Witch Hunt was watching over her young. Her vigil was not born of motherly instincts. She was devoid of such forms of sentimentality. A different need drove her; a practical one. The first part of her scheme was close to fruition. There would still be much for her to do, but she could celebrate her first victory.
She was slumped on her side; head angled to watch the five sacs and the little forms within that had finally began to move.
Carrying all five had nearly killed her and watching constantly over her brood, denying herself food and water for days, had left her exhausted. She was not strong under normal circumstances; her body ruined by the poisons that were her trade and her life. The choice to breed had taken its toll. But it had been necessary. A calculated risk.
Of the five one would be chosen; the rest deemed useless.
When they began to struggle from their sacs in earnest, she rose with a sigh and creak of painful muscles. She watched intently; not a single move escaping her notice until it was finally done and they all lay scattered around the grove. Helpless, pathetic little things that whined for attention. Witch Hunt walked amongst them, seeking the strongest. A cold nudge here or there was given, testing their reaction.
Her gaze settled briefly on the largest female, but she soon turned aside. No. A male would be easier to mould.
The largest of the males lifted his head, blindly seeking his mother. But he was not the first to open its eyes. That honour went to the smallest of them all. A female that defied her wicked heritage with every gentle sweep of colour across her delicate frame. Her eyes flickered open and she gazed at Witch Hunt with an oddly alert gaze for one so young. Over and over Witch Hunt walked amongst them, experimentally touching the males with her nose, judging their strength. The decision had to be right. There was no going back once it had been made.
It took her an entire day to decide, but size won out in the end.
“Get up.” She ordered, her voice sliding out in a sigh, cajoling her largest son to his hooves. “Follow me. You are mine. The rest are nothing.”
The foal did as he was bidden, struggling up onto wobbly legs. Behind him, a smaller figure also rose. Witch Hunt ignored it. She dipped her head to her chosen offspring, the one born to serve her. Almost tender, she nudged him forward. “Come.”
Leaving the others behind, Witch Hunt pushed her son through the swamp. She had deliberately chosen to give birth far from home, ensuring the rest of the clutch could not follow.
Or at least, that had been the plan.
The smallest female was doggedly keeping pace; never letting her mother and brother out of view. When, after many days and nights, they finally reached the deep swamp Witch Hunt called home, the little foal was still with them.Witch Hunt let her remain.
She could be made useful.
There were always new poisons in need of trialling.
