The Merry Llewd

The answer came in less than an hour.

“Your majesty, there are some visitors.” The words came quickly and with an urgency that caused her hackles to rise. The staff was seldom flustered, but the head maid was clearly put out in some way. The look on her dark green features and (blue?) eyes showed more confusion than concern though.

The princess rose from the desk in her lab and started down the hall. “Something up?”

“I don’t think so. Well. Maybe. The guards told them they should wait, but they just kind of barged in. It’s really cold out, you see, and there didn’t seem a lot of harm in them, but she just has a way, you know? The one, she … I don’t know… She’s just an old mare, well… not mare…” She paused and shook her head, clearly befuddled. “Anyways we showed them into the library.”

“Aren’t the twins having lessons in there.” Her lips curled back slightly involuntarily, revealing sharp fangs. Her dark, bat-like wings and smooth, ears splay slightly.

The small maid quailled. The princess was a kind and generous leader, but could be fearsome when crossed. The result of a misguided and almost successful experiment to convert a pegasus into a vampony queen via dark magic, she maintained control of her more violent urges, but could unleash vicious and spectacular violence on foes that threatened her family or adopted homeland.

She looked down at the shocked maid and forced a smile at the young mare. She was a new staff member, barely out of training. Obviously the road apples had rolled downhill to give her the task of telling the boss about this breach of protocol. Or maybe, he thought more kindly, they left the senior staff to keep an eye on things. That makes more sense.

“Nevermind. Let’s go get to the bottom of this.”

As they approached the library, the figures inside by the fire cast large, dancing and misshapen shadows on the walls. There was the appearance of trees, or waving tentacles reaching up from the shapeless from of their bodies. Unconsciously, Cinny picked up the pace, her hooves clopping on the marble floors of the entry hall. Rounding the door frame, the figures inside were far more prosaic.

“Oh. A pair of does.” she muttered under her breath, then breathed out, letting some of the coiled tension leave her muscles. “Reindeer mares. Not rendered mares. Alpine never could spell.”

Chatter Lee, the twin’s nanny, was there, obviously in control of the situation. Leave it to the diminutive earth pony to quickly diffuse any situation. She’d sent for refreshments, made the visitors comfortable, placing them by the roaring fire to warm. There were still small puddles around them on the flag stones, evidence of the caked snow they had carried in their fur. They must have come in a hurry. The nearest snow of any amount was up in the high passes.

What fur they had, thick and luxurious. Cinny felt a small pang of envy. Her thin sleek coat was fashionable and smooth, but did little against the frigid winter they were having. A part of her wondered what it would be like to sink her fingers into that thick fur.

A quick scan of the room showed that the twins were on the hearth rug, playing a board game, shooting curious glances at the newcomers. No doubt Chatter Lee had already warned them about peppering the newcomers with questions.

The two mares, no does, turned. The light from the hall reflected back in their eyes a deep, uncanny blue hue. One was young and lithe, the other older, taller, wiry and imposing. The grayness in her muzzle was offset by a flintiness in her eyes. Any litheness she may have once had had long ago given way to wiry gauntness. They both sported full sets of antlers. The younger doe’s were still fairly small and elegant, a symmetric set of 6 points, directed toward the ceiling. The older one’s antlers were an imposing tangle, symmetric and weird. Ones side was a tangle of at least 8 points, the other had points and the start of a crenelated plate like you’d see on a moose.

“Greetings,” she said, moving forward and extending a hand. “I’m Cinnamon Music. Welcome to our castle.” The young doe stepped forward and took it, smiling up at her. She was pretty in an exotic way. Brass bells jingled lightly when she stepped forward. There were bells hanging from the hem of her dress, and braided into her fetlocks. Her feet were large and splayed, like natural snowshoes. Cinny remembered the part of cryptic message about large cloven-hooved footprints, and silently apologized to Alpine Berry for suspecting drink.

“Thank you for taking us in so quickly, it’s been a long, cold journey. I’m Fernella Graupel. You can call me Fern. This is Cladonia Zastruga, but most of us just call her Clady. I’m sure we’re not the usually traveler you see. I mean it’s been decades since, one of us—“ the tumble of words was cut short by the older mare clearing her throat impatiently.

The older doe was standing her ground, large feet splayed as she looked the vampony up and down, taking in her dark coat, leathery wings, and settled on her pale pink eyes. She held them for a long moment, giving Cinny the distinct impression her entire history was being read. Read and judged.

“You’ve been touched by some wild magic, I see. You’re not quite one thing or the other,” she said appraisingly.

“Well. No. I suppose I’m not, but—“

The old doe waved it away. “No matter. I can see where you keep your contentedness.” Her eyes went to the playing twins and her face softened incrementally. “Your hospitality is appreciated, and I can see that Ponyvania is is good hands. This is a lovely castle you have here, and a lovely family.” Her eyes scanned over the twins, who were in the process of beating Chatter Lee at their game, and then moved to the doorway. Cinny followed her gaze, but there was no one there, for a moment. Then the Count entered, hoof-falls inexplicably silent, as usual.

The set of his wings and the position of his ears made it clear that he must have received a similarly unsettling summons, but he quickly relaxed noticeably to see his formidable wife already had the situation in hand. Cinny waved him forward and made the quick, if still a bit awkward, introductions. When she came to Cladonia, the old doe gave him much the same appraisal. Her scan went from his polished hooves, currently wearing his laced-up slippers he often wore in the castle, then up over well-trimmed fetlocks, his more casual, every-day-business suit, and slate-blue coat. She barely stopped at his blue-green slit eyes and settling on his mismatched orange and cream horn. “You’re even less singular than she is.”

“Pardon?” Count gave her a confused smile.

“Not quite one thing. Fishy, some might say, but no matter. You two are in charge of this valley? What exactly are you supposed to be.”

It felt like a trick question. He straightened his back. “I’m supposed to be the magistrate of this small community. And protector when needed. If you mean my lineage, my family has been mountain bat ponies back to Chiros. I’m a simple bat pony, um, plus a bit.” He reached up and tapped his horn.

She gave a short terse nod. “Bat pony, eh? Let’s see a wing.”

“Uh...Alright.” This strange reindeer clearly saw things, and brooked no nonsense. It seemed like a good idea to stay on her good side. He spread a wing out enough to give a cursory view. Without a word, she stepped forward, taking his phalanges in a cold iron grip and pulling his wing out with a snap.

“Clady!” the young doe gasped at the sudden imposition, but there was no indication she was heard. Count could feel the old does breath on his sensitive membranes as she examined him closely. Count looked to Cinny, but she could only shrug. Finally, the old doe gave a satisfied huff and straightened, turning away. “Stories indeed. Ah. Pastries!” she exclaimed at the site of the cook wheeling in a tray of refreshments, dropping the wing and the subject with a head spinning quickness. “I’ve heard good things about Ponyvanian bakers.”

She moved to intercept the cart and help herself, piling a plate high with baked goods. Cinny leaned in close to the Count. “Any idea what she meant about ‘stories?’”

There’s an old saying. “I guess it’s the old saying. ‘You can read a bat pony’s story in his wings.’ I haven’t heard it in years.”

The warm spiced cider and pastries were consumed with pleasant, if somewhat stilted conversation. The younger doe seemed to alternately be at a loss for what to say, and running on in a tumble of words about one subject or the other. The older reindeer obviously felt it wasn’t her job to keep the conversation going. Cinny couldn’t help but notice the old doe’s ability to pack away cookies like a bear preparing for winter, and marvel that such a sweet tooth could be housed in such a wiry frame. The children were given theirs refreshments, and then ushered off to bed. Clady watched them go with a thoughtful expression, then cleared her throat.

“So, ah,” Fern ventured, looking into her cup, the flesh of her nose, reddening. “What sort of winter celebrations do you have here?”

Cinny put down her cup, and leaned forward. “Oh we have quite the Hearthswarming. You just missed it. We decorate the entire castle, and the children’s choir comes. Count has a spell that ensures the north bay is frozen enough to skate. We light the area, so skating goes late into the night. The past few years, a school of the thaumonautiloids come up under the ice and put on a bioluminescence show. It’s amazing to see. The night before we have a feast—“

Cladonia leaned forward. “That is good,” she cut in. “Very good. It’s always good to keep the old ways in these modern times. But we have to wonder if you keep very old ways.

“Older than Hearthswarming?”

Her eyes went to the Count. “The ways of your folk. The mountain ways.”

Count looked at her, then toward the windows. The wind was rattling the panes again. If this kept up, some would have to be refitted before spring. By now, the courtyard was probably all but impassible for the wind to take you off your feet. “You can’t mean something about Lohowlen. Those are just old faery stories.”

The two reindeer exchanged a glance, and then both sets of antlers bobbed with the nodding.

Cinnamon looked back and forth. “Lohowlen? Is that a pony? I don’t know this story.”

“That’s because it’s ancient bat pony mythology, told on long dark nights to scare foals. I don’t remember much of them. My great gran told me a few. Lohowlen was a powerful witch-queen living on Mount Pohl, north and west. She was the leader of the race of alpine bat ponies. She could control the weather, and... something about the sun and the moon.”

The old doe nodded. “She tampered with the natural order. As the story goes, the Sun and Moon moved of their own then. Her tampering broke the...” She paused, then her eyes fell on the grandfather clock by the door, and she gestured toward it, “she broke the clockwork.”

“This sounds pretty fanciful,” Cinny said.

“Maybe that part is, but there is wild magic at work here. Whether it’s strictly true or not hardly matters. What matters in that it’s narrative. A narrative with weight. Like a heavy cart on a muddy road, it leaves a path in the magic of the mountains. A deep one. ”

The Count was out of his chair. His hooves clipped quickly and almost silently across the oak floor as he left the small, cozy carpeted area near the fire and disappeared into the darkness of the stacks. “I know we have it up here. Unless Iron Gall has moved it back into the main stacks,” his voice echoed out. The glow of his mismatched horn sparked to life and dimly lit the rows of shelves and glinted off the brass fixtures and ladder tracks. There was a sliding sound, some clanking, then...“Got it!”

He hurried back, holding a book open, his prince nez already perched on his muzzle and already skimming. “Oooh. The North Wind.”

“Yes!” Fern brightened. “That’s exactly it. She...meaning Lowhowlen, took the mantle of the East Wind to seduce and subdue the North Wind.

“Seduce?” Cinny asked.

“Well yes. It’s a kind of fertility rite as well.” She said it brightly, then realized herself and her fleshy nose blushed beet red.

“There’s mention of something like that,” the Count cut in. “The Merry Llewd,” but I don’t see many details.

The old doe pulled an ancient and battered tome from he bag, and held it out carefully. “This should have everything you need.”

The Count took it and then breathed a long breath. “The Chirovala. I didn’t know any copies of this still existed. Wi-with your permission, I’d like my scribes to transpose this while you’re here.”

“Yes Yes. Of course,” the old doe waved a hand dismissively. “What is more important is that the ceremony be observed. The wild magic is taking form, and the North Wind is having its way with this region. Mark my words,” she leaned forward and looked back and forth between the two of them with an unnerving intensity, “there will be suffering if the old ways are not revived.”