Things That Go Bump in the Night

The world of Innistrad was not one that Megara would normally have been interested in. It was an oppressively dark and grim place, even the daytime was dimmed by a misty grey pallor that left a ghostly grip on the cold, harsh realm. Even the city of Thraben, Innistrad's most metropolitan and active city was dull.

Megara made her way to the outskirts of the city, the stares from the townsfolk nothing new to her. Innistrad did not seem to have its own naturally occurring centaurs so someone of her ancestry stood out. She was aware that not too long ago there was an attack on the plane by an eldritch abomination that had left a number of cruelly warped and manipulated amalgamations in her wake. To some, the emergence of what appeared to be the fused visages of a horse and rider had seemed a portent of Emrakul's return. Thankfully, the absence of external sinew or tentacles wrought from flesh was sufficient to assuage the fears of most, and the blessings of the angel Sigarda seemed to satisfy the rest.

Still, the fact that she kept drawing attention was an issue. She still had work to do on Innistrad, but she did not think she could stand another minute in Thraben with the gawking and muttering simpletons. She knew the risks of venturing out of the city walls, of getting caught in the wilds of Innistrad after nightfall, but she figured she would rather deal with threats she was allowed to actually fight back against. She checked her map, there was a town a short ways north that she could make her way to. She'd be able to find somewhere there to make camp for the night. She rolled up her map, tied her blonde hair back in a ponytail and set off at a gallop.

The scenery around the centaur was actually quite lovely, once the early morning gloom had passed. The fields were misty and fragrant with workers labouring earnestly. Some stopped to wave as she charged by, others simply ignored her. It reminded her of the Harvest of Karametra back home on Theros. The sight helped rid her of some of the frustration she had felt with Innistrad as a whole, reminding her that no matter where in the multiverse she was, there were always some things that were the same. Theros was warmer though, and as she pulled her cloak tighter around her bronze tanned skin and over her thin leather bodice, she was once again reminded why she disliked this plane.

She charged on through the afternoon, stopping only briefly for a small lunch to revitalise herself. She had been out for too long and aside from the small collection of farmhouses just outside the city walls had not encountered her target. She had taken a wrong turn somewhere or had overshot her goal. Either that, or the small cluster of half decrepit farm buildings less than a mile from Thraben proper was what passed on this plane for a town. She was genuinely considering turning back when she heard a heavy, dull thwack in the woodland beside her. Curious, she made her way forward through the trees towards a small clearing. The leaves overhead provided a sort of canopy as the dull crack of what she now recognised to be an axe splitting logs was echoed by the rumbling of thunder in the distance. Meg moved slowly, being as stealthy as it was possible for a centaur to be.

Standing over a tree stump was a man. His ruddy skin, the colour of redwood bark, was sweating profusely. He was topless, his shirt hanging from a small branch a few paces away from where he was working. His muscles glistened in the failing sunlight as he hoisted the heavy, black bladed axe over his head. With a grunt of exertion that let the veins in his neck pulse and flex visibly, he swung the axe down hard onto a log, rending it in two with a single blow.

The woodcutter leaned back slightly and heaved a sigh, wiping his brow with his arm. His body was covered in a mat of course black hair, from his shaggy head flecked with lightning strikes of silver to his surprisingly well kept beard, to the carpet that encased both his chest and forearms. He almost had a higher proportion of his body covered in fur than she did. He stood panting for a few seconds before reaching down to pick up another log. His fingers had just wrapped around the wood when he stopped. He stood upright, glanced around and sniffed the air before shrugging his shoulders and putting the log down.

"You know," his voice was deep but surprisingly youthful. "It's both rude and dangerous to sneak up on someone like that. Particularly this close to Ulvenwald." Meg gulped slightly and stepped into the clearing. The woodcutter gave her an appraising glare. "This ain't Thraben young miss. No stone walls or angels to guard you out here. There's wolves and worse, if you ain't careful."

Meg could only nod. Innistrad was famed not only for its potent necromantic energies giving rise to a frankly uncomfortable number of zombies, as well as the vampires who almost unilaterally rule the plane, but also for its werewolves. They were bizarre creatures, rare enough in the multiverse that transform between man and beast with the moon. Vampires, angels, demons, zombies, all were commonplace across many planes. But werewolves were almost uniquely an Innistradi species.

"Not from around here, are you?" The woodcutter queried, raising a disinterested eyebrow. He wasn't really asking, more making an observation of her situation. Meg simply nodded. "I've encountered folk of your ilk before. Not the half horse part, that's a new one on me, but Outsiders. Seems trouble follows folk like that. Whether they cause it or try to contain it, who can say. Whatever it is, can't be an easy life."

He put his axe down against the stump and made his way over to Meg, the salty sour scent of his sweat assaulting her nostrils as he did. "Name's Alaric, what's yours?"

Startled, the centaur just blurted out the word Megara. The woodcutter just nodded. "There's thunder in the air, Megara, and not far off by my reckoning. Besides, even for someone like yourself, Thraben is a bit of a ways off. You'd be hard pressed to get there before nightfall, never mind before the rain. And there's no way they're letting anyone through that gate once the sun goes down." He looked sadly into the middle distance, a dark cloud covering his eyes. "Some lessons you only get taught once here."

Alaric draped his shirt carelessly over one shoulder. "You're best off coming back with me, if you don't want to be caught out here after dark. I'm afraid my house wouldn't be overly comfortable for someone of your build, but you're more than welcome to the barn."

Meg simply snorted. "I find it awfully presumptuous of you to assume that I'd just go with you like that. Strange man in the woods, swinging an axe, veiled threats? Why should I believe you? You may very well have some sort of nefarious plan for a lone young girl. And I'll just overlook the barn comment as well."

Alaric did not in any capacity look phased. "Hey, I can't make you do anything you don't want to. I'd wager you outpace me a good five times over on those legs, nothing I could really do to stop you if you wanted to leave. You fancy taking your chances against Innistrad after dark on your own, I ain't gonna stop you. You go right ahead." He turned and immediately began bundling up his timber and heading off.

Megara took a moment and felt a shudder run through her shoulders as the rumble of thunder shook the sky far too close to be comfortable. She groaned. She could handle herself well enough, she wouldn't still be breathing if she couldn't, but she had to accept that fending off one creep would be preferable to dealing with a forest full of monsters. Reluctantly, she agreed to go with Alaric.

Moments later the skies opened and released a deluge of cold, biting rain. Megara yelped and pulled her cloak over her head. She started to trot a little faster and Alaric moved to keep pace with her. She glanced down and offered a hand to him. She shouted down to him over the thrumming of her hooves and the cacophony of the rain. "I'm faster than you are. Hop on my back, if you guide me we'll get there much faster."

Alaric nodded and hoisted himself up on top of her in a single impressive swing. He was heavier than Meg had anticipated, but still manageable. He felt so warm pressed against her, his legs gripping tightly to her chestnut fur covered equine body, though he did squirm somewhat uncomfortably. She turned to face him and slowed up slightly. "Wrap your arms around my waist. I'm not typically one for giving pony rides to people, so I didn't think to pack a saddle. If you don't want to fall off, I suggest you hold on."

His thick, muscular arms slid around her humanoid waist, and he pressed right up against her back. His heartbeat was agonisingly slow and heavy, a steady drum beat against her shoulder blades. His breath was deep and deliberate, and he was so warm, so very warm against the cold rain. It almost felt like he was running a fever. He leaned in to speak directly into her ear so he could be easily heard over the rain. The feeling of his warm breath tingled down into Meg's neck.

He led her expertly back to the road and up towards what looked to be a lovely little cottage on top of a hill. Beside the cottage, looking somewhat under-loved and dilapidated but otherwise functional, was a small barn. Meg made a beeline straight for the barn, the heavy wooden doors creaking ominously in the wind. Alaric dismounted and unfastened the locks on the barn door. The door whooshed open and Meg darted inside. It was stuffy and dark, the crunch of dry hay underhoof was a welcome change of pace from the swamp of mud that had been the ground outside. She shook herself out, the fur on her hindquarters sodden in the rain. She peeled her now dripping cloak from her skin and hung it from a post.

Alaric set to work bringing in half a dozen gas lamps from the house. He set them up at staggered intervals around the barn and lit them bathing the barn in a soft orange glow. He climbed up a rickety ladder to the mezzanine above, bringing down some dusty blankets and sheets.

"They should be clean enough, just a little old." Alaric passed a small pile of cloth to her. "I'll head back over to the house, see if I can find you a change of clothes. Might not be able to do anything for the bottom half of you, sorry. But I can possibly get you a top or something." He was about to head out when lightning flashed brilliantly just outside, followed immediately by the rumbling roar of thunder, the storm was now directly overhead. Alaric stopped for a moment before starting to open the door again.

Meg snorted and called out to him. "Oh don't be ridiculous. You'll drown yourself if you go back out there. Not to mention the storm is right on top of us. Stay here where it's warm and dry, at least until the storm eases up a touch, no point in taking stupid risks."

Alaric began to mount a protest, but just shrugged his shoulders and slid the fastening on the door back into place. "Fine, for now. We should get out of these wet clothes though."

Meg blushed as Alaric started to unfasten the ties of his trousers, the rainwater still dripping out of his obsidian hair and onto his muscular torso. He moved slowly, untethering the cord around his waist with nonchalance. Suddenly he stopped and looked up. "Megara, if you're intending to gawk at me while I'm taking my clothes off, I might feel inclined to do the same." He gave her a devilish smirk.

Meg let out a little yelp as her entire face flushed the rich crimson of a beef tomato. "I-I was not ogling you! I was just distracted, absent minded. Besides, you're the one who decided to start just randomly stripping in front of a stranger, you're entirely too comfortable with this scenario. If I catch you so much as peeking in my general direction I swear you will be a gibbering madman by morning."

Surprisingly, for the first time since they had met, Alaric smiled. "Alright, alright, I'll turn around. No peeking, I promise."

Megara turned and unfastened her shirt. Her breathing was ragged and uneven. She peeled the drenched leather and fabric from her skin, feeling the sweet relief of the chill fading already from her flesh. The thought of Alaric looking her over made her shiver. She was tempted to check if he was looking, but she chose not to. She felt her nipples begin to harden, though whether this was an exhibitionist thrill at the idea that she was being watched or the cold was uncertain. SHe hung her shirt on a post taking a little longer than strictly necessary to wrap a sheet around herself. If the woodcutter was going to help himself to a show, she'd make it worth his effort at least.

She made an attempt to dry her hair, but decided that it was ultimately a fool's errand. She pulled the sheet tight around herself and turned around. Sat on a crate was Alaric, staring into the dancing flame of one of the lamps. She coughed slightly and his attention turned to her. He muttered something about being glad that the sheet was sufficient to cover her in a blank monotone. Megara almost felt affronted. Her straw coloured hair hung damp over her shoulders, her generous bust was hidden now only behind a flimsy sheet of thin fabric, the skin of her smoothe, bronze shoulders exposed to the lamplight seemed almost to be of brushed and polished metal. In this moment, she felt like she looked utterly stunning. Yet here was this woodcutter who seemed like he could not possibly care less.

Why did she care so much anyway? It's not like Alaric was the only man she had seen on Innistrad, though he was probably the most attractive. That in itself was not much of an achievement. She had admired the stoic beauty of the angels, their feminine beauty, pale complexion and effortless grace was matched by their tenacity and presence. Of the human denizens of the plane however, there was less to get excited about. Most were miserable little people living miserable little lives, and the years of toil and fear and misery had stretched the skin over their bones as taught and thick as leather. Most were old, if not of body then certainly of spirit. Something about living in near constant fear and darkness seemed to age these people in a way that she had not seen elsewhere in the multiverse. Alaric's comparative youth, seeming to be no more than his early forties at a guess, his head full of hair even with the starlight wisps of silver, his rigid body and unwasted muscle all gave the impression of vibrant vivacity. He was older than her, certainly, but not in a way that would feel strange. She had to admit to herself that he was not just the most attractive man on Innistrad by default, he would be a worthy sight virtually anywhere in the multiverse.

But it didn't really matter anyway. He was, after all, only human. A delight for the eyes to behold for sure, but there was no way that he would be able to satisfy her properly. At best, he could be a teaser, a tempting morsel to play with and enjoy, to get her loins burning and her body eager for a more well endowed partner to enjoy, but that would be the extent of his abilities as a partner. Unless he was a mutant of unparalleled girth and length for a human, it really didn't matter.

So why did she care if he was interested?

The realisation hit her with all of the subtlety of a giant stepping on a farmhouse. Innistrad as a plane put a lot of emphasis and focus on the moon. The titan that had recently ravaged the world had been imprisoned there, the wolves and vampires of the plane responded to nightfall and the phase of the moon offered power to the spirits, the restless dead and the werewolves that stalked the land. More than any other plane she had visited, Innistrad's moon was of paramount importance and carried with it more power than other moons on other worlds. She herself had felt the indefinable pull of the lunar magic of the moon of Innistrad when she had first arrived here. The only explanation that made sense was that the moon itself was having a more direct impact on her heat cycle. It was no surprise that the enigmatic woodcutter had captured her fancy in a way that so few humanoids had ever been able to, her body was begging her to mate and here stood the rugged paragon of masculinity that her marehood simply couldn't ignore.

Meg sidled up beside Alaric as much as she could convince herself to. He gave her a quizzical look as she tucked her legs under herself and lay down beside him. The wind howled outside, the memories of warnings of wolves flooding into the centaurs mind once again. "It's cold, and it's not exactly wise to light a fire in a barn," she said, trying to sound as authoritative as possible. "Sharing body heat is a better way to stay warm. Besides, you're really hot. Warm! I meant to say warm. Warm."

She blushed and pressed herself against him. Alaric stopped for a moment, sighed, and shuffled closer to the centaur. The barn was engulfed in an uncomfortable silence, the storm outside reaching up to a crescendo of wind and rain and lighting, the dull crackle of the flames in the lamp the only occasional change of pace. Meg couldn't stand the awkwardness.

" You know, you remind me a lot of a friend of mine," she said, shattering the tension in the atmosphere. The woodcutter looked confusedly at her. "He's also got the whole brooding, strong but silent toe thing going on too. You might like him. He'd definitely like you." Alaric just grunted and turned back to face the flame.

Once again a pregnant silence descended over the barn. Meg fidgeted slightly against Alaric for a few moments. She could not bear the silence any longer. "So..." she trailed off as Alaric turned and stared right through her. "How come you have a barn, but don't seem to have any livestock to keep in it?"

Alaric started to blow her off, but just gave a resigned sigh. He knew she wouldn't let it drop there, and she was smart enough to spot any lie he could come up with on the fly. "There used to be horses in here, three of them in fact. I wasn't always alone out here. I had a wife, a daughter - Katarina and Elizabeth. We kept a small farm, just a short way from here. Our lives were simple, but happy. Then, about ten years ago, we were attacked by a pack of werewolves. They were organised, ambushed us during the day when they were still in human form, but come nightfall it was brutal. The horses were torn apart, and my wife and daughter didn't make it out. Somehow I survived, though why I have persisted for so long I don't know. There have been no horses since then."

Silence fell once more as Meg took a moment to absorb everything she'd just learned. Alaric was once again staring into the dancing flame. "Alaric," she started tentatively. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realise...I'm sorry." The woodcutter simply shrugged and said it was a long time ago. "Still," the centaur whispered, "it is never easy. And the hurt never really goes away. I am very sorry, and I think you are incredibly strong."

Alaric slipped back into silence. Meg scooped up one of her side bags and rooted around for a moment. "Aha," she exclaimed. "There it is." She withdrew a lyre from the bag and checked that the strings were still in tune.

She plucked at the strings gently, the Therosi melody filling the barn as she started to sing. Her voice was rich and sweet, her sylvan song seemed to temper the storm outside as her magic infused music swam through the air. Alaric turned and gazed at her transfixed while she sang, his mouth hanging open. He felt revitalised and rejuvenated, calm and comforted. Megara rounded out her song and breathed a sigh of relief. She looked to Alaric who seemed to have grown five years younger.

"That was beautiful." Alaric managed to speak, but in barely more than a gasp. "What was that?"

"It was a song that my mother used to sing to me. Whenever I was sad, or scared, she'd take me in her arms and sing this song to me. It always calmed me down. When I learned how to interweave magic and music, I started using the same song to help my friends to recover and recuperate. It always helped them, so I figured it might help you too." Meg smiled and blushed slightly, putting the lyre down beside her.