A Shining Star is Born...

Briarthorne was tense. She could feel the young moving inside of her, and she could smell the blood scent in the air. From her hiding place in the brambles, she could hear the distant thunk of bone against bone, as the Outrunners went about their deadly business. She cowered lower, protecting herself and her unborn child. The Outrunners were the outcasts, those who had turned form the light of Herne (God of All) and towards the darkness, and they had been exiled for their crimes.

The herd had not realised how strong the exiles had become, how they had banded together in the rugged mountains, where food was scarce, and water rare, but for the snowfall. And there they had grown stronger. They were led by Lucerne, the great black stag, whose skill at illusion was second to none and whose flanks bore long rugged scars from Starbright, the herd's stag. Lucerne had paid for his disobedience, and suffered at the horns of Starbright and his does, but in his exile he had grown not weak, but strong and vengeful.

And now he had returned for revenge.

Suddenly the bushes parted and a narrow face, eyes glinting in fur that was too dark to be healthy, stared at her. Lucerne smiled.

"Come out Doe, where one might see you!" He declared.

Feeling weak in the knees, but too terrified to disobey, Briarthorne stepped towards him.

The scarred stag looked her over, past her quivering hide and her bulging sides. "You carry his young," he declared. "Therefore, thou must die!"

The mothering instinct took over. Briarthorne's legs sprang into action. She bolted. Instantly another stag exploded from the bushes, his horns tearing through flesh and sinew as he threw her sideways, into the bushes. Blood poured down her flanks.

"Not so fast, my lovely," Lucerne said, nodding to his acquantince. He stepped forward, rearing on his hindlegs, preparing to trample the baby from her belly.

There came a bellow, and suddenly Starbright, blood streaming down his flanks and his eyes wide and white, charged at the dark buck.

"Run, my precious!" He cried. "You know where to go!"

Terrified, Briarthorne scrambled hesitantly to her feet, meeting horns with the stag that had attacked her. Their antlers clanged, and she forced his back, even though pain exploded in her. He broke free, and she ran through the brambles.

Behind them, a sickening crunch and a scream marked the end of Starbright, her stag.

She ran, the tiny life within her writhing and wetness on her fur. She ran south, to the foothills, where she should be safe from the exiles, safe from Lucerne's Outrunners.

And behind her came Lucerne and his minions

*

She ran. Her hooves crashing over the stones, crunching through the undergrowth. The baby in her belly stirred restlessly, complaining by kicking her. She had to survive. Starbright had given his life to save hers - she must save his fawn.

Except that it was not his fawn. She had been his favourite doe, but she had never borne him young. She had fallen pregnant to another.

But now was not the time of thought. Now was the time to run. To run, breath rasping in her throat. To run, blood staining the ground in her wake. To run...

Suddenly she heard a howl. She froze. A dark shape was sighted in her peripheral. And another.

Houndour. A pack. Drawn by the scent of fresh blood.

And then they came at her, and she used the last of her strength on an illusion, a mighty illusion swinging her head so that her strange horns swished through the air, distorting it. The houndour startled a bit as a herd of deer suddenly appeared beside her. But they had hunted Stantler before, they knew that this was a final desperate action of the near to death.

They lunged, several blowing fire at her, great fumes that seered the fur from her skin and skin from flesh.

She was nearing death.

And then there was not just one deer, but many, as Lucerne and his followers blindly charged in amongst the pack.

Instant commotion insued. The Houndour, confused that illusion had suddenly become reality were trampeled and struck out blindly at Lucerne's stags, seering some of them, and also each other. The pursuing deer, who in their haste had not realised that the doe they pursued had been joined by a pack of dogs, panicked, and shrieked, and everywhere illusions appeared of great birds, of stampeding Stantler, of fire and lightning.

In the confusion, the bewildered doe managed to squirm free, and staggered onwards, half falling down the hill. Lucerne and his followers, those that survived, fled back the way they had come, and the beffudled Houndour gave up the hunt as a bad loss, but at least one Stantler had fallen. They would eat, at least, and pursuit of the doe was not high on their priorities.

And so it came, that long after dawn the next day, a dying Briarthorne, her fur singed, and flies buzzing around her exposed flesh, staggered down the foothills and fell to her knees. The baby, protesting the entire journey, and somehow still alive, would wait no more...

The contractions overwhelmed her body, seizing her with spasms of agony. She bit her lip, drawing blood, in an effort to keep herself conscious. The air was filled with the aroma of her toasted flesh. The Houndour had not been kind, and her last hope was that somehow her child would survive. Somehow.

Dark colours flashed in agony, and memories seized her mind in cruel hands. Memories of him, the father of her fawn-to-be. His silver-white fur and mane, his kindly grey eyes. She had loved him for just one night, one bittersweet night of passion and pain and tenderness, but she would remember him until she died. Which would be soon, if her condition was anything to be judged on. She pushed with all her might, birthing the fawn, who finally fell to the ground with a tiny bleat. The doe collapsed, in great agony, every muscle on fire. She barely had the strength to turn her head to stare at her child, and groom his face gingerly with her tongue. He was bold - she could see that now, already he had managed to gain his knees, and crawled to suckle from her blood-stained teats. It came as a disappointment to her that he was not silver-white, although he was paler then most fawns, his fur dappled with the white spots of the young. She remembered the bushes she had hidden in, that had protected her for such a short time.

"You are my Bracken," she said. And then she died...