Mean and blind, Maple Milk had chased her out of that area of the swamp. But she wasn't blind for she did have one eye, its milky blue piercing swirling with evilness. And it was probably the slow gaze that did her in for our gray doe was pecked, bitten and nicked within an inch of her life all over her body where the markings were darker. Now, she wore her markings in blood and her tail was half naked.There was a sick metaphor in there somewhere but bedraggled, the doe was, and she could not afford such leisurely thoughts. Like all good stories, it started out simple enough.Birds of a feather flock together was the old idiom. She collected black birds and heard of the hags. Magic aside, such foolishness belonged in tales of old. The modern day had no room for anything besides instinct and survival and the occasional pleasurable tumble. Who had room for magic anymore? She had never come across the fabled Mares or Stags of the swamp. What of them! She had all she needed. Proud, vain, haughty, the gray doe was so very green. Untested and too precocious for her own good. And so she ventured down a shadowed, blanketed path for the hags, the witches, the ones with carrion birds.The path opened up to bones, gristle and dry patches of fur. For added ambiance. The doe rolled her large eyes. How grand!
A cream doe stumbled and staggered about, her movements slow, purposeful and sly. A quick exchange of words and an odd thrill ran through the new doe.
Crow.
Tribute.
Simple enough.
The gray doe winced as her thoughts replayed what followed next. Even her own birds were helpless against the onslaught. The old doe played mean. As soon as the tribute was vaguely mentioned, the signs of ageness of her bones melted away and wicked spite floated to the surface. It was an ambush and she fell for it. It was awful. They even aimed for her beautiful face. Vines fell in her face, slashing it. The leaves were prickly with the hidden burrs. And then she old hag was laughing! The gray doe could not figure out why she was attacked other than that it provided entertainment for the hags. And thus she and her birds, askew amid her back resting, limped forward unsure if the tribute was but a ruse and they were shorted of another feathery friend.
