Night was dull.
The dawn and the dusk, these were the best times of day. The light would sneak and snarl between the trees, the fawns and fools would slumber and sputter awake as she sped past and she was the morning mist, the ghost of the evening, a dream and an illusion and dead and alive…
But night, night was dull. It was just blackness, and watchful warriors sneering from their nooks, and dull-witted witches prowling in their crannies, and even the dead were everywhere, constantly summoned and badgered and pushed this way and that by neurotic necromancers.
Aneira despised them all. Why did they worship the night? Why did they think this was Uir’s time? No, Uir was a trickster, she danced in many shapes and whispered to the dead - Uir lived in the between times, the shivery grey morning and the silver cold dusk. And still, still, somehow she was made to patrol in the night.
It was bad enough that they made her work. She was a daughter of Uir, a perfect dark doe who spoke