The Merry Llewd

She’d already lost track of houses. Moving through the night became a blur. Sometimes Cinny would knock on the door, sometimes Cladonia. She’d forgotten about her stilts, and movement through the streets had become free and easy. It was as if she could sense every irregularity of the cobbles through her wooden appendages. The entourage of stallions joining her party had grown to over a dozen, until Clady had deputized the baker to take most of them up to the town hall to prepare.

As the stallions stumped up the hill passed her, Cinny’s nostrils flailed. She could smell each one, the musky stallionness of each on them. Each different and each uniformly cravable. The old ones, the young ones. Some thin and some fat. Unlike normal times, she could smell them, and it made her crave.

And from their looks, she could see both trepidation and craving. That only made her crave more. Her reverie was broken by the barking of a small dog. From the most recently opened door, a small dog charged out, narrowly escaping the hands of the mare who had opened the door. He ran out into the street and immediately clamped his jaws around Cinny’s ankle, just above the pads. A jolt of pain shot up her leg and she kicked out. The dog flew a short way and landed with a yip. It was up again instantly barking and snarling, but his second attack was prevented by Cladonia’s hands wrapping tightly around his barrel.

Its feet flailed at the air furiously and its growling was redirected at its captor but there was nothing it could do as it was swiftly passed back to the mare of the house and transported to a back room, where its barking was muffled and distant.

“Let’s see the damage,” Clady leaned in to inspect where the dog had bitten. Cinny lifted her foot easily, finding her balance to show the doe.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine now. The pain was mostly gone is soon as he let— Oh...” As her foot moved forward and cleared the fabric, there was an odd swooning sensation as what came into view looked like an enormous cloven hoof; clearly not her own. Then, like the drawing of a young mare, suddenly becoming a hag; or the silhouette of two ponies becoming a vase; it changed without a single line or mark shifting, and was the wooden construction she had been provided, although now with gnaw marks and a crack formed down the middle.

She was suddenly aware of the straps on her legs and wobbled. The old doe quickly stabilized her. Then with a shocking nimbleness she leapt to the crest of the garden wall. Reaching up, she took Cinny’s muzzle and pulled her face down until they were almost nose to nose. Cinny’s pink eyes were transfixed by the bottomless midnight that hid within those pupils.

“You feel that warmth inside. You hang on to that. Feel it?” The doe’s pupils seemed to flash a deep blue, like a vast ocean, lit from the depths. The warmth from the drinks had settled into a small, hungry furnace of heat, just below and behind her navel. Like a wild, angry animal being poked, as her attention touched it, it flared. The straps and trappings were forgotten. Her attention shifted to the few stallions standing by. She gave them a broad almost predatory smile, then she gestured for Clady to complete the ceremony at this house and lead her to the next.

Each of the stallions saw something slightly different looking back at them. To the cobbler’s apprentice, the princess’ already attractive proportions were ever more pronounced each time a breeze wrapped the fabric of her costume tightly around her body. She smiled down at him with a grin decorated with fangs even greater than she normally sported. The cooper, an older gentle colt, noticed the playful, mischievous shine her her eyes, and couldn’t help but envision what it would be like to be looking down into them while her lips and tongue played with his member. To the spice merchant, it was the suppleness with which she moved, the fine curve of her neck, accentuated by the painted-on spirals, which seemed to be pulsating and glowing in a lascivious way.

To a stallion, they all saw her large, split hooves protruding below the billowing fabric. And her smell! The smell of winter spices, old apples, and heat; both the heat of a forge and the heat of a mare. It drew you in and threatened to burn you, and you found that you didn’t care. They followed up the street to the next house, like ducklings after their mother.