beneath the summer sun. It warmed him to the bone, and calmed his violent quaking. Feeling rushed back into his extremities and pulsed with pain. Exhausted, the stag released the wind, and cold winter air rushed in to meet him again. He curled into a tight ball, well concealed in his copse of foliage, and fell into a drained and turbulent sleep.

Fox awoke groggily in the night, his limbs still hurting angrily, and his stomach crying out for food. He must have expended all his energy swimming and using his magic. He raised himself stiffly to his feet and browsed on the sparse, salty sea grass and sweet, dewy moss that clung to the trees. He felt tremendously better with something in his belly, but still battled with fatigue and weakness from the arduous journey.

He plodded on wearily, stopping to nibble bark or moss off the trees as he went. The trees thinned and expanded into yellowed glades of swampy grass. Fox considered sticking to the treeline, but a soft purple color caught his eye. Flowers dotted the glade in small clumps. Foxglove was common enough, and young fawns were often warned against it by their mothers, as the sweet flower could upset even the most hardened of bellies in quantity.

It could, if eaten only sparingly, give a weary fawnling a bit of a boost. Fox figured he qualified as weary, and crept into the open glade. He gnawed on the nearest collection of bell-shaped flowers, and felt almost instantly energized. He resisted the temptation to eat more, and turned to disappear into the treeline again—

“HEY!”

Fox whipped around with a gasp, startled and tense. There, on the opposite side of the tiny glade stood a mousy little palomino doe with the largest ears he’d ever seen on a fawnling. Her carriage was aggressive, and her eyes – the same color as the foxglove he noted idly – burned with anger. He considered running, but he knew the small doe would be more agile in the dense tangle of the swampy forest. Instead, he turned and squared up, brandishing his horn with equal aggression.

“Turn around and march yourself on back to the mainland, and I won’t have to hurt you.” The doe cooed with confidence.

Fox’s answer came in the form of a wild charge; he didn’t have time to exchange commentary. He had to incapacitate this doe, for fear that his mission would be compromised otherwise. He splashed across the muddy expanse of grass and flowers and angled his horn at the doe’s shoulders. She jumped nimbly aside, but he caught her in the hindquarters in passing. She gave a howl of pain, and tumbled to the ground.

Fox whipped around to finish the job, turning deftly on one hind hoof, only to be blown back by a wall of frosty wind. He stumbled off-balance, and had to scramble to catch himself. The doe must have recovered as he flailed, as she suddenly appeared beside him, inside the range of his wicked horn, and sunk her teeth into his fleshy flank.

It was Fox’s turn to cry out, and he lifted his hind leg to deliver a limp kick that sent the doe darting out of range to avoid. She threw another surge of wind at him, but he was ready with his own magic and diverted it to one side before bearing down on her again. She danced aside and clipped at him with her sharp forehooves. Fox roared and swerved around for another pass. Again, the palomino doe bounded out of his path and bled him with another series of sharp kicks and bites.

This was no good; she’d wear him down if he continued charging around madly. The foxglove he’d eaten a few minutes before was already wearing off, and the familiar ache of exhaustion was creeping in on his muscles.

An idea sprang to mind, and Fox turned to charge again. The doe, bless her heart, was too concentrated on the fight to smirk confidently as the stag rushed to meet her again. She began to jump aside again, but Fox pivoted sharply on his hindquarters and caught her mid air. His horn did not find much purchase and scraped off some bone, but he still heard the rending of flesh and the weak cry of anguish as he sent the doe rolling in a spray of blood.
Fox stumbled forward to deliver the final blow, and found the doe in the mud, bleeding from a deep laceration on her shoulder. He raised a hoof in preparation to crush her skull, but paused when movement in the treeline caught his attention. He snorted angrily, and visions of outraged splinter does danced across his mind. If he disappeared now, he may still salvage his mission. He sneered down at the bleeding doe and bounded over top of her prone form, vanishing into the swamp.

With any luck, he’d reach the splinter herd before the doe and whoever was moving around in the trees would, and could make his headcount and observe their movement briefly before reporting back to the mainland, and collecting his victory.

2,036 words. Although she's never named in the story, the doe is young Ket .