The hag Maple Milk was very, very old. In her long life, she had had her dalliances and pleasures, but was always careful to take just the right herbs at just the right times, and kept a careful track of her cycle, and so had never quickened. Her appetites had faded somewhat with age, and when she at last indulged them again, she thought that her time was gone. She went without the usual precautions, thinking they would not be necessary for one so advanced in age as herself.
Naturally, she was wrong. Her latest, and possibly her last, was either exceptionally potent or exceptionally lucky - or perhaps her own luck was just exceptionally sour. That was the most likely option. One does not spend their life laying curses without expecting some misfortune in return - and this was perhaps the worst fortune she could have.
She was old, brittle, not especially healthy. This pregnancy could kill her. Maple Milk had never put much stock in the Motherfather or her blessed, as a general rule. The threat of death tended to make believers out of the most surprising people, however. The desperate will seek any comfort, grasp at any vine in reach.
Maple sought a stag. His reputation preceded him as a pleasant and gentle man of wit and humor, and a popular storyteller. He was free with his blessings, and gave good advice to new parents. She figured that the sight of an older doe in distress would easily draw out his kindly, protective nature, and she would get what she wanted with no more effort than a little acting.
She had not figured on her reputation preceding her.
The stag, it turned out, was not as unilaterally kind as rumor made her think. He had heard of her work - mostly towards the detriment of others - and, to put it mildly, he was not a fan. Wildflower Breeze was not the type to fight anyone over damn near anything but an audience, but something about the stories he told must have eventually gone to his head. Before him stood the nearest thing to evil, and he was, as well as he could figure, a force of good. While he was not primed to attack, he was quite angry that this doe would have the temerity to seek him out.
Maple, for her part, was frightened - more frightened than she had been in years. She kept the worst of it from showing, but she still cowered back from him, teeth bared. "I need your help," she hissed. "I may die."
The stag shook his great, shaggy head. "You will get none," he all but growled. He took one slow, menacing step towards her, and then another. "You should leave."
Maple Milk backed up in small, mincing steps. Her facade was slipping. In a panic, she croaked, "My children, then? What of them?"
Wildflower Breeze stopped, staring hard at the wretched doe. Through clenched teeth, he spat, "Since you ask for them, they will have it. They will grow strong and healthy, and do all the good you could not. You," he snarled, advancing again, "will not raise them."
Maple faltered, scrabbled back.
"Leave," the stag repeated.
Maple fled.
